Page 33 of Twisted Vows

He’s in a celebratory mood, a glass of whiskey cradled between his fingers. I recognize that glass as his father’s favorite, the one the man only got out when drinking a bit of his thirty-year scotch…a tradition that only happens after some outstanding achievement.

In an act of deliberate disrespect, Gabi has his feet on his father’s desk. The one where Gabi Aldo Benedetti ran an empire with an iron fist and a steady hand.

Whatever competence Gabi Jr. possesses begins and ends with fake smiles and smugness. He’s younger than me by two years but acts like he’s got decades of wisdom. His designer suit stretches across shoulders that have never thrown a real punch. His hair’s slicked back and gaudy gold rings adorn every finger. His father wore one ring. A simple reminder rather than an excessive statement.

Everything about Gabi Jr. screams trying too hard.

But his act doesn’t fool me.

He’s still his father. Aldo’s cruelty without the discipline. His father’s ambition without the strategy. That makes him unpredictable. Volatile. He’ll lash out just because he can.

As I enter, his dark, mean eyes lock on mine.

I’ve seen that look before in men who know they’re not quite enough, who compensate with violence and paranoia.

Gabi’s dangerous because he’s insecure. Because he knows the families still whisper Aldo’s name with reverence and his with doubt. Because he’ll do anything—burn anything, kill anyone—to prove he deserves the chair he’s sitting in.

My hands clench at my sides, but I force them to relax.

He’s the Padrino now, whether I like it or not.

Whether he deserves it or not.

I stop a few feet from the desk. Bow my head just enough. Not a centimeter more.

He knows I’m giving him the bare minimum. Enjoys that it costs me.

When he clears his throat, the room snaps to attention. A thick silence settles as he raises his glass, downs the rest of the contents, and places it on a tray beside him before deigning to address me.

“Look who’s back. Did you find the rat’s nest?”

The heavy intonation on the word “rat” isn’t lost on me. I shake my head. “No one there. Already cleaned out.”

Gabi’s eyes narrow. “You sure? You seem tense.”

“Been a long day.”

“Uh-huh.” Gabi picks up, refills, and twirls his glass. “So, have you heard yet?”

I say nothing as I wait for the bomb to drop. “The Russians want Sophia.”

The world stops, and my pulse slams once against my ribs, hard enough to steal breath. How did he know?

My hands curl into fists, but I force them open.

Gabi observes every movement and takes a slow sip while savoring my reaction. “You’re surprised.” He sets the glass down. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“Where did you hear this?”

Gabi hunches forward. “Why? Got something to hide?”

“No.”

“Funny. You’re usually better at pretending you don’t care.”

I say nothing, still waiting and calculating.

Gabi nods toward his trusted aides Rocco and Vito, who’re lounging as if they matter.