Page 9 of Of Oaths and Secrets

I take another draw from the cigar, letting the smoke curl around me as I weigh my options. It’s clear my father has alreadymade his decisions, and he expects me to fall in line. And I will, as I always do because that’s the role I’ve been groomed to play—the heir, the dutiful son, the future capo who will one day carry the weight of the famiglia on his shoulders.

But as I sit here, the taste of the cigar bitter on my tongue, I can’t shake the feeling that this is the beginning of something that will spiral out of control, something I won’t be able to contain once it’s set in motion.

“Fine,” I finally say, the word carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. “I’ll be there.”

My father nods, satisfied. “Good. We’ll see this through together, as we always have.”

But even as he says the words, I can’t help but wonder just how much longer this charade can last before the cracks in our carefully constructed world start to show.

This whole pretense of dinner is absolutely ridiculous, and part of me wishes I could be on my way to the small Russian bar on First Street with Paolo and the men instead of heading to this pompous—whatever you’d call it—dinner, where my brother will undoubtedly preen like a peacock. Yet, I can’t deny a certain curiosity about this girl.

I don’t bother dressing to impress and settle for a classic black suit—perfectly embodying the reputation of The Reaper. When I arrive at the house, I find Leo already there, a glass of brandy in hand, dressed to the nines. Every detail of his outfit has been meticulously chosen to showcase his looks in the best light possible.

“You’re here early,” I remark as I join him in the library.

He finishes his glass in one go. “Want a drink?” he asks, already reaching for the decanter.

I shake my head. I don’t drink much, especially not in public—the idea of not being fully in control has never appealed to me. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” He pours another glass and takes a sip. “Don’t mind me having a second one. I’m just bracing myself in case she’s a complete hag.”

“Leo, you need to?—”

“The guests are here. Please follow me to the door,” our father’s voice calls from the corridor, cutting me off. Leo downs his second glass quickly and follows me to the main entrance.

We stand in the hall—my father, Leo, and me—as the butler opens the door to reveal Maurizio Falcone, notably without his pill-popping wife. And then she steps in, and for a moment, the air in the room feels different.

At first, I notice the conservative navy-blue dress she’s chosen, designed to blend in rather than stand out. The high neckline and tailored bodice highlight her curves in a way that is tasteful, almost demure. The skirt falls just below her knees, swaying gently with each step, while the sheer three-quarter sleeves add a touch of understated elegance.

But then, she looks up and meets my gaze, holding it. I’m surprised—impressed, even. Most people look away when they meet my eyes; they are so dark you can’t see the iris, making them look like two black holes. My gaze has been known to unsettle even the most hardened men, but she holds it—steady, unafraid. It’s disconcerting, and for a brief second, I wonder if she’s aware of the effect it has. It’s as if she’s challenging me, though I doubt she’s even aware of it.

As I take in the rest of her features, I’m struck by her pale blonde hair cascading in soft waves that frame her fair face. Blonde hair is rare among the women in our world, and it makesher stand out in a way that’s both subtle and captivating. Her bright blue eyes, vivid against her porcelain skin, catch the light, and in that moment, I see something deeper—something she seems to be trying to conceal.

She isn’t remarkable, but she isn’t plain either. She’s a pretty girl who’s trying to make herself blend in, but I can see it in her eyes—the life, the passion she’s trying so hard to suppress. She should have been treated like a treasure, her blonde hair and blue eyes alone enough to make her stand out in any crowd, yet it’s clear she’s been all but discarded, trying to make herself invisible. But to me, she’s fascinating—a hidden gem that doesn’t even realize how brightly it could shine.

Before anyone can utter a word, my brother steps forward and grabs her hands. “Bella ragazza! You are beautiful!” He lays it on thick, and the way she smiles tells me she knows it too.

I’d bet my position in the famiglia that he called her bella ragazza because he forgot her name. Leo’s charm has never impressed me—nor has anyone else’s. Physical beauty and flirtation are games that others play, ones I’ve never cared to join. My focus has always been elsewhere—on matters that actually matter. She’ll see through him soon enough.

I nod toward her. “Ms. Falcone, nice to meet you.” My voice is cold and emotionless, not bothering to hide my disinterest. I’m not here to play a part in a marriage I neither want nor can win.

“Please, call me Nora,” she responds with a smile, once again holding my gaze. How peculiar is this girl?

“Please, let’s go eat,” my father urges, and Leo, ever the charmer, rests his hand on the small of her back, directing her to the dining room.

I roll my eyes as I walk a few steps behind them, glancing at my phone, waiting for Paolo to confirm whether he’s collected the Russian we need without causing too much damage.

Leo, playing the perfect gentleman, pulls out her chair, and once she’s seated, he takes the spot beside her. He launches into a conversation, telling her about all the things he supposedly loves—which I’d say is 97 percent lies, considering he conveniently leaves out sex, alcohol, and parties, the very things that constitute his entire existence.

I can’t help but observe this spectacle with a mix of irritation and detachment. Leo’s act is almost comical, a transparent display of everything I’ve come to expect from him. And yet, Nora doesn’t seem entirely fooled. There’s something in her eyes, something that suggests she’s not as easily swayed by superficial charm as most. But whether she’ll see through Leo’s façade in time is another matter entirely.

As for me, I’m content to sit back and let the evening play out—my mind half-focused on the more pressing matters waiting for me outside this dining room. My phone finally vibrates, and I pull it from my pocket, entirely unconcerned if I come across as rude. No one seems to care that I haven’t shared a word this evening. My father and Maurizio Falcone are too absorbed in their conversation about the famiglia, and my brother is busy talking Nora’s ear off about how perfect, funny, and smart he is. She just nods absentmindedly, her mind clearly elsewhere, until my brother makes a grave mistake—and suddenly, the conversation turns interesting as I watch him heading straight for a train wreck.

Leo casually rests his arm on the back of her chair. “I’m quite into intellectual hobbies, to be honest. I love to read. I’ve been getting into some… literary classics lately.”

Sure you do—illiterate swine.The only “book” I’ve ever seen him pick up was theSports Illustrated Swimsuitedition.

But her eyes light up, clearly interested now, and I can’t help but grin, momentarily forgetting about my phone and Paolo. This is far more entertaining.

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