Page 46 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I interrupt him, smirking, “That’s some spicy security measure you’ve got going there, Salvatore.”

Sal chuckles on the other end. “I meant to say hand-print scans. I’ve got to keep your attention somehow, fratello. The point is, security will be tighter than a nun’s knees tonight.”

I grunt in irritation. “It’s still a stupid location, Sal. The club’s going to be packed tonight, and too many people will spot the Senator. Why not meet him in one of our warehouses?”

Sal’s response is swift. “Bill Sheridan is a businessman, but he’s also a politician, Dante. The man has the eyes of the public and media on him every time. In the club, we can at least control what they see compared to out there on the docks.”

Sal’s logic hits home, as much as I hate to admit it. “You’re right,” I concede.

I just hate club openings. Too many celebrity appearances, too many free drinks and VIP passes, and too many influencers hoping to create drama.

“As long as you keep the guest list sane, Sal.”

“Sure thing. The upstairs VIP lounge will be on lockdown. The only people allowed there will be us and Sheridan . . . Oh, and also . . .” Sal’s voice takes on that knowing, musical tone that usually means he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.

“What,” I snap, although I already know what he’s going to say.

“Alina and her friends are with us too.”

I slam the weights down, the metal groaning in protest. “Did I not make myself clear about her showing up there?” I don’t need her suffocating me with her perfume and eyelash batting while I’m trying to conduct business.

“Come on, Dante,” Sal coaxes. “It’s our club opening. What’s it gonna look like if your own fiancée isn’t there?”

“Like I have a brain in my skull? Like I don’t need a fucking ball and chain to validate my existence?” I growl, wiping the sweat off my forehead with a towel.

Sal, sensing we’re not about to agree anytime soon, deftly steers the subject to safer ground. “Kira’s coming, you know. She’s the celebrity DJ.”

“Yes, I know,” I snap, wondering why Sal feels the need to bring this up every five seconds.

Unfazed by my irritation, Sal continues. “She’s bringing a bunch of friends from Boston—the usual celebrity DJ circle. Red Wine is—”

“Sal, spare me the social calendar, will you?” I cut him off, not needing to hear more about his obvious obsession with Kira. And I especially don’t need to know that Addy won’t be there as she’s not a celeb or a DJ.

“Sure,” Sal drawls, and I get the sense the little shit is trying not to smile.

“Just make sure the Senator isn’t photographed or recorded. Or wearing a wire.”

“Done,” Sal says.

“And get Alina and her minions seated far enough away and well entertained. Now, speaking of entertainment . . . It’s been three weeks, has that Irish prick not said anything interesting yet?”

“Oh him? I’m afraid he’s a little dead, fratello,” Sal says casually.

“Awesome, Sal,” I murmur testily. “Way to piss Nico off. Did he at least give up any good info before he kicked it?”

“I wouldn’t call it good,” Sal replies. “He said he and his boys were there to distract us from spotting their princess while she waltzed around Chicago.”

“Hmm,” I grunt. A ploy that only managed to land her squarely in my clutches. “Is that all you got out of him?”

“More or less.”

“Then why did it take the prick three whole weeks to give you dead info?”

“Now you see why he vexed me. He could have saved me the trouble had he quietly whispered this on the first day. But no, he chose to die screaming it . . .”

. . . whisper . . . die . . . screaming . . .

The world shrinks, and the metallic scent of the gym fades as Sal continues talking, oblivious that I’ve stopped listening.

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