Brutal Vows

2

Without missing a beat, I say, “I didn’t kill my husband.”

He smiles. “I’ve never met anyone who can lie as well as you do.” “It’s a gift.”

His smile grows wider. “One of many.”

“Stop trying to flatter me so I’ll do your dirty work for you.”

“She won’t listen to me, Rey. You know how she is.”

“Yes, it’s very inconvenient for the men in this family when the women have minds of their own.”

I can tell he wants to sigh, but he doesn’t. He simply stands and looks at me beseechingly until I give in.

It’s not like I have a choice, anyway. As the head of the Caruso family, Gianni calls all the shots. Someday, there will be a female head of one of the five Italian crime families in New York. It’s a dream of mine that I’ll live long enough to see it.

Until then, all I can do is exert as much influence as possible.

It helps that my brother’s afraid of me.

“I want final approval about this Irishman. I’ll tell Lili for you, but if I don’t like him, the deal is off.”

Gianni runs his tongue over his teeth. He’s probably counting silently to ten in his head or cursing, wishing he had a sister more like his best friend Leo’s. A docile, dim bulb of a girl with no opinions about anything except what her father and brother tell her to have.

Instead, he’s got me.

A woman with a bad reputation, a chip on her shoulder, and a sword for a tongue.

“Agreed?” I prod.

“You won’t think anyone is good enough for her,” he counters. “We’ll be having this same conversation over and over again for the next twenty years.”

“Untrue. I can be reasonable.” He lifts a brow.

“Don’t make that face. I simply want to make sure he’s not a monster.”

“I assure you, he’s not a monster.”

“This would be a good time to point out that you liked Enzo, too.”

Gianni winces. “Enzo was a sociopath. They’re very good at pretending to be charming.”

“Exactly. Which is why I need to have the final word. If anyone can spot a psycho a mile away, it’s me.”

He doesn’t have an argument for that. How could he? It’s the truth.

I earned my monster radar the hard way.

Gianni gazes at me with an unreadable expression for so long, I think

I’ve lost. But then he surprises me by saying, “Fine. If you don’t like the

Irishman, the marriage is off.”

Relief floods my body. I exhale, nodding.

“But you still have to tell Lili.”

At the sound of car tires crunching over the gravel of the circular driveway outside, Gianni and I turn to the windows. Sounding amused,

he says, “And I think you better do it quick.”

My ears burn with anger. “You’re a shitty father, Gi.”

He shrugs. “It runs in the family.”

I turn and walk out before I grab the letter opener off his desk and do something I’ll regret.

I take the stairs up to the second floor two at a time. At the landing, I make a sharp left and head down another corridor, the opposite direction from my bedroom. Grim ancestral oil portraits framed in gold glower down at me as I pass.

Ignoring the hand-painted frescoes on the walls, Venetian glass chandeliers sparkling overheard, and a startled housekeeper dusting the leaves of a potted palm, I stride quickly toward the room at the end.

I don’t have any time to waste.

I stop in front of the heavy oak door and pound my fist on it. “Lili?

It’s me. Can I come in? I have to talk to you.”

“Just a second, zia! I’ll…I’ll be right there!”

From behind the door, Lili’s voice sounds faint. And panicked.

Maybe she already knows. She’s very clever for someone who’s been sheltered her entire life.

I hear some scuffling noises, then an odd thud. Concerned, I lean closer to the door. “Lili? You okay?”

A few long, silent moments later, my niece pulls open the door.

Her cheeks are flushed. Her long dark hair is disheveled. The white T-shirt she’s wearing is wrinkled and untucked on one side from a pair of black yoga pants. She’s barefoot and looks disoriented, as if she just woke up.

Which would be strange, considering it’s four o’clock in the afternoon.

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

“Um…working out.” She points over her shoulder to the television on the wall on the opposite side of the room. On the screen, a woman in hot pink spandex is doing jumping jacks. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.”

She’s about to close the door, but I push past her into the room. “This can’t wait.”

Like the rest of the house, her bedroom is overdecorated. There’s not a spare inch of space where the gaze can rest that isn’t bedeviled with velvet, gilt, mirrors, ornate wallpaper, elaborately carved wood, or stained glass.

At least in here, the colors are muted pinks and greens. My bedroom is all black, burgundy, and gold. It looks like a bordello inside the Vatican.

Gianni’s late wife was big on the Catholic church school of interior design. She died giving birth to Lili, but her unique taste in décor lives on.

I grab the remote control from the top of the dresser, click a button to mute the TV, then turn back to Lili. She stands in the same spot, looking nervous.

“What’s up, zia?”

“There’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.” When she starts to wring her hands, I add, “Maybe you should sit down.”

“Oh God. Who died? Is it Nonna?”