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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Vitari
Vitari paced.
The capos had arrived. If he walked into the meeting looking weak, they’d tear him to pieces.
Fuck.
He couldn’t do this.
He had to do this.
No running, not anymore.
He refused to live his life in shame.
Stand. Fight.
You are worthy.
Fuck.
There was no use delaying it. He’d either walk out of this alive or die in a bloodbath. Fifty-fifty it could go either way.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He strode through the empty main restaurant floor and pushed through the doors into the dining room. The Battaglia men all turned their gazes on him, almost knocking him back a step, but then he saw Francis standing at the back, his tall body dressed in slim-fitting black, the stamp of white at his neck, his face stoic and stern, as though he had the power to smite every single man here.
Vitari’s galloping heart slowed.
He wasn’t alone.
His gaze slid down the table to the lone chair. His father’s chair.
If anyone was going to lose their shit and pull a gun, they’d do it now.
He stood at the end of the table but didn’t sit, not yet. All eyes turned to him, some widening, as they realized the calls they’d received were true.
The king was dead. Long live the king.
“Giancarlo was murdered by the traitor, Neo. I executed Neo. This is the state of the Battaglia, and Sasha Zhokov will pay.”
Chaos didn’t erupt. Nobody pulled a gun. No blood was spilled. Yet.
Much of Vitari’s support hinged on Little Toni, Sal’s father, and when Toni had listened to all Vitari had to say about Stefania Angelini, the missing Vatican girl, about his father’s feud with the Russian, about how Sasha had been working to undermine the Battaglia for years, and how Vitari had been caught up in all of it… it could have gone either way. But Toni had listened, occasionally glancing at Sal, and in the end, Toni had nodded, and that single gesture secured Vitari’s throne. For now.
Of all the men here, half of them had wanted Vitari dead before he’d betrayed his father. More likely wanted him killed now Giancarlo was gone. Vitari wasn’t as naïve as to think he could walk into his father’s shoes and become the king at a click of his fingers.
Honor had to be earned, and he hadn’t earned a damn thing.
The killing blow wouldn’t come here, it would come later, after these men got to talking between themselves and figured out a way to get rid of him.
But Vitari didn’t need forever. He only needed to wear the crown long enough to destroy Sasha Zhokov—a sentiment everyone at the table agreed with. Sasha killed Giancarlo and had to die.
“Sasha is in Monte Carlo for a poker tournament,” Little Toni said, leaving the sentence hanging in the air for Vitari to run with.
Monte Carlo, southern France. Just a short flight away. This could be over sooner than he’d expected. Sasha would never expect him to amass a Battaglia force and take the fight right to him.
