“In New York City. I was—a man—he—they—“ I stop as my chest clenches. I have to roll my shoulder to remove the sensation.
“I will send you a location to the phone you are calling me with. Get there. Wait for a Signura Vittare.”
Vittare.
I have heard that name before, in my father’s stories. So I was right. It is her.
“You are Rosalia Vittare,” I say. Every Sicilian has heard of her. And everyone knows to be scared of her, because she comes to take.
“I am,” she says.
And I know, I will get my revenge.
Whatever I have to do to get it, I will.
Because the only thing that is keeping me breathing is the knowledge that one day, I will murder Jared Sutton just the way I murdered my father.
I want to see the light fading from their eyes.
Want to watch them realize they are about to die.
Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
1
KAT
PLAYLIST: TINY ROOF BLUES – THE ROUX
Manhattan
October, 2025
The fingertip of my middle finger trails smoothly over the rim of my whiskey glass as my eyes wander from the sexy bare ankles up to the eyes of the woman who leans against the bar next to me to order. Her body is exceptional—full ass and breasts, squeezed into a tight costume that shows off every inch of her sexy hourglass figure.
Usually, I don’t socialize with businesspeople in costumes and suits; today is an exception that allows no distraction.
Still, I bite my lip, imagining what I’d do with her—just thinking about grasping her and having her sit on my face until I’d be close to suffocating…mhhhm.
The thought alone tugs a corner of my mouth into a devilish smirk.
On any other day, I would make a move on her. But today, I have other plans. Plans I can’t let anything distract me from.
I pull my eyes off the woman, turn, and lean back with my elbows on the bar, letting my gaze drift casually over the crowd.
Downtown Manhattan. A bar stuffed with suits and costumes celebrating their wins of the day.
Fucking minions,I scoff in my mind.
I have no regard for any of them. Neither the players nor the game makers. My disdain for the wealthy and those who wish to be burns in my chest like an everlasting fire.
A male voice cuts through my thoughts.
“May I buy you a drink?”
I give him a derogatory glance. A suit. Late twenties. Slick hair, too much gel. Another Wall Street Business Brad.
“No,” I say coldly and avert my eyes. “You’re in my way.”
