Vito watches her go with an expression I've only ever seen him wear for her — something unguarded and almost human. The moment the door clicks shut, it's gone.
At thirty-eight, he wears power like a second skin, his suit impeccably tailored to hide the weapon he always carries. When our father died, Vito stepped into the role of Don with such natural authority that no one questioned it.
“Do you know what day it is?” He asks, not facing me.
I check my watch. 2:17 AM. “Technically Tuesday.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s the anniversary of the day our grandfathers shook hands and created the alliance between the Italians and Russians that has kept both our families prosperous for generations.” I tense. Any conversation that starts with family history never ends particularly well for me.
Vito finally turns, his face half-shadowed. “Do you know how that alliance was sealed?”
“A handshake is just a handshake without?—”
“Blood,” he finishes. “Marriage. Sacrifice.” He reaches for a leather folder on his desk. “The Petrovs are getting nervous about our shared ventures. Our alliance is becoming increasingly unstable every day. The authorities are sniffing too close to our laundering operations, and the Irish aren’t helping. Petrov wants reassurance.”
My throat tightens. Whatever he is about to say, I’m not going to like. “And you’re telling me this at two in the morning because...?”
He slides the folder across the polished surface. “Because it’s time to honor old promises and strengthen our alliance with the Russians.”
I don’t move to take it. “What kind of promises?”
“The kind signed in blood.” Vito’s eyes hardened. “Open it.”He orders.
With reluctance burning a hole in my chest, I flip open the folder. The first page is a contract, aged yellow, with signatures in faded ink. There are photographs—surveillance shots taken. A woman steps out of a sleek black car. The same woman at a café, her posture perfect, her dark hair pulled back to reveal a face that could cut glass. Another time, she enters a high-security building in Moscow. Each photo is tagged with a name: Kira Petrov.
My stomach drops. “What is this?”
“Your fiancée.” Vito’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “The wedding is in three months.”
The room tilts slightly. I feel my carefully constructed escape route disintegrating, pixel by pixel.
“You arranged a marriage without telling me,” I say flatly.
“I didn’t arrange it. It was arranged a long time ago. I know this is not the life you imagined for yourself. If there were another way, I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. But business is business. Our alliance with the Russians is vital.” Vito crosses to the bar and pours two glasses of Scotch. “She’s Vadim Petrov’s oldest child —the Bratva Heiress. Brilliant, by all accounts. Runs their cyber operations. It only makes sense for you to marry her. You have a lot in common.”
I stare at the last photo. Kira Petrov gazes directly at the camera as if she knows she’s being watched—those piercing eyes—cold, calculating, deadly.
Vito hands me a glass. “The Petrovs are traditional. They want their daughter to marry into a wealthy and influential family. A family from our world. This is the only way to secure our alliance with them.”
“I’m a tech specialist. Not a fucking chess piece you can use.”I snap.
“We’re all chess pieces.” Vito’s voice drops dangerously low. “Some of us just get to make more moves than others.”
I down the Scotch in one burning swallow. “And if I refuse?”
“You won’t because you understand what’s at stake. Our shared operations with the Bratva protect billions in assets.”It’s not a threat. It’s a certainty.
Vito continues, “The wedding will be announced next week. You’ll meet your bride at the gala we’re hosting.”
My mind races through calculations, recalibrating my exit strategy. Three months isn’t enough time to pull the trigger. I’ll need to accelerate everything and take bigger risks if I want to escape this life. I’m not interested in being his Underboss. But it’s not something I can tell Vito. He is the Don, and we follow orders.
“Fine. I’ll play my part.”I say, the lie smooth on my tongue.
Vito studies me, his eyes narrowing slightly. If there’s anyone who knows when I’m lying, it’s him.
“Don’t make me remind you what happens to those who break blood oaths.” He says in a lower voice.
I recall a cousin of ours who attempted to leave the family business last year. They found pieces of him washing up on Staten Island for weeks. Being Vito’s brother doesn’t exempt me from the family’s expectations and responsibilities, or from facing Vito’s wrath.
