Chapter 2
DOM
Something is wrong.
I fold my arms and lean against the wall of Turi’s formal dining room as Aldo forces laughter and pretends we’re all good buddies.
He’s not the issue, not at this moment. He’s doing what I’ve known him to do for roughly the last twenty years—he arrives in a bad scene, blusters and bluffs his way through until he can get his feet under him, and attacks when people least expect it.
Tonight, his usual tactics are failing him.
Turi sits at the head of the dining room table with his wife Marisol at his side. Ignoring Aldo completely, he’s only got eyes for Junior, Aldo’s malevolent monster of a son. That’s not what’s wrong either.
Junior attacked Marisol, and now Turi’s going to kill him. Simple.
Barbara is immune to the tension in the room, his wrinkled hands clasped on his belly and his eyelids half-closed. He’s more dangerous than the doddering old man act he puts on, but even knowing that, his little nap routine is damn effective at lulling you into a false sense of security.
I rest my thumb on the waistband of my pants—a silent threat to Junior that he better behave. One sudden movement from him, and he’s eating a bullet.
Half of the people here tonight, pushing food around on their plates and pretending to drink wine, I need to protect. If I let myself get distracted, one of them could die.
So why am I so focused on the woman sitting in the chair?
I blame it on how she was acting when she got out of the car. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes, and her cheeks were wet with tears.
It’s no mystery why—she’s the twenty-year-old fiancée to sixty-year-old Aldo, whose past five wives have all mysteriously disappeared, Henry the Eighth-style. Hell, if I was in her shoes, I’d be crying too. Junior makes sure his stepmoms don’t last long.
But Serafina doesn’t cry. It’s part of why I like her.
She bottles up all her feelings like a good Catholic, stuffs them in a prayer box once a week, and goes about her day, no one the wiser.
The last time I saw her cry, she was seven, and even then, a sharp look from her mom had her shutting down in seconds.
Serafina’s twin sister, on the other hand? Polar opposites. If Serafina feels nothing, Annetta feels everything. That woman will cry at a sad puppy commercial or news of some estranged family member’s divorce, no matter how many dirty looks their mom throws her.
So if Serafina is crying, something is really fucking wrong.
I already scanned her over as we walked up to the house. No bruises or cuts, which tracks. Aldo’s been too lazy to hit his wives after his second wife started fighting back.
I’d chalk it up to her finally snapping—Serafina’s wound tighter than a clock—except that she caught Junior’s eye too.
For all of that sick fuck’s many flaws, he’s perceptive.
If he thinks there’s something worth watching Serafina for, then it could be the difference between life and death that I figure it out first.
Serafina jolts in her seat when Aldo drops his fork to his plate with a clatter. He pats his belly and pushes his chair back. “Let’s go check out your bar in the kitchen. I want to talk shop. Let the ladies catch up.”
Fuck yeah.
Just a little longer, then all hell breaks loose. Years of practice have me glued motionlessly to the wall instead of shaking my limbs around like a baseball player about to walk up to the pitch. Better to be like Barbara and have no one pay attention to you until it’s the perfect moment.
Turi and Junior maintain eye contact as they rise, their tense animosity only breaking when Turi bends down to whisper in Marisol’s ear.
Barbara jerks up with a snore and funnels out with everyone else, leaving behind Serafina, Marisol, and me.
Barely visible in the cradle of the formal dining chair, Serafina’s thin shoulders slump forward, and she chokes out a sob.
Even if I don’t know what’s going on with her yet, I’m already pissed off that Aldo ignored her—or, worse, he saw his fiancée’s tears and still brought her to his stupid celebratory dinner.
If Turi doesn’t shoot him tonight, I will.
At the head of the table, Marisol shifts in her chair. “I… uh, need to go to the bathroom.”
Goddamn, she annoys the piss out of me. She’s always got some scheme or another up her sleeve when all she needs to do is follow orders. While I guard over her and Serafina in here, Turi takes Aldo and Junior and shoots them out there.
“No,” I say, without pulling my gaze away from Serafina’s back. “Stay here.”
Serafina spins around in her chair, her eyes wide. “Dom?”
She’s normally more observant than this. Her eyes are rimmed with tears, and her face is all puffy like she’s been crying for a while. Hours, probably.
“It’s okay.” I use the same tone I would use with my brothers and sisters when I wasn’t fast enough and Dad hit them.
That’s what it is—she’s acting like she’s been hurt. Just because I didn’t see any injuries earlier doesn’t mean there weren’t any.
I clench my hands into fists. Aldo was supposed to wait until the wedding to consummate his unholy union. Did he force himself on her early?
Or—fuck—I think of Junior’s attention on her. Did Junior touch her?
I nearly forget Marisol’s in the room with us, and tell her in a hard voice, “You need to stay here until Turi says otherwise.”
She pauses. “I need to check my phone.”
She can’t help herself, Turi’s little hacker wife. She’s just like him—always has to know what’s going on.
“You want to watch the cams? Go ahead.”
She glances deliberately at Serafina, who’s following our exchange with wide, doe eyes. Marisol thinks we can’t show Serafina what’s going on? If Junior fucking touched her, she deserves to see him shot in the face more than anyone.
I jerk my chin toward Serafina. “She’s good. She can see too.”
“Fine.” Marisol scowls, pulling her phone out of her pocket and jabbing at the screen.
Serafina turns to look up at me with an unfamiliar, meek expression that has my stomach souring.
I extend a hand to her, murmuring, “Come on.”
She takes my hand and lifts from her chair, putting extra weight into my palm like she needs me to keep her upright.
Dread settles into my bones. So much has been going on lately—I haven’t been watching over her like I should.
I thought she’d be free of Aldo and Junior tonight, but I might already be too late.
I arrange her so I’m supporting her upper back and gripping her forearm. She slumps into me like a house on a bad foundation, and I guide her to stand behind Marisol’s chair so we can watch over her shoulder.
The kitchen camera is displayed on Marisol’s phone. A miniature Turi and Junior glare at each other from either end of the kitchen bar while Aldo drinks from a glass of wine and gestures between them. I’m almost impressed to see how quickly Barbara is dozing off on one of the barstools.
As Aldo talks, his desperation oozes through the screen.
Good. He starts making wild promises—promising to promote Turi to underboss and help him kill his dad if only he agrees to give his wife to Junior.
Fat chance. I’ve seen the covetous, obsessive gleam in Turi’s eye when he looks at his new wife. He’s not giving her up for anything.
Serafina whispers, “He’s talking about killing Ottavio?”
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter in Italian and scrub my hand over my beard. Aldo’s not getting anywhere near Ottavio, especially not to kill him. If it were that easy, Turi would have done it years ago.
I can’t figure out why Turi’s stalling as he asks how Aldo plans on killing his dad, but even as Marisol’s breathing speeds toward hyperventilation, I’m not stressed. Turi’s got things under control. He always does.
Aldo lays out a harebrained scheme, outlining how he’s going to take down Ottavio, the head of the Commission—the five ultra-powerful Mob families in New York. The old man is completely oblivious to how deranged he sounds.
Serafina makes a choked noise next to me when Aldo waxes poetic about taking her to a beach somewhere after this is all over.
I squeeze her hand.
“What do you think, Turi?” Aldo asks.
Turi watches Aldo in that unnerving, too-intense way of his, lifting a hand to the gun at his waist—hidden to the others by the kitchen counter. As he moves, so does Junior.
Turi needs a distraction.
“I think we have ourselves a deal,” Turi says, clearly lying through his teeth.
Marisol sucks in a breath.
Aldo falls for it hook, line, and sinker. He claps Turi on the shoulder and praises his loyalty as Turi asks Barbara to escort Marisol to the basement.
The phone screen turns dark. Marisol starts to stand, but I drop a hand on her shoulder and push her back down.
Serafina jerks her head toward me. “Dom! Don’t.”
I can’t tell if I’m impressed or amused that Serafina is daring enough to clutch her slender pianist fingers around my arm and try to pull me off Marisol.
“Trust Turi,” I say. “He has a plan.”
“His plan is to sacrifice Marisol,” Serafina hisses, yanking on my wrist. Where’s that meek little girl from a few moments ago? What am I still missing?
I lean toward Serafina, peering into her face, and she rears back, her eyes growing wide like she’s been caught red-handed doing something she shouldn’t.
A ridiculous thought enters my head, but before I can act on it, Barbara strolls around the corner, not looking the slightest bit surprised to see me wrangling both women at the end of the dining room.
“Dom,” he calls out. “Take Serafina home. Now.”
About fucking time.
I snatch her up by the waist, my fingers biting into her ribs, and cross the room.
She kicks me hard in the shin—which fucking hurts—but I only grunt and throw her over my shoulder like a bag of flour.
“Dad,” she screams as she pounds her fists against my back. “Dad, please. He’s giving her up! She’ll die!”
Barbara doesn’t even spare his daughter a glance, locked in a silent standoff with Marisol.