Page 91 of Savage Vows

Though I appreciate the show of support, I acknowledge his right to the throne. “If you wanted it, you’d have my respect.”

He shakes his head. “I’m with you, Matteo. Always.”

Protect the family.

Nico clears his throat. “Then we need to confirm roles. Dante should step up as underboss. You’ll need someone strong to back you, and Dante fits.”

Dante nods. “I’ll do it. You won’t have to worry about me pulling my weight.”

I turn to Nico. “And you? I want you to stay on as consigliere.”

For a moment, he’s totally still. The news has to shock him. But this last week has cemented my trust in him.

“I’d be honored, Matteo.” He pauses. “Your father meant the world to me. I will give you the same loyalty I showed him.”

That’s settled.

When it comes to the ascension vote, nothing is certain, but the support of my brother and cousin will speak volumes to the capos.

The conversation shifts to the Russos. Nico spreads a few papers on the table, pointing to inconsistencies in their financial dealings and recent movements. “They’re too quiet,” he says. “The princess especially.” He’s referring to Valentina, her father’s advisor, the one who’d been at the first meeting of the Four Corners Alliance in Las Vegas. “She’s been keeping to herself, but her influence hasn’t gone unnoticed. We need to tread carefully.”

“Carefully,” Dante echoes, his jaw tight. “Or decisively?”

I glance at the clock. Time is slipping through our fingers. “We’ll decide after the funeral. For now, we focus on the day.”

When we emerge from the bunker, Alessia is waiting for me in the kitchen. She’s wearing a black form-fitting dress. Her long hair is swept back, and a small black hat is perched atop her head. Her face is composed. My wife is a picture of respect and poise.

Every day, she makes me proud.

Her head is tipped to one side, and she’s studying me, as if she’s waiting for something, but I have no idea what.

We pick up my mother.

Though she’s nervous about the procession, we have a police escort, and we have arranged for a convoluted route along the way. Our own teams have swept the roads, and a counter-terrorism team is in place. A former president would not have better security.

My mother sits in the limo across from us, clutching rosary beads, tears in her eyes.

After glancing at me, Alessia switches sides to sit next to her. With true compassion, she wraps her arm around my mother’s shoulders and presses a tissue into her hand. In response, she receives a small smile.

The drive to the church is silent, and rain falls harder with each passing minute.

Father Thomas addresses a full sanctuary. I speak, as do my brothers. And for another half hour, others take a turn, talking about the legend who was Don Matteo.

Hours later, we reach the cemetery.

Rain is pouring from the sky and soaking the ground.

Immediate family is seated beneath a canopy, and the sound of raindrops drumming against the canvas explodes like gunfire.

Umbrellas protect the sea of mourners.

Even as the priest speaks, I sweep my gaze over the crowd, and all I can think about is how many of them might be celebrating this day—a day that’s supposed to be for my father but feels like the start of something darker.

Anger boils, hotter than anything the rain can cool. I should be putting my father to rest. Instead, I’m searching for enemies among the people who should be friends. Today is the worst day of my life, and the weight of it might crush me.

As if sensing my despair, Alessia rests her fingers on my arm.

I ignore her.

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