Page 5 of Deadly Alliance
Out there, men are bleeding for my father’s pride. Out there, the Russians and the Irish are circling like vultures, waiting for the Italians to finally gut each other.
And out there is the current hot-headed Cassio Vellutini.
I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself as a chill seeps through the windowpane. The man single-handedly bringing the Genovese family to its knees. I’ve only met him a handful of times, mostly at funerals and tense sit-downs. But I remember the last time vividly.
It was a year ago, right before the war turned bloody. A neutral gala hosted by the Capo dei Capi. I had accidentally bumped into him near the terrace doors, spilling a drop of red wine on the cuff of his immaculate tuxedo. I had apologized.
He had looked at me. Really looked at me. His eyes were black, bottomless pits, completely devoid of anything resembling humanity. There was no warmth, no charm, no soul. Just a cold, calculating violence that made all the air leave my lungs.
"Careful, little Genovese,"he had whispered, his voice held a velvet threat that stroked across my skin like a blade."You're much too fragile to be playing in the dark."
I had snapped back, calling him an arrogant bastard, telling him to choke on his own ego. He hadn't gotten angry. He had just smirked, a cruel, mocking curve of his lips, before turning and walking away, leaving me trembling with rage and an inexplicable, terrified adrenaline.
I hate him. I hate what he stands for, I hate what he’s doing to my family, and I hate the way he looked at me like I was nothing but an insect to be crushed beneath his expensive shoes.
Tomorrow is the summit. The Capo dei Capi has summoned all the heads of the families to demand an end to the internal War. My father thinks he can outsmart Cassio. He thinks he can force the younger Don to bow to tradition and seniority.
But looking out into the rain-slicked darkness, I know the truth. My father is an old man fighting a ghost from the past. Cassio Vellutini is a nightmare forged in the present.
And nightmares consume.
I let the velvet drape fall shut, plunging the room back into shadows. I crawl into my large, empty bed, pulling the silk sheets up to my chin. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sound of the rain and the muffled shouts of the guards downstairs.
I tell myself I don't care. Let the men kill each other. Let the empire burn. I am just the unwanted daughter, the spinster in the attic. The war has nothing to do with me.
But as sleep finally drags me under, a primal instinct curls in my gut, whispering a terrifying truth I can’t ignore.
The fire is coming. And it’s going to burn us all to ash.
3
Cassio
Don Salvatore’s estate is a goddamn fortress.
Nestled deep in the hills overlooking the city, the sprawling stone compound is heavily guarded by men carrying automatic rifles and faces carved from granite. As my armored Maybach crunches up the long gravel driveway, I stare out the rain-streaked window with locked jaw. The storm from last night has faded into a dismal, grey morning, casting a sickly light over the manicured grounds.
"They’re heavily staffed today, Boss," Matteo murmurs from the passenger seat, his eyes tracking the guards stationed at fifty-yard intervals along the perimeter.
"Salvatore is paranoid," I reply coldly, straightening my cuffs. "And he should be."
There are four families in the Italian syndicate. The Rossi family sits at the head, with Don Salvatore acting as the Capo dei Capi, the Boss of Bosses. Beneath him are the three smaller families: my family, the Vellutini; Don Orlando’s family, the Genovese; and Don Lombardi’s useless fucking faction. Right now, both the Vellutini and the Genovese hold massive territories, giving us the lion's share of power directly beneath Salvatore.
But that power is bleeding out into the streets. Our two families are at war, causing a violent internal turmoil that is ripping the Italians apart from the inside out. And while Orlando and I are busy slicing at each other’s throats, a growing external threat from the Russian Bratva and the Irish Mob is closing in on our borders.
The car glides to a halt before the massive oak double doors of the main house. I step out into the brisk morning air, flanked by Matteo and two of my top soldiers. I pat the reassuring weight of the 1911 holstered at my ribs, though I know I’ll have to surrender it at the door. Damn protocol.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of burning cedar and expensive cigars. I am escorted by Salvatore’s men through the vaulted corridors to the grand dining room, which has been converted into a war room.
When the heavy doors swing open, I see Don Salvatore sitting at the head of the long, polished mahogany table. He is seventy-twoyears old, his face is like ancient leather, his eyes as black and unforgiving as obsidian. To his right sits Don Lombardi, looking nervous and out of his depth, his hands are folded tightly in his lap.
And directly across from Lombardi sits Don Orlando Genovese.
The moment Orlando’s eyes lock onto mine, unadulterated hatred flashes across his wrinkled face. I am the youngest Don in the room, having taken over the Vellutini family after my father died, while Orlando is older, experienced, and fiercely traditional. We clash because we are total opposites. He thinks I’m a reckless kid, and I know he’s a fading dinosaur.
I don't break his gaze as I walk to the empty leather chair on Salvatore’s left. I take my seat slowly, exuding an arrogant, casual grace that I know makes Orlando’s blood boil. I unbutton my suit jacket and lean back, spreading my arms along the armrests.
"Cassio," Salvatore greets in a raspy rumble that commands absolute silence. "You’re late."
