Page 115 of Savage Vows

Alessia’s curious eyes turn to me, sparkling with amusement. “Well? Is it true?”

I shrug, biting back a grin. “Parts of it.”

The table erupts in laughter, and Alessia leans closer, her hand brushing my thigh under the table. It’s a small gesture, but it steadies me, reminding me of what’s important.

Gina balances a platter of roasted vegetables in one hand and a serving spoon in the other. “I swear, you boys will bicker until the end of time. Dario, pass this down, will you?”

“Yes, Mama,” Dario responds, doing as she says.

Nico uses the opportunity to swipe another roll from the breadbasket. “We’re not bickering. We’re bonding.”

“You call that bonding?” Dario quips, sitting back down. “I call it you trying to bury people in bullshit.”

Though she sighs, there’s fondness in our mother’s expression. “I don’t know what to do with all of you troublemakers.” She glances at Alessia, her tone softening. “Thank God for you,cara.I hope you can keep this one in line.”

Alessia grins, her cheeks flushing faintly. “I think I’m managing.”

“She’s doing more than managing,” I interject, my voice firm but warm. “She’s thriving.”

Alessia squeezes my hand under the table, a silent thank you for my words.

The front door creaks open, followed by the heavy sound of boots on the tile. A moment later, Dante appears in the doorway, his broad shoulders taking up most of the frame. He’s dressed in his usual dark colors, his tie slightly loosened, his jaw set like stone.

As always, he’s late.

As always, my mother welcomes him with a smile and offers her cheek for a kiss.

He drops into the vacant seat, his movements economical and controlled, and I don’t miss the tension in his posture or the tight line of his mouth.

The room quiets slightly, everyone sensing it. Dante rarely brings his work to the table, but something’s weighing on him tonight.

“Wine?” Dario offers, raising the bottle of chianti.

Dante shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Our mother studies him, her brow furrowing, but she doesn’t press. Instead she directs the conversation elsewhere, asking Nico and Bella about a gala her foundation recently hosted. The hum of conversation resumes, but my attention lingers on Dante.

He’s here, but his mind isn’t. And I’m going to find out why.

After dinner, Mother offers coffee, and the family begins clearing plates and moving around the room.

Cup in hand, I ask everyone to excuse me and the other gentlemen.

Alessia looks at me, and I squeeze her hand gently. “I’ll explain later, in the car.”

Since she gave me a second chance, I’ve been talking to her more and more about Mafia business. Though she doesn’t always offer advice, the fact she listens helps unload my stress. And when she does speak, her counsel is wise.

I rise, signaling Dario and Nico to follow me. “Dante,” I say quietly as I pass him. “Let’s go.”

The four of us file into my father’s old office, the scent of leather and wood still familiar, still grounding. I take the chair behind the desk—my desk now—and lean back, studying my brothers. Dario stands by the bookshelf, arms crossed. Nico sits in the chair across from me, one leg draped casually over the other. Dante doesn’t sit. He paces; tension crawls through me.

“Talk to me,” I say, my tone steady but firm.

Dante stops pacing and pulls a photograph from his jacket pocket. He tosses it onto the desk, the glossy paper sliding to a halt in front of me. It’s a grainy image, but the subject is unmistakable: Valentina Russo, stepping out of a building I don’t recognize. Her head is tilted downward, a scarf obscuring part of her face, but it’s her. No question.

“Where was this taken?” I ask, picking up the photo.

“Midtown,” Dante says.