This was never how I wanted to remember my father. He’s the strongest, most honorable man I know. He gave all of himself to his family, to this life, to theCosa Nostra. He taught me resilience, loyalty, and all the things that a man should stand for. He taught all of his sons the same.
He gave us a legacy. Power. Wealth. An entire fucking empire. And still, it wasn’t enough for Matteo.
“Your brother?” he asks.
“I have eyes on him in the city,” I tell him. He’s at the Cat House getting his dick sucked by a woman who looks strikingly similar to Abella.
“And the Tribunal?”
“It’s all settled.”
He gathers what little strength he has to squeeze my hand. “You know what you have to do, Angelo.”
The quiet grief buried beneath his control reminds me who he is. Who he’s always been.
“I understand.”
“Retribution is your birthright.” He lifts his gaze. “A Vitale never lets a slight go unpunished. It applies to all of us.”
“Retribution will be had,” I assure him.
Satisfied, my father sinks back into his bed using the last of his energy. “This is how you’ll honor my name. I don’t want a funeral. I don’t want my children sitting around crying for me. Preserve our legacy. That’s what I ask of you.”
“You have my word.” I nod. “It will be done.”
“Then let me die peacefully. Send me back to your mother,tesoro.”
Agony lodges in my throat as I nod and retrieve the syringe I’ve prepared.
“When you see her, Papà, give her my love.”
9
ANGELO
The Moretti family home sits on the western side of Black Stag Island, overlooking the rocky cliff where Martina Moretti ended her life. Knowing her husband, I can’t say that I blame her.
The white stucco house is sizable by most standards, though it’s the smallest on the island. Inside, the walls and furnishings are either beige or neutral, expensive but cold. The Morettis are wealthy, but not Vitale wealthy. Maurizio has done well for himself, carving out his own slice of business in theCosa Nostraas an accountant. He funnels laundered money through shell companies and takes a cut for his troubles. It’s kept him in a cushy lifestyle with free time to indulge in his favorite hobbies. The man loves to eat, drink, smoke, and fuck.
It's not a surprise that tonight, when I walk past his office, I catch a glimpse of him fucking the maid through the cracked door. He’s grunting like a hog, and by the time I’ve ascended the stairs, he finishes the performance with a labored splutter I rather wish I hadn’t heard.
As I walk down the familiar hall to Abella’s room and open the door, silence and darkness greet me. Unlike her father, shemaintains a regular routine and is generally asleep by eleven. I know this, just as I know every visitor, call, and text she’s had over the past six months.
Short on that list is her fiancé, and as my eyes fall on her sleeping form in the bed, I have to wonder what soured their relationship. It’s one of many questions that have plagued me since I’ve allowed her to occupy my thoughts again. But as I catch sight of her engagement ring on the nightstand, my curiosity dies as swiftly as it sparked.
I don’t have a reason to be here. With the memory of my father’s final gasping breath still fresh in my mind, it’s a distraction at best. But I suppose I could use something to clear my mind. Right now—I’m in the mood for punishment.
I pick up Abella’s ring, examining the piece that’s the opposite of what I chose for her. The diamond is dull, small, and decidedly boring—just as their relationship has panned out to be. And yet…this is what she chose.
I return it to the nightstand and retrieve her phone, using the pin code to access it. As I scroll through her messages and emails, there’s nothing of note that I haven’t already seen. It doesn’t stop me from checking everything else anyway.
When I find her cycle tracking calendar, I take screenshots of the data and send them to my phone. Once that’s done, I open her Kindle app to see what the little deviant has been up to this week. As I scan the highlights she’s made in her most recent book, it serves as a reminder of how much the little liar’s preferences have changed over the years. Gone are the sweet, thoughtful heroes from her stories. In their place are men of a darker nature. Men who take, torment, and use the heroines. Admittedly, I haven’t been able to stop imagining myself as the man who uses her at his leisure.
There was a time when I questioned if she was capable of withstanding the darkness in me. She was far more delicate then—a Mafia princess raised to be polished, quiet, and obedient. But in my absence, she’s forged a backbone of steel and learned to speak her mind. Judging by her library, those aren’t the only things she’s changed.
As I read through a rough sex scene she saved, it triggers an unwelcome image of Matteo fucking her that way. For years, those thoughts have rattled around my brain. How many times has he touched what didn’t belong to him?
More importantly, did he forget that I like my revenge biblical?
