Page 4 of Renata Vitali (The Five Syndicates)
The keys to my matte black Range Rover clanged in my pockets as I left The Landing Strip, nodding my goodbyes to everyone as I walked out. Most of the De Luca members gathered here in between work, which made it the best place to network. Baby steps in my master plan.
By the time I reached my hallway, Angelo had left for dinner, just like I knew he would. Seeing him as little as possible helped maintain my sanity. Araceli walked down the hall with a pile of sheets in her hands, which was odd given the hour. The housekeeping staffed usually retired to their quarters by now.
I thought she’d step by me, but instead, she smiled, dipped her head in a polite bow, and eyed my body like she’d been doing for quite some time now. I arched a brow. “Yes?”
Her face flushed, and she looked around—probably searching for something sensible to say—before her eyes returned to mine, and she whispered, “Have you met the Vitali girl? I’ve never met a Vitali before. She’s kind of… frumpy?”
I paused at her words, my eyes narrowed and head tilted. “Vitali girl?” I racked my brain for any gossip of her I could remember, surprised by how easily it came to me.
Renata Vitali. Sixteen. Only child. Daughter of Margot Vitali and the head of the Vitali. Supposedly smart.
Araceli’s frown creased the skin between her brows, and she dropped the flirting. “You didn’t know she was coming?”
No, I hadn’t.
A powerful unknown entity had entered my territory, and I didn’t know. My jaw ticked. It was just like Dad to keep something like this from me. I wanted to brush it off. I wanted to push this information aside and focus on dethroning my father… but something in my gut told me this changed everything.
/> Trust is earned when actions meet words.
Chris Butler
Sometimes, you know when catastrophe is about to strike you. A screech of tires. Oxygen masks shooting at you from above your airplane seat. The numbness spreading across your face before a stroke.
There were no warning signs for me.
My heart was calm when Angelo De Luca turned the corner of the East Wing hallway, seconds after showing me what would be my room for however long Papà’s punishment for me lasted.
My heart was calm when, not a minute later, I darted to the room next to mine, and my fingers twisted the door handle without a moment’s hesitation.
My heart was calm as I eased my way into the bedroom. The one that belonged to the secret De Luca son. Damiano, his dad had called him, not an ounce of affection in his voice.
I should have known better.
In this world, there was only one reason to hide a child if you were a mafia boss for one of the Five Syndicates. The thought of learning firsthand what was wrong with Angelo De Luca’s secret son should have scared me.
But in the rare moments I’d seen my father, he had taught me that fear was weakness, and weakness was death. It wasn’t a quaint lesson, nor was it a father’s honorable attempt at keeping his daughter safe.
It was a warning.
Against him.
He was the threat in my life. Always would be. I’d been here less than an hour, but every second I spent in Devils Ridge, Texas reminded me of that.
Don’t be weak.
You’re a Vitali.
Vitalis don’t feel fear.
Christ, a whole continent away, and Papà’s voice still plagued my mind. Usually, he inspired anger. Today, determination darted from my head to my toes as I began my search for a cell phone or landline in Damiano De Luca’s room.
Like my room next door, this room felt un-lived in. Unlike my room, someone had been living in this one for longer than all of one point two seconds.
Telltale signs of neglect painted the room. Crisp, clean sheets—untouched for who knew how long. Aged air—stale with a fading hint of aftershave. A sole eighteenth-century dresser, coated with a fine layer of dust.
I should have considered what that meant. That even the maids hadn’t entered this room in some time. I didn’t. Maman deserved to know that I’d seen Papà pounding into his secretary before he sent me to Texas to live with the De Lucas—without a phone and beleaguered by explicit instructions never to be in contact with one, lest I be given an opportunity to tattle to Maman.
I wasn’t the type to listen, but people were like scampering rats when it came to my family. Or maybe they were cult followers—frail and obeisant, followers begging for a command, all too happy to hide the electronics from me. This meant searching for a damn phone in foreign territory proved nearly impossible.
