Page 35 of Veiled Vows

“Really?” I delicately touch my lower lip as if adjusting my lipstick. “Then why is Roman getting the important marriage and you’re here, in a garage, dealing with the Yakuza?”

Alto’s eyes darken like a storm has rolled over his face. “You know, if you want a really good time, I can show you how a real Gatti man treats a woman.”

“No thanks,” I reply smoothly. “I’d rather keep my lunch inside.”

“You—” He surges up once more, but the click of weaponry from my three guards forces him to remain where he is. He’s outnumbered—likely didn’t think I’d be smart enough to bring backup—so he settles on words instead. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t marry the one responsible for so much of my family’s blood being spilled.”

This feels like bait so I remain silent, watching Alto as he kicks one heel against the ground like a petulant child.

“You know it was him, don’t you? The dog my father sends to kill all your father’s men. If they’ve been tortured and mutilated,that was Roman. It’s his hands that have burned down your buildings, blown up your trucks, stolen your guns and ammo. His plans that ripped apart your brothels and wiped out every family that showed up to that funeral six months ago. His bombs in those caskets. And to think you’ll bemarryinghim.”

Despite the fire in Alto’s words, I don’t care. I’m not naive enough to think that Roman’s hands are clean. We’ve been at war for years. People die. Blood is spilled. And for every bomb that’s taken the lives of our people, for every vehicle that’s kidnapped someone, every bullet that’s reduced the Falzone numbers, we’ve done the same in return.

“Sounds like Roman is the brains behind a lot of what you do,” I reply smoothly. “So tell me, how areyouthe better catch? Roman does the work, Roman’s getting the war-ending alliance marriage, and you…well.” I click my tongue softly. “You get to share a parking lot with the woman who came up with the idea that poisoned the water supply to your warehouses and fucked with your drug production.”

Alto’s brow lifts in surprise.

“Yeah, that was me,” I smirk. “And it was also me that had the banquet poisoned for your father’s birthday last year, and it wasmethat hijacked seven of your pornography websites and siphoned all the funds to us. So actually, Roman and I might be a perfect match. It’s not a marriage of love but one of necessity; however, you paint quite thealluringpicture.”

Alto’s mouth snaps open, but words don’t come because as he takes a breath, the rumble of car engines hums to life beneath us. Half a second later, several sleek black cars pull up the ramp and pour into the parking lot like a spillage of shining armor beetles. Six cars swerve and park adjacent to where we stand, and several motorcycles carrying two people each fill the gaps between each car.

We areseverelyoutnumbered.

I should focus on the discussions when a tall Asian man steps out of one vehicle dressed in the most exquisite pinstripe suit I’ve ever seen, but as soon as his guards start piling out of the cars and off the bikes, I’m distracted.

Alto leads, laying out his demands as if he’s the one with the numbers here, and the lead Yakuza does seem open to negotiation. It seems like the union between the Falzones and the Gattis is finally enough for the Yakuza to realize that they may actually be outnumbered in the grand scheme of things.

I should focus. I should say my piece.

But I’m not looking at him or Alto.

I scan the body of every single Yakuza member who steps close enough for me to get a good look, and every single member who remains either on their bike or lingering in their cars. There’s a sea of inked skin to scan, and I study them all.

Every single one.

Every arm.

Every shoulder.

Even several backs when the men move around.

I’m looking for snakes and dragons and deer.

And I find zero. One man does have a dragon that’s similar to the tattoo burned into my memory, but he doesn’t have any of the other ink that my rescuer had. Unless it is him and he’s in the process of getting his tattoos removed, but I’m pretty certain the man is too short. In my mind, my rescuer is incredibly tall, but I was so small back then.

Is it him?

Wishful thinking makes my chest ache. Sensibility keeps me right. It’s not him.

My rescuer isn’t here. It was a huge stretch to hope that he would be, and while the disappointment is crushing, maybe he will be here next time. My focus shifts back to the meeting just as Alto and the Yakuza general shake hands.

We’ve come to a shaky agreement. While the Yakuza are unwilling to step away from the drug trade, the impending wedding has them willing to make a deal. They present some brief terms in regard to product distribution and cutting us in on the profits, and then they leave as swiftly as they came, providing details of the next meeting where we must bring them an answer.

“You didn’t say a single word,” Alto remarks once the hum of Yakuza bikes fades to nothing.

“I was observing.”

“Is that really how you make your deals?”

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