Chapter 1 #2
“You what—?”
I cut him off. “We can’t not show up. Won’t Don Beneventi take offense to your daughter getting married in the same week? He is the new capo di tutti capi, and you know how old-fashioned the famiglie are.”
“You think we give two fucks about offending the man who murdered my father?” Settemo erupts, breaking his silence.
“My uncle isn’t waiting on anyone to break in some virgin pussy.
” His words are shocking, but the undercurrent within his tone sets me on edge.
Settemo is totally emo. A dangerous psycho to be avoided at all costs.
He steps toward me, but I hold steady. A man like him can smell fear. “You’ll be headed down the aisle in two weeks if I have to drag you screaming through the church.”
“But my father’s walking me down the aisle.”
Everyone stills.
Emo eyes me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
My father hurriedly cuts in, trying to salvage the situation. Three million in debt, and Lord knows how much more by the time Carlo is done with him, spurring him on. “She’ll be too sick to travel to Rhode Island.”
No. No. No. I need my wedding delayed. Extra time to plan and scrape enough money together to disappear and not be found.
Ever.
Do I want to attend the Beneventi wedding? The last person I ever want to see again is Lorenzo Beneventi. If he followed through on his damn promise instead of dishing out excuses, I wouldn’t be stuck in Carlo’s Chicago office, fending off three wolves like a rabbit trapped in their den.
I hate Renzo with a passion and would do anything to avoid that wedding.
Except marry Carlo.
My father speaks. “I’ll send word to Sebastiano—”
Carlo interrupts him. “The reception’s at his Rhode Island estate?”
“Yes.”
Oddly, Carlo seems pleased.
“Perfect. While in attendance, you’ll do me a favor. You do this, and I’ll clear the additional debt.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Search his estate for signs of any weakness within his security. And I don’t need to tell you to be discreet about it.”
My father can’t be that stupid. The reason the Twelve is now the Eleven is because Sebastiano Beneventi took a chain saw to a capo who crossed him.
“Deal,” I hear him say. “If we add this arrangement to the paperwork.”
Carlo stares him down. “Paperwork’s signed already.”
“And the wedding?” I ask.
“Postponed to the end of the month.”
Relief washes over me. I did it. I’ve bought myself time. “Mind if I use the restroom?” I hurriedly say, struggling not to give my joy away.
Carlo flicks his fingers toward his man. “Show her to the guest bathroom. Your father will be waiting by the elevator.”
With that, we’re dismissed.
Seconds later, I enter the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and sink to the floor, overcome by relief. I bought myself time. Now I need money. A lot of it. But how?
My father drained the trust my mother had set up for me. His name isn’t on the account, but the bank is in Los Angeles, his territory.
I’ve been gathering cash for years, pocketing loose change, stealing what I could, selling what I could. His Rolex, cuff links, even the hubcaps off his Mercedes. But it’s pennies in a piggy bank when I need a Swiss bank vault.
It’s enough to vanish, but not to stay gone.
And if I’m caught, that’s it—I’ll vanish for good.
I stand, tucking my scarf inside my bag and setting it on the vanity before washing my hands and dousing my face with water. I’m ready to return to Los Angeles and enjoy what’s left of my time there. Gathering my stuff, I take a second to smooth the lace on my pink dress, and then unlock the door.
A blow slams into my chest. I stumble back into the bathroom.
Emo shuts the door behind him, a cigarette hanging from his lips, the ember glowing like a warning. His lips are pulled tight around it, his pupils pinpricks.
“I was just finishing up.”
“And I’m just starting.”
He lunges, fingers locking around my throat, shoving me against the wall. His grip is iron, bruising. My pulse hammers under his hand. “I thought I’d give you a taste of what you can look forward to,” he purrs.
The punch to my gut is fast and merciless. Air leaves my lungs as my knees buckle. I fold in on myself, arms clutched to my middle.
He yanks me back up by my hair.
I force back my terror in favor of calm. “Carlo will notice we’re gone.”
He exhales a plume of smoke into my face.
I cough, eyes watering, but still meet his stare while my mind races how to escape the psycho.
Abruptly, he cups a cheek, and I don’t dare move. “Not even a whimper. I like that. Make one now, and your face will be next.”
It’s all the warning I get.
He seizes my wrist, pinning it high above me, then presses the cigarette’s tip into the tender flesh on the inside of my wrist. Heat sears my skin, and I bite my lip until it splits.
Closely, he watches me, waiting for me to break.
A pounding on the door interrupts him, and saves me.
“Not a word,” he threatens, releasing me.
He pulls open the door and charges by Carlo’s man.
I quickly gather my things and follow the man to the elevator. Wordlessly step beside my father, descend, and spill out onto the frigid sidewalk. We walk in the direction we came from.
Each step sends a spike of pain through my midsection, but my father doesn’t notice. He doesn’t care. His silence cuts deep, worse than a punch to the stomach or cigarette burn.
No one will stop the marriage. No one will spare me from what comes next.
I’m a mafia princess, property to be sold, used, and discarded.
A pretty token passed between men like currency.
It’s a world without consequences, with actions like the real-life horror show in the bathroom minutes earlier par for the course.
For too long, I hoped someone would step in. That God might intercede.
I’m done hoping and praying.
If no one’s coming to save me, I’ll save myself.
But first, I have unfinished business.
A fresh gust kicks up as we turn the corner, and I reach for my scarf. Like a magician, I pluck it from my purse. The cashmere billows then catches the wind like a bird sprung from its cage. I release the material, then watch it soar behind us and back toward where we came from.
“Drat,” I say, my voice thin with mock frustration. “My scarf.”
“Leave it,” my father mutters, not even glancing back. He’s walking faster now, eager to get on with his day, satisfied that the deal’s been struck and his pockets are heavier.
But I don’t leave it.
I turn on my heel and retrace my steps. This time, I raise the scarf high enough for the wind to carry it exactly where I need it, right behind Emo’s gleaming Ferrari.
My heart thuds in my chest, but my hands are steady as I pull the small blade from my clutch and wrap it in pink. One last glance over my shoulder to ensure no eyes are on me, and I strike.
They think there will be no consequences.
They think I’ll just take it.
The blade cuts deep as I carve the filthiest, most obscene, spur-of-the-moment phrase into the Ferrari’s flawless yellow paint.