Page 91 of Twisted Vows

I smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “He won’t like what he finds.”

The rest of the night dissolves into coordination. We route calls.

Marco arranges surveillance feeds and checks in with an update. “Miami’s full of ghosts.”

“I only need one,” I say.

Before midnight, he sends the final report. GPS triangulation and a photo snapped from a grainy security camera in Miami’s Warehouse District.

Vincent steps out of a black van, his head tilted toward a man with Volkov tattoos on his neck.

Proof.

Sophia’s dad. The bastard who broke her. The guy who turned loyalty into a loaded gun that killed my brother.

His presence means complications. Nothing in my life ever comes easy.

Later, when the place finally settles, I spot Sophia crashed out on the couch, drowning in one of my shirts. Even in sleep, she’s got that little wrinkle between her eyes, as if she’s wrestling with nightmares I can’t fight for her.

For a second, I just…breathe. In and out. Her hand twitches, searching. My fingers find hers and anchor us both. “He’s not going to hurt you or your mother again. Not ever.” My words taste like blood and steel. I mean every syllable.

She doesn’t wake. Doesn’t even stir.

After a long moment, I extract myself, head to the study, and pick up that photo again.

The one of Vincent Martinelli.

Enzo

Before lunch the next day, Gabi calls a sit-down. Marco’s kept me updated on our losses to the Volkovs, and it isn’t pretty.

The whole crew crams in. Vito leans against the wall, the snake tattoo visible on his neck, his arms crossed. Rocco sits sprawled, his scarred knuckles drumming the table. Young enforcers line the back…boys playing at being men, eager for blood. Marco takes his usual spot near the door, always watching exits.

The hall pulses with men who’ve killed for money, who carry stains we won’t mention.

Gabi lounges at the head of the table, smug as a king on a borrowed throne, his rings flashing. Too damn calm, considering the brewing shitstorm. “The Volkovs pulled a stunt last night. Took a shot at our shipment. We lost two guys. The Russians’ offer of peace comes with a nice fat price tag.”

My gut clenches at the mention of the so-called olive branch that’s wrapped in razor wire.

The room goes quiet. Too quiet. Every man here knows what a “price tag” from the Russians means…blood, territory, or worse. But no one seems to know about Martinelli resurfacing.

Under the table, my hands curl into fists. Cold dread crawls up my spine.

A Capo at the far end wipes sweat from his forehead. “Peace? Since when do wolves trade peace without taking meat first?”

Gabi nods toward me. “They want leverage. Specifically…her.”

A growl rips from my throat. The chair scrapes as I stand too quickly, the veins in my tight forearms burning.

Someone shifts in their seat. “Enzo’s wife has caused enough disruption.”

Another man squirms, his eyes darting nervously. “She’s a target. Enzo said he married her to gain important info for us. We’ve had none of that yet. If turning her over saves the family, we’d be stupid not to consider…”

I fight the urge to reach across the table and break his jaw. “Say that again.”

The man falters before looking to Gabi for rescue.

Our “leader” just spreads his hands like a mock saint. “You can’t deny her presence brought heat. The Volkovs see her as currency. They want to use her as bait to draw Vincent out. To trade her for him.”