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Without looking at me, Vito snaps his fingers in my direction and flicks his hand back, a signal he wants me to leave, probably so I don't witness his humiliation. I don't need to be told a second time. Rolling off the bed, I scurry into the adjoining living room, wondering if I should go further, but also overcome by curiosity at what could have caused two of the highest-ranked members of the Famiglia to go head-to-head when there are witnesses. Not just me, but men loyal to both of them who have followed them into the building.
It doesn't matter, either way. I already know I'm going to be on the painful end of Vito's wrath after Mika has dared to challenge him. A convenient target for him to take his anger out on. There's nothing new there.
So I stay and listen, ducking down on the plush sofa so I can't be seen, and peeking around the edge as soon as I feel brave enough. Perhaps I'll learn something useful. Something that might help me. I've come to understand information is currency in this life.
"You're on thin ice," Mika warns, and I cock my head to hear better. "You abducted the girlfriend of a British duke, for fucks sake. A man closely related to the royal family. Do you think the authorities let that kind of thing go?"
My heart skips a beat at Mika's words. …Abducted the girlfriend of a British duke? I have no idea what he's talking about, but the implications are terrifying. Even in crime families, there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. A point at which the authorities are no longer prepared to look the other way, no matter how well their palms are greased. Even I know as much.
Vito's shoulders tense, his eyes narrowing into an arrogant sneer. "Her father owed me."
Mika shakes his head, his expression darkening. "You're delusional. You've put a target on our backs, Uncle. And for what? Some petty revenge?"
"It wasn't petty," Vito argues.
"Her father's dead, Vito, and whatever you thought you were owed should have died with him. The girl's not responsible for a debt incurred when she was only ten years old." Mika counters, his voice rising. "You're reckless, Vito. You don't think about the consequences of your actions. The compound is surrounded by feds. You're lucky you got back in here."
Vito takes a step forward, his hand curling into a fist. "Watch your mouth, kid, or I'll make you regret those words. You need to learn your place, boy."
"My place is to protect our family and our interests. And right now, you're a liability." Mika is unfazed by his uncle's threats, something that enrages Vito all the more.
"You think you're so high and mighty, but you're not in charge yet. You're nothing but a bleeding heart without the backbone to lead this organization, and I'll make sure your father knows it. I know your secrets, remember, boy.
There's a weird inflection to the way he says it. What secrets is Mika hiding?
“Watch your step, uncle,” Mika’s voice is so soft and menacing it's barely audible. “You threaten me, and you might not live long enough to regret it.”
Chapter Two
MARICELA
“You’ve lost weight.” The appointed seamstress reprimands me, as she pulls on the laces at the back of my wedding dress with vicious fingers, in an effort to tighten it.
I cry out as pain rips across my shoulders, but she doesn’t lighten her touch. There’s no way she can miss the bruises mottling my back, evidence of the beating I endured the night Vito returned home, but there’s no sympathy there.
“Wait.” Vito and Don Salvatore’s sister, Therese, hurries over, waving something in her hand. “We need to put this on.”
“Why?” asks the seamstress as we both look at the medical dressing she’s holding.
“Because you’ve made her bleed.” Therese admonishes, pointing to the cigar burn on my side that’s started to weep from the rough treatment. “What are you thinking? We can’t have blood seeping through the fabric.”
“Harrumph!” The rude noise passes the seamstress’s lips as she throws her hands up in the air, and Therese, who I’ve never heard raise her voice before, turns on the other woman.
“Do I need to remind you who you work for?” Therese demands, and for the first time since this fiasco began, the seamstress shows a shred of emotion, though I suspect it’s only concern for her own welfare.
“I was told…”
“I don’t care what you were told.” Therese briskly cuts her off. “This is not acceptable. We have an image to uphold. Standards to maintain. We do not allow our brides to walk down the aisle looking anything less than perfect.”
She shoos the seamstress away, right out of the room, then loosens the laces and not only applies the dressing but an antibiotic cream as well.
“Here.” When she’s finished gently refastening the dress that’s about to seal my doom, Therese passes me two small round tablets and a glass of water. “Take these painkillers as well. They’ll help ease your aches. I’m sorry it’s not enough, but there’s not much else I can do right now.” Her words are quiet, no more than a whisper, and I’m sure there’s a reason for that.
I take them gratefully. I’m not allowed access to medication. If I need it, I have to ask, and Vito will always refuse because he takes a sick pleasure in knowing I’m hurting. “Thank you,” I say, my voice soft and already shaking from the desperation I’m feeling for what’s about to occur. I search her eyes, and there’s so much emotion in them. She knows what this means for me. Her marriage was arranged, like most unions in the Famiglia. But while her husband, Franco, Don Salvatore’s primary consigliere, has a reputation for brutality, I don’t think he lifts a hand against his wife and daughters.
Of course, I could be wrong.
Swallowing the pills, I set down the glass and check in the full-length mirror that all the marks marring my skin are concealed. When I turn back to Therese, she captures my hands in hers. “You come to me if you need anything, understand?” she whispers almost soundlessly. There’s no telling who’s listening. Many walls have ears.
