Page 2 of Venomous Throne

A small smile flickered on her lips.

“No son of mine is going to drive a grocery getter,” Ken Doll boomed. “Vincent always kept exotic cars in the back for preferred customers.”

“Yes, and I already sold them for a fraction of the cost,” I countered.

His look of shock was priceless. “What were you thinking?!”

That a car dealership dealing with stolen exotics was a time bomb waiting to detonate. That the sales of those vehicles messed with the books, and since we were laundering money through this place for the moonshine, we didn’t need the income stream from stolen cars too. And finally, and most importantly,that this was my business now, and I didn’t want slimy men drooling over the scrubbed, stolen vehicles.

“Rob isn’t driving something like that,” the mother insisted.

“I want an electric car!” The kid spoke for the first time.

“No, son, you want a high-performance, Maybach model of Mercedes. Or maybe we can find a Charger with extra horsepower,” he said, practically salivating.

“It seems you are all three looking for something different. But fortunately, I have an eco-friendly vehicle, which has the highest safety standard on the market, and drives like a dream.” I swept my hand down the row of cars. “Come this way.”

I had them. Within minutes, they were eating out of the palm of my hand. When I took them inside to start the paperwork with Jenni, the dad pulled me aside.

“How’d it happen?” he pressed. “Did Vincent’sworkcatch up with him?”

Yet again, I was struck by just how sloppy my husband had been. This was the umpteenth customer in just a few days who’d hinted at Vincent’s true work.

I repeated the official cause of death: “Cardiac arrest.”

“Uh-huh,” the Ken-Doll nodded, giving me a knowing look. “What really happened?”

What would he say if I said Vincent was poisoned? That he went out to dinner and ended up clawing at his throat as his airways stopped working? That his body choked and died, all while he was still conscious, feeling everything until the end? Humans loved juicy, gory details.

I should know. I was one of them.

Vincent got exactly what he deserved.

“My late husband died one evening during a business meeting. There was nothing nefarious about his passing, simply a bad heart that gave out during his last supper.”

The horror that flashed in his eyes was well worth everything. He took a second look at me.

“Mrs. Moretti! I’m so sorry,” he murmured, realizing who I was, even though I’d already said it outside. He wasn’t paying attention earlier, it seemed.

I bobbed my head. That was the reason I didn’t say my surname. I hated the reactions.

“Jenni will draw up the paperwork. Congratulations, Rob. You’re getting a great first vehicle, and Mrs. Bradley, don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions—seriously! Nothing is too small,” I said with a broad smile.

And then I scurried away.

Most people—most sane people—felt great emotions when their souls encountered a death. Mine was no exception. Only, the feelings swirling inside me were not the proper feelings. Not even close.

The last six years had been a special kind of hell. Now I was out and about, working at a job I loved—hello, people!—and not accountable to anyone.

I was the boss.

But with the responsibilities of taking the reins of my husband’s legal ventures came the questions about his illegal ones. His brother cracked down, exercising an iron control on the arms deals, the drug running, and the moonshine business.

I was bitter about the last one. I didn’t come from a prominent mob family. We were humble folks from Champaign, and we made the best damn moonshine. When I married Vincent, that part of my legacy came with me, since I had no brothers or sisters.

And I would be damned if Marco ruled that—or worse, ran it into the ground.

“One step at a time,” I muttered.