Page 54 of Twisted Vows

Enzo

Cold bites my skin like an old enemy.

The walk from the mini villa to the main house feels like a journey through purgatory. Sophia claimed she needed some fresh air, so one of the men drove my car back to the main house. Now, I’m being led by two huge guards whose eyes have refused to meet mine.

Their nerves radiate with palpable unease. In fact, clouds of uncertainty seem to be hanging over the whole estate. I can see curious faces hanging by the windows of the nearby houses, but the streets remain empty.

I muster what dignity I can and straighten my back, my steps deliberate and measured. For all my calm on the surface, fire rages within. But to show weakness here would be to sign my own death warrant.

The gate yawns open.

A pale, stiff-shouldered Marco lounges on the hood of my car like it’s a barstool and he’s nursing a drink before hell breaks loose. His hands fidget in his pockets. The guards halt to allow me to approach him.

“They’re waiting inside,” he mutters. “Gabi’s boiling.”

“Head over to the mini villa and keep an eye on her.”

He nods and climbs back into the Maserati. Once the engine purrs to life, he peels out, the taillights disappearing down the drive as he departs to protect the woman I just married.

The doors open.

The Benedetti great hall never changes. Same black marble floors. Same gold-stained chandeliers bleeding opulence. Same stink of money and death masked with cigar smoke and polished whiskey glasses.

Tonight, though, the tension curdles the air.

There are twice as many soldiers lining the walls than usual. They all stand like statues, barely even blinking as their eyes track my every move.

I suppose they’ve been warned of my imminent danger, not that their presence will stop me if I decide to bring the fight here.

Gabi sits at the head of the long table, slouched like a prince on a throne carved from his father’s corpse. A tumbler of bourbon dangles between his fingers, and a vicious smile stretches his lips wide.

“Well, look who decided to join us.” He reclines in his chair. “The Prodigal Son with a bridal bouquet.”

I step forward and bow briefly. Demonstrate respect without submission. Then my spine straightens back into my full six-foot-three in silent challenge.

Gabi slams his palm against the oak, the crack echoing through the room.

“You married her. In front of Capos. Without me. Without a word of approval.”

His accusation poisons the air like cyanide.

“It was necessary.” I maintain a calm tone.

Gabi scoffs. “Necessary?” His sarcastic laugh bounces off the walls. “You humiliated me in front of the family. For what? A schoolteacher you couldn’t keep your hands off?”

His words drip with insult. I’m about to respond when, from the shadows, Vito—Gabi’s lapdog—emerges, his hair slicked back like a mob movie extra. Beside him, Rocco smirks, puffed up like a rooster gorged on power. They’re both emboldened now, protected under Gabi’s wing.

They used to keep their distance from me. Fear does that. But with Gabi backing them, they’ve grown teeth.

“Family unity means nothing anymore.” Rocco slams his fist on the table. “The Capos are rattled. The Russians are insulted. You’ve torn open our flank.”

“You think you’re protecting us, Ricci,” Vito adds. “But you’re endangering all of us.”

They speak like they’ve rehearsed their lines. Like Gabi handed them the script.

His attack dogs, sent to bare their fangs.

My head tilts. “Family unity was already fractured. Gabi agreed to trade a woman to a foreign syndicate like livestock. That’s not strategy. That’s cowardice.”