Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(103)

At the end of the meeting, when the goodbyes have been said and the others are filing out of the back room of the restaurant, Massimo lingers behind. Twisting his pinky ring around with his thumb, he gazes at me in thoughtful silence.

“Speak your mind, Massimo,” I say, standing on the opposite side of the table.

After a moment, he says, “Enzo and I were close. You know that.”

“I do. I also know you were aware of what he did to me.”

“What’s between a husband and wife is their business.”

“What’s your point?”

He removes his cashmere wool overcoat from the back of his chair and shrugs it on. He takes his time buttoning it. When that’s done, he regards me with a calculating look.

“You’re going to have to choose a side, Reyna. Us or them. The others might think your marriage is an asset to us, but I don’t. I think it’s a weakness.”

“Because?”

“Because a house divided against itself cannot stand.”

A faint smile lifts my lips. “You’re quoting Abraham Lincoln. That’s unexpected.”

“You understand what I’m saying.”

“I do. But there’s no division.”

“No? You’ll be able to keep all our secrets from your Irish husband?”

Holding his challenging stare, I say evenly, “I’ve been keeping secrets my entire life. Including one about you, Massimo. A rather big one.”

His eyes sharpen to slits. “Like what?”

I smile at his sudden shift from merely unpleasant to downright hostile. “Like you did a favor for the head of an enemy family that would get you both killed if his men found out. People don’t like snakes. Especially the Bratva. They’re real sticklers about revenge.”

Massimo’s pupils dilate, but he shows no other outward sign of emotion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s fine, but you really shouldn’t make important phone calls at cocktail parties. Especially on speakerphone. You never know who might be listening at the door.”

I see him working it out, trying to decide if I’m bluffing, trying to recall what party we might have attended together where he made a call that should have been more discreet.

Just so we’re on the same page, I’ll give his memory a helpful jog.

“Murdering Maxim Mogdonovich in return for a marker from the man who took his place could be seen by both the Bratva and the Cosa Nostra as a little underhanded, don’t you think? Feathers would definitely get ruffled on both sides. But I’ll admit, making it look like he died in a prison riot was a small stroke of genius. I couldn’t have done it better myself. I bet Kazimir Portnov appreciated your creativity. Oh, excuse me. You called him Kage. I suppose when you kill someone’s boss for him, you get a little friendly.”

We stare at each other across the table.

I see the exact moment he decides I have to die, and roll my eyes to the ceiling.

Men are so damn predictable.

I slip the lovely red silk wrap Quinn bought me off of the back of my chair and wind it around my shoulders. Then I lift my chin and stare Massimo down.

“I’ve taken precautions. If anything happens to me, a file will be released to the families. To all the members of all the families, to be exact, not just the heads. That file contains everything I’ve seen and heard since I was a child. All the conversations no one thought were important to hide from me because I was female. All my memories and experiences. All the things I’ve witnessed. Everything has been written down and saved in duplicate. If I die for any reason other than advanced old age, those files go out.”

I cluck my tongue. “Just imagine the information I have, Massimo. Daughter of a Mafia don, wife of a Mafia captain, sister of the head of one of the Five Families…I’m a fucking mother lode of fun information.”

Massimo’s face turns red. A vein in his temple throbs. He snaps, “Bullshit.”

My smile grows wider. “Is it? I guess time will tell. But there’s one thing we both know for sure, and it’s that you’ve always underestimated me.”

I hold his infuriated stare for a beat before I turn my back and walk away, leaving him alone at the table.





41





Rey





Paris, September





“What the fuckedy-fuck is that thing?”

“It’s called haute couture, Riley.”

“If ‘haute couture’ is code for garish and ridiculous, then I get it, Hollywood. Seriously, where in the world could you go out in public wearing a giant balloon dress? Unless there’s a flood, then I suppose that hideous plastic polka-dot concoction could be super great as a floatation device.”

Sloane sighs. “I see living in the wilds of a Russian forest has done nothing to elevate your sense of style.”

Riley snorts and looks down at Sloane’s skirt. “This from a woman who thinks hot-pink tulle miniskirts covered in sequins and bows is the height of fashion.”

“Don’t you dare diss Betsey Johnson! And couture is magical, Smalls. It’s wearable art.”

“It’s lame is what it is. Can we leave now? I’m starving.”