Page 84 of Broken Honor

“You and your ragazza should come for lunch sometime,” he says, swirling his glass lazily. “She’s got that sweet look. A real Madonna face. A bit round for my taste, but who’s judging?”

I force a smile. “She’s one of a kind.”

He grins, showing coffee-stained teeth, and leans in, ready to talk more when—

“Vieri.”

Alfio’s voice cuts in, hushed and ragged. I turn. He’s panting, sweat on his brow despite the chill in the night air.

“We’ve got a problem,” he says beneath his breath. “The girl ran.”

A breath leaves me—not quite a sigh, more of a spark behind my eyes. I step aside, further from Lapo’s drunken glee, and motion for the others. Within moments, my brothers circle around.

Riccardo snorts. “Told you that girl was a bad idea.”

Enzo scowls. “How did she run?”

“She jumped,” Alfio replies.

“You mean she actually jumped?” Enzo asks, brows lifting.

“She ripped her damn dress and climbed the wall,” Alfio mutters.

Omero lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Well… shit.”

Before I can speak, Bellandi saunters up, smile polished and empty. “Everything alright, boys?”

I paste on my own mask. “Of course, zio. Just a small hiccup. Nothing that’ll ruin the evening.”

His eyes narrow just slightly, as if he can smell the rot under the perfume.

“Well,” he says, “some of the families are waiting for you all. They’d love to hear from the new Tavano head. All of you, preferably.”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” I answer smoothly.

He smiles, and the corners of it don’t touch his eyes. “Buono. Don’t keep them waiting.”

Once he’s out of earshot, Alfio leans in. “What now?”

“We talk to the families,” I say, voice tight. “Then we find her.”

“What if she’s long gone?” Riccardo asks.

I look past the garden toward the stone walls edging the estate.

“If she jumped,” I say, “she didn’t get far. She’s bruised, barefoot, and she’s not a ghost.” I turn to Enzo. “Have our men search the perimeter. Quietly. I want them posted along the walls, now.”

Enzo nods, already dialing before I finish speaking. He returns a minute later. “It’s done.”

We walk back into the crowd, my brothers flanking me in black suits and darker expressions. The garden has filled with aging dons and their glass-clinking wives, all draped in silk. My shoes hit the tiled path with too much sound. I can feel their eyes.

I raise my glass. “Gentlemen.”

There’s a smattering of nods. But their smiles are thin, their eyes sharper than the blades strapped beneath their tuxedos. They’re waiting.

“Vieri,” says Don Gattuso, the oldest of them. His voice is dry as bone. “Your father was a lion. People feared him. Respected him. You? I’m still deciding.”

Another man mutters something under his breath about jail. Someone else laughs.

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