Page 94 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

And now, she’s being targeted once again. But I’ll be damned if I let them harm a single red strand of her hair this time.

Now she’s mine. To protect, to love.

With a final glance at Addy’s sleeping form, I quietly exit the room and head to the conference room, anticipation heavy on my shoulders as I imagine the fallout with Orlando De Luca and, inevitably, the Irish Mob.

How the hell do we fight on two fronts and win this war?

Chapter Thirty-One

Dante

Eight pairs of somber eyes turn to me as I step into the dim conference room. The dim light casts shadows, matching the uneasy atmosphere.

Everyone knows I’m usually one of the last to walk into meetings, a conscious choice because those first few minutes of chin-wagging and dancing around the main point drive me up the wall. But today, Nico glances pointedly at the clock. I’m only three minutes late but he’s in a mood. Everyone is, and understandably so.

Pietro’s usual seat sits hauntingly empty, a cruel reminder of his death. Orlando’s seat is also conspicuously empty. Which means I haven’t missed much. The party will only start when the man gets here.

“Apologies, brothers,” I mutter, making my way around the long pine conference table.

I clap Enzo on the shoulder as I pass. His face is drawn, perpetual exhaustion etched into his features—the price of fathering sextuplets.

As I take my seat opposite Father, I catch Sal’s eye. A silent understanding passes between us. Apart from Nico and Father, he’s the only other person here who knows that Addy is alive.

I hold Father’s gaze longer than necessary, searching for any crack in his stony façade. My earlier display in the kitchen was meant to rattle him, to see if his reaction would reveal what he stubbornly refuses to admit—that Addy is my half-sister.

But he gives nothing away, only looking back at me steadily. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken tensions and unanswered questions.

Finally, Nico’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Salvatore, you have something?”

Sal leans forward, his eyes briefly meeting mine before addressing the room. “Sì, Don Nico. We found the bomber. He’s a DC-based ghost who goes by the name Owen Novak. He has no fingerprints or dental records and never leaves a trace.”

I exchange a meaningful glance with Nico. Ghosts are the apex predators of our world—assassins so skilled they’re practically myth. Whoever ordered the hit is clever enough to use one.

“Yet you smoked him out in less than twelve hours. Impressive, Salvatore,” Nico marvels in approval.

When Sal only grins in response, I mutter, “Well, don’t be shy now, tell us how you did it, you evil genius. Finding a ghost’s identity should be next to impossible.”

Sal shrugs off our admiration. “I have a contact. Goes by the name Bonnie. She charges an arm and a leg, but she’s an absolute magician. Told me who and where he was within minutes.”

“She?” Nico leans forward, intrigued. “That’s . . . extraordinary. She one of your Harvard buddies?”

Sal shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “Nah, I don’t think she even finished high school, Signore.” He’s a little miffed that this mystery girl has stolen his thunder.

I can’t resist rubbing the salt in. “Well, fuck. You think maybe she could come work for us full-time?”

Sal shoots me a withering glare, but duty compels him to respond to his underboss. “I believe she works exclusively for the head of the Five Families of New York,” he bites out. “She only did this as a personal favor.”

Wow. Nico’s New York best friend is a lucky S.O.B.

“Shame,” I say, patting Sal’s back. “Anyway, we’ve still got you. It’s better than nothing.”

“Fuck you,” he fake-sneezes, and I struggle to keep a straight face.

The room’s somber mood tempers my usual inclination for jokes, though. I clear my throat and get back to business. “So when can we pick this motherfucker up? I’d like to see just how many traces he doesn’t leave while he’s being flayed alive.”

Sal begins to respond, “I can arrange—” but he’s cut short as the double doors burst open.

Orlando De Luca storms in, his imposing frame filling the doorway. His ever-present toothpick twitches as his jaw clenches, pale green eyes blazing with fury.

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