“Yeah. Not something she likes to be reminded of, obviously.” After divorcing my dad, Lucrezia’s mother wasted no time in marrying Capo Brio Saccone. My half sister was still a toddler at the time. Lucrezia likes to believe that it’s the man who raised her, and not some lowly Cosa Nostra foot soldier,who is her real father. Which is probably why she changed her last name to Capo Brio’s as soon as she turned eighteen. She didn’t even bother to come to Dad’s funeral.
“Wow!” Rina sucks in a sharp breath. “I had no idea!”
“Listen, you should get back before Capo Brio notices your absence. I’ll go see the housekeeper. Maybe there’s a spare uniform I can borrow, and if not, perhaps there’s something else I can help with that won’t involve being seen by the guests.”
I take off toward the staff area before Rina has a chance to ask more questions.
“Is something wrong, Filippa?”
My wife freezes, but then quickly puts her phone away, shoving it into her clutch. “Of course not.”
“Are you sure?” I lift my glass of whiskey and take a long sip. “You seem rather…tense this evening.”
“I’m fine.”
My eyebrow creeps up in doubt, yet I allow my wife her evasiveness for a moment, refocusing on Brio’s guests. Our position provides an unobstructed view of the entire banquet hall, and it’s also close to the open window behind us, which lets in a slight evening breeze that is quite refreshing in this overcrowded room. The cynic in me, however, didn’t buy the lame excuse about wanting to avoid the mass of people that Filippa threw out when she suggested this spot. Still, I humored her. Then, I watched with great amusement as she squirmedwhen I chose to stand a bit off to the side rather than right in front of that window, keeping myself out of sight of anyone lurking in the parking lot.
A flash of maroon draws my attention. Urzo Bonacci. The little shit who somehow managed to outbid me in the Cobalt Inc. sale. This miserable asshole has come into big money fairly recently and has been trying to weasel his way intola Famigliadealings ever since. I don’t give a flying fuck about his aspirations or the benefits he thinks he could bring, but I certainly do care when his actions mess with my plans. I’ll need to keep a closer eye on the twerp.
Beside me, Filippa pulls out her phone again. Her long, red-painted thumbnails tap irritably on the screen as she types out what must be the twentieth text in the last half an hour.
“You might as well stop,” I comment before taking another gulp of my drink. The noise is ratcheting up the ache in my temples. “A response will not be forthcoming.”
The clicking ceases. I hear her sharp intake of breath. Then, another. “What…what do you mean?”
I set the tumbler on the table a few feet away and turn toward my wife. “Let us take a walk.”
“Why?” Alarm is written all over her face as she blinks at me in confusion. “I’m…I’m enjoying myself and want to stay right here. Also, what did you mean by—”
“Now, Filippa,” I insist and head across the banquet hall.
Donatello, an investor inla Famigliabusinesses, spots me and beelines my way. I ignore him. I know he wants to discuss the recent merger between my company and one of our overseas partners, but now isn’t the time for it.
My path toward the exit takes me by Massimo Spada and Salvo Canali.La Famiglia’snew don and his childhood-friend-turned-trusted-underboss appear to be in a deep discussion about Endri Dushku, the leader of a rival syndicate, and the possibility that the Albanian is behind the latest assassination attempt on Massimo. Salvo seems hell-bent on pinning the blame on Dushku, passionately listing the plausible motives to support his argument. I can’t wait to see the shitstorm when Massimo realizes that the force behind a nearly two-decades-long vendetta to destroy him is none other than his ownbest friend. I discovered the truth a few years ago, and at one point did consider enlightening Spada, but dismissed the idea when I saw no benefit in it for me.
Outside the banquet hall, I turn left into the far reaches of Brio’s house, not at all surprised to hear the click-clack of Filippa’s heels as she tries to keep up with me. I’m heading for the library, which is across from Brio’s home office at the end of the hall. The location is remote enough from the festivities to allow for the private discussion with my wife that I have in mind. It also doesn’t hurt that Brio had the room soundproofed last year. It makes it ideal for my needs.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Filippa yaps as she follows me inside the spacious library. “We should return to the party. Lucrezia is supposed to find me once she arrives so we can discuss plans for her upcoming birthday. I don’t have time for—”
“Shut the door,” I order and lower myself into the wingback next to the liquor cart.
“Really, Adriano. This is absurd. Whatever you want to discuss could wait until we get home. Right now, we’re expected…”
She keeps droning on and on and on. Her high-pitched yammering is intensifying my migraine. Of all the things that annoy me most about my wife—and the list is rather long—the sound of her voice is at the top. But sadly, in business, even favorable deals come with a drawback. Or two, as in the case of me acquiring the debt-ridden logistics company previously owned by Filippa’s father.
Ten years ago, I was eager to take control of the preapproved international transportation routes that came with existing contracts held by his firm. To do that, I had to pay off a long list of their creditors, to the tune of seventy-five million dollars. Pocket change in the larger scheme of things. The other trifling condition, though, entailed my marrying Filippa. I’m not certain who came up with that idea, my father-in-law or his moneygrubbing daughter, but I’m willing to bet it was my wife. I couldn’t care less about getting hitched, but I did want a child. A son. A daughter. It didn’t really matter, as long as it was mine. The next generation of the Ruffo line. With that possibility in mind, I deemed the deal with Filippa’s father acceptable. With one stipulation. I agreed to a marriage of no more than ten years, and if the union did not produce heirs, I could file for divorce once the term was up, and Filippa wouldn’t get a cent.
Filippa is still prattling on about us returning to the banquet hall as I take out my phone and open my text exchange with Brahms, my chief of security. With one click, I forward the link I received from him shortly before we pulled up to Saccone Villa. A lone ping from Filippa’s device alerts me to the message’s arrival. She stops talking immediately and swiftly yanks the cell from her clutch.
“Make sure you turn up the volume,” I urge as I pour myself a glass of Brio’s eighteen-year-old Macallan. “The audio quality is outstanding.”
A moment later, raspy screams fill the room. I watch my wife’s face drain of all color while I nurse my scotch, enjoying the way shock and panic dance across her features as wailing sounds stream from the video on her screen.
“You should have asked for a higher monthly allowance, my dear,” I say. “A mere hundred grand could have bought you a mediocre hitman who might have been able to get the job done. Fucking one instead, in exchange for killing your husband, is rather shortsighted of you.”
The phone slips from Filippa’s hand and crashes to the floor, but the video continues to play, the man’s screams echoing through the library. By the sound of it, it’s the part where Brahms cuts out the would-be assassin’s spleen.
“You bastard,” my wife snaps.
