Except for Toribio, his brows lift. “What’s your kickback?”
“Fifteen percent.” I let the number breathe. “And my Boston-based software company supplies the systems for all ventures.”
Toribio’s lips curve Lorenzo took twenty-five. “I think we all agree,” he says. “But Lorenzo has to die for this to work.”
“I agree,” Derulo mutters.
“I’ll handle Lorenzo,” I say simply.
Toribio nods once. “Alright. We’ll stay out of it. But once you clean that mess up, we’re ready to implement your plans.”
Exactly what I wanted. A turf war would’ve been a bloodbath; this way, it stays clean. Just me and Lorenzo. “Now onto other business.” I scan the table. “Once Lorenzo’s dealt with, Boston and New York become one syndicate.” Heads nod.
“Also, the Illinois seat can’t be left vacant.” I gesture toward Tommaso. “I’ll appoint him interim Capo. The title becomes official once Lorenzo’s out of the picture. No sense letting things rot while I finish my unfinished business.”
This is the endgame. I already own his empire, and Lorenzo’s life. He just doesn’t know it yet. “Gentlemen, one more thing.” I rise. My palms press into the table. Blood from Giuseppe’s severed hand smears across the polished wood like a signature. “Let’s talk rats… and real loyalty.” I glance around the room. “I suggest you all perform an extermination within your syndicates.”
I snap my fingers. Troy moves instantly, dragging Derulo’s underboss from the wall. Carlos hits the table hard. Troy shoves the gun into his mouth. He’s gagging, eyes wide.Perfect.
“Derulo,” I say, tossing him a blade. “Here’s Lorenzo’s informant. A gift.” Derulo catches it midair. He’s been a butcher longer than he’s been a Capo. “Take his tongue,” I add. “Then take him home and make an example.”
The room doesn’t react, but I feel it. My control settling in. Derulo stands, steps forward. Troy grips the snitch’s jaw, and his tongue is gone in one clean stroke. The wet slap of meat hits the table. I don’t smile at the violence. I smile at the message.
“Gentlemen,” I say, standing tall, blood beneath my fingertips, “welcome to the new world order.”
I gesture to Carlos, who is bleeding from his mouth.
“Loyalty. Or death.”
Forty-Seven
“The right dress doesn’t just fit your body. It fits your soul, and when it does, even the broken pieces shine.”–Aria Boschett.
Iwipe away my tears as Saaha explains how Cyan arranged this surprise. Seeing my grandmother’s face leaves me raw and full all at once, joy threaded with ache. He knew how much this would matter to me. Rosa was right: the MacBrady men don’t love quietly. They love with intention.
“What wedding dress silhouettes most appeal to you, Aria?” Gracie asks once everyone takes their seats and the men have left the room.
“I’m thinking of a simple A-line.” I pull out my phone and show her the dress I chose on the plane with Tasha and Rosa. The fabric falls clean and soft, designed to enhance rather than demand attention. It’s an understated classic, the kind of dress I always imagined myself wearing.
“Ah, yes. I know this gown. It’s from my fall collection two years ago.” Gracie gestures toward the dressing room, then turns to Lia. “Please pull this one and others with a similar silhouette.”
“Of course,” Lia replies, heading off.
When I step out wearing the gown, all eyes follow the one-shoulder sweep down to the slit that reveals my leg. The fabric drapes beautifully fluid and elegant. The peanut gallery responds with appreciative gasps.
“You look like a million bucks, hon,” Tasha says. “What do you think?”
“This was my favorite when we looked at dresses; it’s elegant and beautiful.” I pause, the words catching. It’s what I would have chosen before my life turned upside down. I glance at my reflection again. “But now, it doesn’t feel like the one.”
Tasha waves a hand. “Then get out of it. Your man is rich, and you’ve got an unlimited budget.” She points toward the dressing room.
The next gown couldn’t be more different. A sleek scoop neckline, long sleeves, intricate floral appliqués cascading down an uninterrupted column of fabric. It’s a romantic spring garden captured in lace.
“It’s simply beautiful, Aria,” Rosa says. “Do you love it?”
I hesitate, my fingers brushing over the lace at my wrist. “I like the lace, but–” I meet Rosa’s eyes. “This dress…” I search for the feeling, then shake my head. “No. I don’t think this is the one either.”
The third gown has more lace and is still A-line. There’s a hint of playfulness in it. It’s beautiful. But it doesn’t make me feel like a bride. Just like a woman in a lovely dress. “I don’t think this is the one either.”
