Page 2 of Ruthless Vow
The message is clear. We acknowledge your loss. We don’t respect your position. Not yet.
I file his face away. Men like this always think they have time.
Umberto Neri passes through the crowd. Our accountant. Three generations of Neris have kept our books clean. Quiet, respectful, forgettable. I watch him murmur condolences and slip away.
His daughter is supposed to be my bride. My pulse doesn’t move. My chest stays hollow. Good. That’s the point.
Then Luca Valentino appears, and the hollow space behind my ribs flickers with something I can’t name.
He comes alone. No soldiers. No entourage. No show of force. Just him in a dark suit, standing where Valentinos aren’t supposed to stand.
His father and mine bled each other across New Orleans for three decades. Rivals don’t attend funerals. And if they do, they bring muscle.
Luca brings nothing but himself.
“Santoro.” His voice carries just enough for the watchers to hear. “Your father was a worthy adversary. I hope we can change the dynamic between our families.”
I hold his gaze. Give him nothing.
“That remains to be seen, Valentino.”
He nods once. Turns to leave.
And then I see his eyes catch on someone across the garden.
Gia. Near Mama’s roses. She’s holding the arm of Nonna Rosa, who’s been with us since before any of us were born. Rosa is crying, clutching a rosary. Gia isn’t crying. She’s just there. Present. Holding space for someone else’s sorrow while her own pins her spine straight, locks her knees.
Luca Valentino watches my sister a second too long.
Then he looks away. Walks toward the gate. Doesn’t speak to her.
Interesting. If he’s smart, he’ll keep his eyes to himself. If he’s not. Well. That’s a problem I know how to solve.
ZioPietro finds me before I can disappear. Not blood, but he walked Mama down the aisle, changed my diapers, taught me to throw a punch. Thirty years at Papa’s side. He’s earned the title.
He looks wrecked. Red-rimmed eyes, fingers that won’t stay still. The man who watched Papa build everything, who stayed even when it all started to crumble.
He grips my shoulder. Holds on too long.
“Your father was the best man I ever knew.” His voice cracks. “Before everything changed. You should know that. Who he was. Before.”
I don’t know what to say. Zio remembers a version of Papa I never met. The man who laughed. The man who loved without losing himself to it.
“I know,” I say.
I don’t. But Zio needs to hear it.
Romano appears. Smooth, professional, handling the next crisis. Thirty-two years of service have made him invaluable. He knows every captain, every shipment, every debt we’re owed.
“The cars are ready when you are, Don.” Steady. Measured. “Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you, Romano.”
He nods and walks away. Reliable. Solid. Always where he’s supposed to be.
The garden is quiet now.
The guests have gone. The cars have pulled away. The compound has emptied of everyone who came to mourn, or pretend to mourn, and I’m alone.
