“I fooled myself into thinking that,” I say, letting my guard down on purpose to gain his approval.
He deeply loves Vian. Their bond is almost unique in the underworld, where men have slaughtered family members to seize power.
“He is a son to me,” his voice softens, eyes losing the hardness. “This was the deal my brother and I made. That we treat each other’s kids as if they were ours. Vian lost so much so soon, too suddenly. Any other man would have given himself the bullet.”
My heart twists in my chest, the pain as swift as a deadly injury, my voice shaking with heavy emotions. “Thank you for being there for him.”
“You weren’t.” His tone is bitter, biting.
“I––”
How could I be when I didn’t even know him?
His mouth pulls into a tight frown. “People say let bygones be bygones and make peace. What the fuck is that?”
I shrug, the concept foreign to me too. I wouldn’t show mercy or forgiveness to people who betrayed me either, and he continues, “I don’t blame you. You did great. Made a name for yourself. Became a well-respected member of the underworld. Now you have by your side a man who would tilt the world off its axis for you.” He leans forward, steepling his fingers at his mouth. “But what would you do for him?”
I feel my brows furrow, and at my confusion he sighs, “I can’t go in fucking peace knowing you will rip his heart out of his chest. Since I will not be there, I ask that you give your word to a dying man.”
He takes a small folding knife from his inside pocket and eyes me intently with no trace of joking. He wants me to make this blood oath. In the back of my head, it feels like a manipulative tactic. As if he can predict the future, he seizes his chance while deliberately leaving me in the dark.
There’s a saying in the underworld: nothing is stronger than your word; add blood to the mix, and you give it a sacred meaning. Not respecting it would call for your demise.
But what he asks of me is pertinent, something I intend to do, regardless.
Grabbing the knife from his hand, I untwist it and slide the blade over my palm. Droplets of blood coat the line, cementing the promise. He reciprocates, grasping my hand.
Long moments pass before he lets mine go.
“Thank you. Hate me if you need to. Vian never deserved it and never will.”
He stands, and I follow him, raising my arms in the air in frustration. “You’re talking in riddles.”
“I must. Made a blood oath of my own,” he says ominously, causing a shiver to run down my back.
At the elevator, he comes to an abrupt halt and looks at me over his shoulder. It’s the first genuine smile I witness directed at me. “Welcome to the family. Death is the only way out.”
“I know, remember?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
He tips his chin in acknowledgment. “Take care, Zara Monroe Giancana.” There’s something acidic in the way he pronounces my maiden name. “If you ever wonder whether he loves you, your keeping that name is all the proof you need.”
“Wait. What?” I rush to him, but the elevator door closes right before I reach him.
So done with these riddles, I pace for a while, but it makes me even more restless, and when I see Vian’s text that he needs a bit more time, I head to his cousin’s studio a few blocks away.
At her gallery, the woman at the front welcomes me in and shows me where to go.
In the back, a vast space opens where sculptures lie in more or less finished stages, different materials scattered around.
The Chicago Bratva’s leader towers over her, and she gesticulates with her hands, her frustration clear while he watches her, unable to keep his eyes off her.
“I will finish this and then push it up your ass, as you wouldn’t know the difference between a masterpiece and garbage to save your life.”
Lew cocks his head, remaining perfectly calm. “Just tell me if you want to see me naked. No need for the fuss.”
“Good God, help me, or I will kill him.”
“You tried and failed,” he says matter-of-factly.
