Page 120 of The Wrong Mafia Bride
I should have expected nothing less.
"Patrick Murphy threatened my wife and killed two people I cared about." I keep my voice level, even as my pulse pounds in my ears. "He staged a coup against the Irish leadership and put our alliance at risk. I did what was necessary to protect my family and secure our position."
"Your family," Giovanni repeats, and there is venom in the way he says it. Like the word itself offends him. "You mean the substitute bride who disrespected me at my own dinner table? The girl who stood up in front of my entire family and called me a tyrant?"
The dismissiveness in his voice—the way he reduces Rosalina tothe substitute bride, like she is nothing more than a placeholder, a mistake—ignites something hot and protective in my chest.
"I mean my wife." I lean forward, matching his posture, refusing to be intimidated. "Rosalina. The woman carrying my child. The person I would burn the world down to protect. Yes, Papa. That is exactly who I mean."
His face flushes with anger, color rising in his cheeks. I can see him fighting for control, fighting to maintain that icy composure he wears like armor. "And what about the organization? What about your responsibilities as the future Don? What about the Frank Lucas deal you were supposed to close?"
There it is. The Frank Lucas deal. I have been waiting for him to bring it up.
I take a breath, steadying myself. This is where it always goes wrong. This is where he picks apart my decisions, finds them wanting, makes me feel like a child playing at being a man.
But not today. Today I am not going to let him make me feel small.
"The Frank Lucas deal was never going to close," I say bluntly, watching his jaw tighten. "Not on the terms you wanted. Lucas wants full control of Harlem with our protection but none of our oversight. He wants to import heroin without interference and pay us a percentage that barely covers our operational costs. It is a bad deal, and I told you that from the beginning."
"And yet you failed to negotiate better terms." His voice is sharp, cutting, designed to wound. Designed to make me defensive.
I refuse to take the bait.
"Because better terms do not exist." I straighten, standing at my full height, looking him in the eye. "Lucas is not interested in partnership. He wants us to provide muscle and legitimacy while he builds his own empire. Taking that deal would make us look weak, would set a precedent that any independent operator can dictate terms to the Salvatore family. I walked away because walking away was the smart move."
I watch him process this, see the way his jaw works as he grinds his teeth. He knows I am right. He has to know. But admitting it would mean admitting I made the correct call, and Giovanni Salvatore does not admit his son might know better than him about anything.
That would require seeing me as an equal. And in his eyes, I will never be his equal. I will always be the disappointment. The son who is too soft, too emotional, too much like my mother.
"You walked away because you were too soft to close it," he says finally, and there is contempt dripping from every word.
There it is. The accusation that has followed me my entire life.Too soft. Too emotional. Too much like your mother.
Something in my chest goes tight, then releases. Not with hurt, but with understanding. He will never change. He will never see me the way I need him to see me. And I am done waiting for it.
"I walked away because I was smart enough to recognize a trap." I take a step toward the desk, closing the distance between us. "You taught me that, actually. Years ago, when I was fourteen and you were explaining why we did not do business with the Russians. You said any deal where the other party holds all the power is not a deal worth making. You said a smart leader knowswhen to walk away. That was your wisdom, Papa. I was following it."
I watch the words land, see the exact instant he realizes he cannot refute the logic without contradicting his own teachings. His expression hardens further, his face going stone-cold in that way that used to terrify me as a child.
But I am not a child anymore. And I am not afraid of him.
Not anymore.
"The Irish situation?—"
"Was handled," I interrupt, and his eyes flash with fury at being cut off. "Patrick Murphy was a threat to the alliance, to Erin O'Connor, and to Rosalina. He murdered Seamus O'Connor and staged a coup that would have destabilized our entire relationship with the Irish. Callahan now leads the Irish organization with our backing, and the alliance is stronger than it has ever been. I achieved the objective you wanted—peace with the Irish—I just did it my way instead of yours."
"Your way," Giovanni says quietly, and the softness of his tone is somehow more dangerous than his anger, more cutting than his contempt, "involved compromising this family's reputation. Attacking the Irish compound without authorization. Operating outside the chain of command. Making decisions that should have been mine to make."
"You are right," I say, and he blinks—just once, just a flicker of surprise before he controls it. "I did all of those things. I made command decisions without consulting you. I prioritized my wife's safety over organizational protocol. I acted independently because the situation demanded it and because waiting for your approval would have gotten people killed."
"I chose to save lives over following procedure. I chose protecting the people I love over protecting your ego. And I would make the same choice again. Every single time."
"And you think that justifies?—"
"I think," I say, cutting him off again, my voice rising for the first time, "that I am done justifying my choices to you."
The silence that follows is absolute, suffocating. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, can feel the pulse of blood through my veins. Giovanni stares at me like he has never seen me before, like I am a stranger wearing his son's face.
