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I look at the picture first, as I’m not exactly in the reading mood right now. It’s a crisp photo of a couple on the red carpet at what looks to be a charity gala—I recognize one of them instantly.
The man is dressed in a steel-colored suit, his coiffed jet-black hair graying at the temples. The dark eyes, the brooding expression, I’ve seen his face tens of times over my lifetime, and it still sparks the same rage,every single time.
Vesuvio Beneventi.
The capo of the Beneventi Syndicate, an old mafia family that fled Italy in the 1920’s. Since then, the fuckers have bred like rabbits and expanded their reach to the United Kingdom, the United States and some parts of South America.
Our gang, the Empire Syndicate, is locked in a turf war with them. For decades, we’ve held control of the ports—the one thing the Beneventis want but have never been able to take from us. They’ve bought up the real estate around our warehouses, hotels and restaurants—all in an attempt to put pressure on us.
But Dukes never cede defeat, and we’ve fought them at every turn. We’ve had our victories, but with Graham gone AWOL, things have been steadily deteriorating—some of the other families that are part of our syndicate have started fighting against each other. The Empire is weaker now, at least until I become part of the Kingmaker Society.
It’s the perfect opportunity for the Beneventis.
“Vesuvio?” I ask Vance, looking up from my phone.
“Have you looked at everything I sent?” he counters, a knowing look on his face.
I frown. Though I would much rather he just fucking tell me what the deal is, I keep combing through the file. That’s something I hate about himandEzra: they love having me decipher shit.
The blonde hanging off Vesuvio’s arm in the picture, I don’t recognize. She looks like any British socialite—strawberry blonde hair, perfect nose job, waif-like and leggy with double D’s. I might even be older than she is by the looks of it.
Vesuvio is around my father’s age—in his sixties.
I move to the two newspaper articles.
One of them is a marriage announcement. I skim it quickly, but my eyes linger on the names of the happy couple.
Vesuvio Beneventi and Itala Strinati.
I look back at the photo of the couple. Sure enough, the girl is wearing a massive ring. The marriage announcement is from a few months ago. This must be her in the picture then, Itala Strinati.
The name sounds so familiar.
Wait.
That’s Vico’s last name. Vico Strinati—the motherfucker Keller had me induct into Kingmaker. A cold feeling settles in my stomach. The longer I look at her, the more I see the resemblance. This girlhasto be his sister. They have the same sly mouth and sharp cheekbones.
Fuck.
But there’s still one more newspaper article, so I bite back the discomfort and force myself to read it. I need to know how much damage has been done. This is now another problem for me to fix.
I drain the contents of the coffee cup, wishing it burned more like a cigarette.
The newspaper article is from the business section ofThe High Street Review, detailing a recent acquisition of the Benevento Group—a conglomerate owned by the Beneventis. Though we’re all key players in the underworld, our families own ‘legitimate’ businesses to keep our money clean—huge, private companies with thousands of employees, and hundreds of millions of pounds worth of assets. Our contribution to the country’s economy keeps the government sated enough to turn a blind eye.
Benevento Group buys stake in Trident Shipping Company.
Trident Shipping Company. That’s…
“Keller’s family is in bed with the Beneventis?” When the words fall from my lips, it all starts to fall into place in my mind—the brazen attacks on our shipments recently, Keller’s sudden hubris, his insistence on having Vico become part of the House.
When Vico dangling intel on the Beneventis in front of me didn’t work, he and Keller must have strategized something else. It was all a set up and I was none the wiser.
Vance nods. Ezra looks up from his computer, his face equally as solemn.
“How the fuck did I miss this?” I mutter, more to myself than them, running my hands along my face. The shifting skin makes my nose hurt.
The implication of this is so far-reaching I barely want to think about it.
