“You see, Vincenzo? There’s a method to my madness,” I tell the boy beside me. He doesn’t look convinced, an eyebrow cocked, his mouth flat in a hard line. Balancing the gift on one hand, I flick his nose the way I used to when he was a kid, always giving lip. “Stop your pouting and smile, damn it. You have a principessa to charm.”
“A princess, huh? You’ve lost your mind,” Vin grumbles while tugging at the collar of his tux. Hell, it might be the first time in years that he’s worn one—I know for a fact that he spends more time hiding in the library of his fancy school these days, than dressing to impress. If he didn’t share my eyes, and the signature Vanici grin, I’d doubt we were related. My heir, the genius, who’d have thought?
What he makes up for in ambition—to become a doctor, of all things—he lacks in political savvy. Sadly, even a doctor must learn what this world comes down to in the end—filthy, dumb politics.
“It’s like a game of chess,” I explain for what has to be the millionth time. “You make your connections to stay ahead, or you’ll be the pawn in some other motherfucker’s game of checkmate.”
As usual, he rolls his brown eyes from behind the wire rims of his glasses. Apparently, the ways of the mob aren’t as interesting as medicine.
No better time to learn than now.
“This little party could change your entire life,” I insist, adopting the gravelly baritone of old Giovanni. “Sonny, with a move like this, you’ll be set.”
“Set to marry some rich girl? This isn’t medieval times, Donny,” he says. “People don’t do dumb shit like marriages for alliances anymore. You’re about a thousand years too late for that.”
“And you’ve been at that pretty-boy school for too long,” I snipe. Though I’m the one who insisted he get a degree in the first place. Pride swells in my chest whenever I think back on everything he’s accomplished. Graduating from that fancy private school at the top of his class and earning a ticket to one of the world’s best universities. Not to mention doing it all without so much as a misdemeanor to his name.
It sounds too good to be true. My boy, the scholar. He’s made his mother prouder than I ever did. Though, despite all that knowledge, he’s never learned how to wear a thousand-dollar suit like it doesn’t itch worse than a motherfucker.
“Look at you.” I nudge his shoulder, scowling at his posture. Giovanni would send him away as a lost cause, even if he were covered in blood. “Slouching in designer duds. Disgraceful. My nephew? Bah! You look like you might be a doctor or something.”
“And you look like a criminal or something.” His quick smile draws a chuckle from me as I ruffle his hair.
“You little smartass. Now, look sharp.” I stiffen, sensing several pairs of eyes swivel in our direction. As much as I’ve joked with him, this isn’t a game. “We’re here on business, and you need to act the part. I know you’ve been poring over those doctor books of yours, but let me test your knowledge of the real world.”
I fix my gaze on two men standing near the hall entrance, their backs to us. A face alone can be enough to identify a man, but clothing is just as signifying. Burgundy suits stand out amongst the sea of the typical black. Even Vin recognizes the color, and his upper lip curls back from his teeth.
“Going off those hideous outfits, they must be Sigerelli men,” he says.
“Good.” I nod in approval.
As if on cue, the two men turn in our direction. Both Vin and I nod in a greeting that is promptly returned. Forcing a smile, I mutter, “We like them because…”
“They helped you launder your dirty money through their luxury car dealership,” Vin recites as crisply as if reading from a goddamn book. “Back when you were a crook.”
I can’t deny him another laugh. “Good boy. Old friends can prove to be valuable, even to someone on the straight and narrow. Now, who are they?” I nod to a couple across the room. Between the diamonds draped over the slender, brunette woman, and the quality of her male counterpart’s suit, they could purchase the entire Sigerelli stock for fun.
“Hooked nose, a scar on his chin… He’s Giovanni Rossi. Runs a casino, but that’s just his day job,” Vin murmurs around his own fake grin. “Pompous. A dick. We don’t like him.”
“That’s my boy,” I mutter back. Unlike his namesake, this Giovanni is a pathetic whelp, unworthy of the Rossi name. His own father didn’t allow him into the fold, but he still has his uses. “Now, tell me why we don’t like him.”
“Because he’s not only a dirty crook, but a backstabber,” Vin replies under his breath. Spotting us, Giovanni inclines his head in greeting, and Vin’s the first one to return it with so much enthusiasm I’d think it genuine if I didn’t know any better. “We still show him respect, though,” he adds as we approach an unoccupied corner. “Even if he no longer runs the famiglia.”
“And why is that?” I ask, my head cocked, tone critical.
The answer is so obvious, he shoots me a sideways glance. “Because you keep your enemies closer than your friends.”
“Damn right. Speaking of enemies…” My eyes narrow as I spot a figure holding court across the room, and a worrying ripping sound comes from the gift tucked beneath my arm. I grasp it with both hands, fighting to keep my expression neutral. “Who is that?”
I nod in his general direction, though Vin has no trouble seeking him out. A white suit sets this man apart from the rest of the crowd—but not in the way he probably expects.
“Antonio Salvatore,” Vin hisses. His handsome façade cracks as his lips twist into a snarl. “He runs the famiglia now, but we definitely don’t like him because he’s a—”
This description, I voice for him. “A sick son of a bitch. Dickhead. And a murderer.” Even if I could never prove it. His hallmark is a signature of all the crimes he has a hand in—cruelty, brutality, and callous rage. Turning his head, the bastard catches me staring and winks, puffing up his chest like he’s some big man.
A different me would have slit his throat here and now. I just smile. “You stay away from him,” I hiss to Vin.
He nods in agreement, only to raise an eyebrow at a sudden thought. “But you haven’t spoken about this guy much. Mischa.”
He’s scanning the massive grand hall of the Stepanov manor—and I don’t miss the appreciative gleam in his eye. Despite his studious tendencies, he has enough sense to know power when he sees it on stark display. He’s impressed.
And I’m unnerved.
“Why come here if we weren’t invited?” he questions, cutting his eyes up to mine, as perceptive as ever. “What makes this Mischa so important you’d drag us here on Uncle Fabio’s coattails?”
I turn away, avoiding those searching looks he excels at. The bastard will make a damn good surgeon one day. Or a cop in another universe.
“You don’t party, Don,” he points out, refusing to let the subject drop. “Ever. Hell, any other day, you’d be sloshed by this time of the night—”
“You want to know why we’re here?” I slip my arm around his shoulders and jerk my chin to indicate our surroundings. “Take a look. View more than the surface beauty. Tell me what you see.”