Page 95 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

The room falls silent, the sudden tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I notice the flicker of unease that crosses Nico’s face.

This will be bad.

Excitement thrums in my veins as I feel the reassuring weight of the guns in my side and ankle holsters. I can already hear the splinters and cracks forming in our enterprise—sides being taken between those loyal to Orlando and the old ways, and those aligned with Nico and me, who are trying to bring the Outfit into newer climes.

“What the hell is this?” Orlando demands, throwing a handful of photos onto the table and scattering them across the polished wood.

I catch glimpses of myself with Addy. One shows us leaving the club, her body plastered to my side. Another captures me carrying her. Her arms are wound tightly around me, and her face is buried in my neck.

An inexplicable warmth pumps through my veins. Seeing Addy draped around me stirs something in me. I like it. A lot. But I keep my expression neutral as I meet Orlando’s gaze.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” I say coolly.

Orlando’s eyes narrow, his voice dripping with venom. “It becomes my business when you’re publicly cavorting with some mystery woman while you’ve left your vows to me unfulfilled. Who the hell is she, Dante? One of your little whores?”

I clench my jaw, suppressing the urge to bash his face in. Around the table, I notice the other men shifting uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Orlando and me.

“I suggest you watch your tongue, Orlando,” I warn, my voice low and dangerous.

But he only grows bolder, leaning across the table until his face is inches from mine. “She’s the same Irish woman from two years ago, isn’t she? What, you’re bored of starting wars, so you’ve moved on to setting fire to your own house? Grow the fuck up!”

The room goes deadly quiet. My entire body goes still, save for my right hand, which twitches involuntarily. I stare into Orlando’s pale blue eyes, imagining the tidy red hole that will soon appear between them.

As a rule, we don’t shed blood inside this room. Orlando knows that, which is probably why his mouth is running a mile a minute. But fuck it, there’s a first time for everything.

Just as I move to blow out the man’s brains, I catch my father’s meaningful one-eyed glare. It’s a look he created especially for me and one I’ve learned the hard way to heed over the years.

With great effort, I lean back in my seat and issue Orlando a low warning instead. “You’re treading on thin ice, De Luca.”

Orlando’s eyes dart belligerently around the room, his rage unabated. “Where is the woman, Dante? I demand to know where you’re hiding her.”

His intensity is puzzling. Why is he so disturbed by me being with another woman? True, I should be putting a ring on his daughter, but faithfulness isn’t generally something an old-school mafioso like Orlando would expect out of an arranged marriage.

Before I can respond, Nico interjects, his voice calm and authoritative. “The woman in the photos is dead. She was in the car that exploded last night.”

The change in Orlando is instantaneous and unsettling. His face goes sheet-pale, and a violent tremor runs through his body. “I was told it was Potenzo . . . that died in the blast.”

Watching the play of emotion on De Luca’s face is confusing. So I do what I do best: poke the bear.

“She and Pietro were in the car,” I say flippantly, ignoring the warning looks from both Nico and my father. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I needed to make room for a few more whores in my car, so I made her ride with Pietro instead. Anyway, yes, she’s dead, too.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. Tension radiates from every man present as their eyes dart between Orlando and me, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

“I see.” Orlando’s voice is tight with an unnamed emotion. He turns, takes a couple of steps back, then suddenly whirls to face me again. “And what’s this I hear about you breaking off your betrothal to my daughter? Is that true?”

I meet his gaze with insolence, my voice even. “I’m afraid so, Orlando. I admit I may have put the cart before the horse and should have told you first. But the bottom line is that the horse is now hitched to the cart, and both are being kicked out. The wedding is off.”

Orlando watches me with an unreadable expression, then suddenly hacks his throat and spits on the floor, his face twisted with disgust. The room collectively inhales, shocked at this blatant show of disrespect.

“You are a dishonorable little bitch, Dante Vitelli,” he snarls. “If it wasn’t for your father sitting in this room, I’d gut you where you sit.”

He turns to face Nico, his contempt palpable. “And you are not worth the seat you’re on for not reining him in, boy.”

With that, Orlando yanks off his signet ring and throws it at Nico before storming off.

“De Luca!” Nico barks, his rage barely controlled. But Orlando doesn’t stop. His shoulders are hunched, and his fists are clenched as he disappears through the doorway. The heavy door slams behind him, echoing in the stunned silence.

The room is frozen in disbelief. As Nico’s Underboss, I should have already put a bullet in Orlando’s head the moment he threw his ring at his Capo. But I’m rooted to the spot, partly due to the shock of what just transpired and partly because of the way Father has been glaring at me throughout this entire exchange.

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