Page 22 of The Viper's Wife

I scurry out of the room, heading for the back door the smokers use on their breaks.

The moment I plunge into the freezing air, I regret not grabbing my coat, but press the phone to my ear anyway.

“Mom?”

“Valeria! How are you?”

A swell of unexpected emotion rushes through me. She sounds completely normal. She sounds nothing like a woman who took one look at her broken husband and left him and her two kids to fend for themselves.

I swallow all the pathetic things I want to say. “I’m getting married,” I say dryly.

“That’s why I’m calling! Congratulations. I couldn’t be happier for you. You’re making us all so proud.”

The cold air is punishing to stand in. It bites at my nose and fingers and sucks the moisture from my breath. I wantto go back inside, but I don’t want to have this call in front of my coworkers, so I stamp my feet and clutch my coffee cup with both hands.

“When are you coming back?”

There’s a moment of silence that makes me want to swallow glass.

Then Mom laughs. “You know your Zia Monica. Can’t do anything by herself. Anyway, I just called to say towatch yourselfand really try to make Nico happy. This is important for the family.”

The scrap of paper I’ve kept in my pocket for weeks now sears against my leg.

“What does that mean? Did you leave me that?—”

Mom hangs up.

I stand in the frozen silence for a moment longer. The anticipation of a sword hanging right above me prickles the back of my neck.

This isn’t just going to go away, and I can’t do this alone.

I need to ask for help.

The second my shift ends,I shoot out of work and race to the train station.

Mom’s warning looms at the back of my mind.Watch yourself.

From what? Nico? Dad? Stefano? Or someone else?

It feels like everyone on the train is watching me as I count the stops to my destination.

I take the familiar route through the apartment lobby, tolerate the familiar sensation of being a smudge of dirt on the glossy tiles. The doorman lets me in, and I ride the elevator all the way to the penthouse floor.

“Valeria!”

A rush of butter and sugar envelops me as Annetta Lombardi tackles me with a hug.

I wrap my arms around her stiffly. No one in my family hugs, but Annetta barrels through my awkwardness with the same soft determination that she does all things.

Her penthouse is just how I remember—panoramic views of the city and a silent luxury that bleeds from every wall, appliance, and piece of furniture. The sort of place you’d imagine a cat-stroking villain plotting world domination, not a lovely, petite woman baking and making floral arrangements.

Annetta peels off of me and smiles. A smudge of flour streaks across her temple into her hairline. “Are you hungry?”

Guilt sidles up to me, digging into my ribs.

I haven’t answered any of Annetta’s texts and calls this month, and maybe that wasn’t entirely fair.

Last year, when her twin sister died, I was hired to deliver groceries to Annetta, and even in the lowest parts of her depression, she was kind to me. I thought that because she’s married to Dom the Butcher—Don Salvatore’s terrifying right-hand man—that she would hate me for whatever my dad did to deserve his punishment, or that she was only reaching out because she pitied me. So I avoided her, at least until I was too desperate not to—help always comes with a hidden cost, and what would the woman who has everything ask for?