A few minutes pass while the men prepare, and I sit alone with my thoughts until Giulia, the Vitale stewardess, appears.
“Miss Moretti, can I offer you an aperitivo for the journey?”
“Thank you, Giulia. I would love a spritz.”
She flashes me a knowing smile before she retreats to the galley. Like me, she’s well practiced at the art of dissociation. When she returns, she serves me an Aperol spritz and a plate of olives, crisps, cheese, and salami. I thank her and settle in for the forty-five-minute journey to Black Stag Island, mentally checking out as I enjoy my drink.
Halfway through, the vessel slows momentarily before there’s a splash, and we continue onward. I don’t have to look back to know Tony’s on his way to the bottom of Puget Sound.
I close my eyes, and a thousand scattered thoughts compete for my attention. At the forefront of my mind is Angelo’s return. He’s the heir to the Vitale legacy, and that changes everything. Now that he’s free, the burden of maintaining the Stavros treaty will fall upon him as soon as his father passes. It will be his responsibility to marry, rather than Matteo’s, which explains why he’s already secured an engagement.
As I recall his parting remark, I wonder if his other plans are related to the woman he chose.
Against my better judgment, I take out my phone and pull up Matteo’s contact. Angelo warned me not to tell him about our paths crossing, but that doesn’t mean things can continue as they are. We need to have a conversation and find a way to call off this wedding before I’m exiled from the state.
I send him a text telling him we need to talk, and he reads my message, but again, he doesn’t respond. Since he popped up and forced my hand into this marriage, I haven’t even seen him. He’s ignoring me, and yet, I know he’s been getting back to Valentina regarding all her questions for the wedding. It’s really starting to grate on me. Matteo has always been conflict-avoidant, but this is just childish.
I type out at least ten additional texts before deleting or rewording them, trying to figure out what to say to get his attention.
“I wouldn’t do that, Miss Moretti. Boss won’t like it.”
I jump in my seat as I turn to find Nicky lurking over my shoulder.
“I didn’t tell him about Angelo,” I mutter. “Why are you spying on me?”
“It’s my job.” He shrugs. “Boss’s orders. I’m your guard until he says otherwise.”
“My guard?” I stare at him incredulously. “I already have a guard, and my father isn’t just going to let you waltz into the house. You do know that, right?”
“No offense, but your guard is on his way out to the Pacific right about now,” he answers with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about the logistics with your father. I’ve got it handled.”
I stuff my phone back into my purse and save my breath on an argument. I don’t know this man, but that makes little difference. All I need to know is he’s here to do his boss’s bidding. And if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that when Angelo gives his men an order, it’s always executed.
8
ANGELO
In the six years since I left Black Stag Island, little has changed.
Through ancestral heritage, the eighteen-hundred-acre property was divided among the Vitales, the Stavros, and the Morettis—before there was bad blood between the three families. It boasts dramatic shorelines, sandy beaches, rocky bluffs, and unparalleled mountain and water views. A dense copse of trees offers privacy from the world outside, and within, a small army of guards patrols the land day and night.
The island is equipped with independent power and water systems, a helipad, paved roads, and yacht slips. It’s long been regarded as a self-sustaining fortress by those fortunate enough to visit, but to me it has always been home.
The Vitale legacy began in Sicily, but during the Mafia crackdown, my great-grandfather set his heart on expansion. So he bought a vineyard, migrated to the Chianti countryside, and laundered his money through high-end tourism. After that, he took a piece of the pie in Milan’s finance, and with wealth came the power to capitalize on politics in Rome. For years, he carved out new territories all over Italy and formed allianceswith the Ndrangheta and the Camorra. From there, he expanded into other European countries and eventually the United States. With no interest in fighting over territories on the East Coast, he sent my grandfather to conquer the West Coast.
That was how it came to be that my grandfather made his own alliance with the Stavros family patriarch. Together, along with the Morettis, they settled Black Stag Island and built their empires in and around Seattle.
The Vitale legacy has passed down a wealth of properties across multiple continents. But this island is where I was made. It’s where I took my first breath, and it will be where I’ll take my last, if I can help it.
Nicky greets me on the dock with a silent nod, letting me know we’re in the clear. The guard shift change is happening as we meet, and only two of my most trusted men will know I’m here as I slip onto the Vitale estate. While I could opt for a more dramatic entrance, the timing isn’t right, and I have other plans to reveal my rightful ascension to the throne.
Nicky escorts me to the waiting golf cart and takes the wheel while I sit beside him, gun resting on my thigh. I’ve planned this visit carefully, but I won’t leave anything up to chance. I learned the hard way never to get complacent, even on your own territory, surrounded by your own blood.
“Everything went smoothly with Abella’s father?” I ask.
He nods. “He didn’t seem concerned, nor did he follow up with IVI to verify my credentials.”
I shoot him a sideways glance. “Is that sympathy I detect in your tone?”
