Chapter 3
597 Words
Viola put down the cake knife.
She went behind Marco, hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Brother, how much do you think Ivy is worth?”
Marco frowned, shaking her hand off.
Viola laughed, picking up the knife from the table.
The silver blade reflected the chandelier’s light.
She pressed it slowly against Marco’s hand.
“Don’t move.”
The tip pierced the skin, a bead of blood forming.
Marco gritted his teeth, silent.
Mother screamed, tried to rise, restrained by a nearby guard.
Father’s face turned stone, “Viola, what are you doing?”
“I want the shares,” Viola said softly. “West Harbor docks, the underground ledgers, and the keys to those three warehouses.”
Luca stepped up, glass in hand, swirling red wine.
“Alessandro, your daughter just came home three months ago—she probably doesn’t know the rules.”
He gestured at me. “Exchange her.”
Some at the table laughed.
I saw godfather Vito lean back, smirking.
The other capos watched the show. No one stood.
Father clenched his fists. “I will give nothing.”
Viola pressed harder; the knife sank deeper.
Blood spread across the tablecloth, dark red.
“Father, are you sure?”
Mother wept. “Please, don’t hurt Marco.”
Viola looked at her. “Then convince your father to hand it over, and I’ll let your brother go.”
“And Ivy,” Luca added, “she’s got a pretty face. East District would pay five million for her.”
He swept his gaze across me.
“Five million—that would settle your debt to my family.”
I kept my head down, fingers clutching my skirt, heartbeat slow.
Viola leaned over, running her fingers through my hair.
“Be a good girl, Ivy. Dying for the family is your honor.”
I smelled her heavy perfume, her fingers combing through my hair like petting an animal.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I know people in the East District. They’ll take care of you.”
Luca laughed. “Take care? Viola, you’re so kind.”
Viola straightened. “Gotta give her some hope.”
Father suddenly stood. “Enough!”
Two bodyguards pinned him back into his chair.
Marco tried to resist; Viola’s grip tightened, knife pressing deeper.
“Brother, don’t move—it’ll hurt.”
She looked at Father. “Ready to decide?”
“Ten seconds.”
“Ten.”
Mother covered her mouth, shaking.
“Nine.”
Vito sipped from his glass.
“Eight.”
No one else moved.
“Seven.”
I pushed the plate forward; it clinked softly against the edge.
“Six.”
My hand slid under the table, fingertips on the cream-smeared black call button.
“Five.” I pressed it—softly.
“Four.”
Viola continued counting.
“Three.”
The hall fell silent. Even breathing was audible.
“Two.”
I saw Father close his eyes.
“One—”
Click. Click. Click.
Every gun in the banquet hall was drawn, pointing at Luca.
Viola’s voice caught in her throat.
Her knife hovered midair.
Vito set down his glass, slowly rose.
He bowed to me.
Other capos followed, one by one. All eyes on me.
Luca turned pale. “You—”
A bodyguard pressed a gun to the back of his head.
“Don’t move, sir.”
I stood, looking up at her.
“Sister,” I said softly.
“The price you just named? It can’t buy me.”
“But it’s enough to buy your grave.”
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