Page 2 of Savage Vows

At the far end of the table, Don Fabrizio Russo exchanges glances with his trusted advisor, and more notably his daughter, Valentina. The Russos are always looking for an opportunity to provoke or manipulate, testing the waters for weaknesses. It’s in their blood. And recently, the family has been muscling in on our territory, pushing us in ways that I refuse to tolerate.

The previous Russo boss may have been behind the attempted hit on my father’s life. The bullets meant for him cut short the life of our consigliere.

I meet Don Russo’s gaze, and I don’t blink. The bastard knows we’re at a tipping point, and this alliance might be his last shot at playing peacekeeper before war erupts. Not that I care. The need for revenge burns hot in my veins.

I shift my focus briefly to his daughter, Valentina. She’s young but sharp—just like her father. Her loyalty to her family is unwavering, but I can see the steely resolve in her eyes. An ambition of her own. Valentina is not a pawn; she’s someone who knows how to move the pieces.

Then, there’s Giuseppe Bertoni, seated next to his oldest son, Emilio. Giuseppe’s been in the game longer than any of us, and his son isn’t quite the strategist he is. Emilio looks bored, and he taps his fingers against the table.

But Giuseppe? He’s been watching me with an intensity that tells me he’s waiting for an opportunity to exploit. The Bertonis rarely venture past the Rio Grande area, and I have no idea where their allegiances lie. We recently heard a rumor that they want an alliance with the DeLucas. That would mean they are hoping to shut down our operations on the Gulf Coast.

Which is another reason for me to marry Alessia, and quickly.

Since birth, my father has drilled my duty into me.Protect the Family.

I will die before I fail in that mission.

Motion catches my eye. Emilio shifts his hand to his waistband, searching for a gun that’s not there. A reflex, perhaps, or a calculated move to test the waters. None of us are armed. And cell phones are strictly prohibited. But the interruption has ratcheted the tension enough to make everyone feel like they need a weapon.

“Shall we continue?” Raffaele asks, his voice steady.

“Please,” I say, grateful for my father’s presence of mind in defusing the tension—at least for the moment.

The eight of us have been at this oval table in this small, windowless conference room for three hours. There has been a lot of arguing and posturing, and nothing has been agreed to. We cannot end this meeting until we agree to respect each other’s boundaries and business operations.

If we achieve my father’s objectives, by the end of tomorrow we will have appointed a conflict resolution board to mitigate disagreements and enforce the rules.

I snatch up my pen and walk it through my fingers, leaning back in a false show of relaxation. I have to do something to hold back the beast that’s demanding action—immediate action.

Despite my best efforts, my attention is fractured.

Now that I know Alessia’s been found, I want more details, and I need a plan to bring her home.

I walk my pen faster and faster.

My father clears his throat. “Perhaps this is a good time to take our lunch break.”

Thank Jesus.

Everyone agrees on two hours.

As soon as my father heads for the door, I follow.

Flanked by our lieutenants and Nico—my cousin and the Moretti family consigliere—we head to an upper floor where there’s a private room tucked into the back corner of the hotel’s high-end restaurant.

Nash and I continue on to a private alcove. “Where is she?” Impatiently I accept my phone from him.

From what I’d ascertained, she’d jetted off to Europe. As if to show she was untouchable, she posted pictures on social media, looking happy.

A recent photo of her, cozied up with a blond artist, sent me over the edge.

Enough was enough, and I’d deployed a team to Europe to find her and track her.

Nash is standing a little too stiffly, avoiding my gaze for a beat longer than usual. He doesn’t do hesitation. He’s a man who gets the job done, no questions asked.

“She’s in England, Matteo.”

Frustration gathers. “Be more specific.”

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