Page 70 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

Two months later

Whenever a life-changing event happens in my family, we always congregate at Big Sal’s mansion. Today is no different.

To the outside world, my parents are throwing a lavish party to celebrate Stella’s college graduation. But to every high-ranking capo in attendance, it’s for an entirely different reason. We all know it has nothing to do with a diploma being framed and hung on a wall.

The day that Stella is inducted into the Outfit has finally arrived. Today, she will swear our oath. Today, she will bleed on our sacred saint and promise to put the syndicate above all else. She will pledge her fealty and allegiance to every made man witnessing the ceremony.

However, that’s not all that will be happening. Stella will officially be the first woman to participate in the omertà, making her induction a historic event that will forever change the face of the Outfit.

Not everyone here is pleased with my sister using her Louboutins to smash through the glass ceiling that decades of mafia patriarchy have worked so hard to impose on her.

I see it in their distasteful glares when they think no one’s watching.

In the side-eyed glances they throw at one another, and in their cowardly hushed whispers.

Let them talk shit. The minute Stella becomes a made woman, she’ll have them choking on their words.

Furthermore, I have big plans for my sister. Plans that I am not yet ready to divulge, but excited to execute. Plans that will have every naysayer bow down to Stella and kiss her feet just to ensure their own survival.

Yes. Today is a fucking big day, in more ways than one.

“What’s that smirk for?” my love asks, handing me a bottle of water, oblivious to the thoughts in my head.

“Am I smirking? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar,” she giggles, slipping under my arm as we both take in the bustling living room. “Hmm,” she hums. “I still can’t get over this sight. The Bureau would have a field day with this crowd.”

“Should my parents have invited them?”

“Not a chance.” She laughs again.

Just a little over two months ago, Izzie was a sworn FBI agent. Yet, looking at her now, no one would ever guess it. She seems too comfortable, too at ease in this mafia setting. As if she’d always belonged here. And she does. Because she belongs with me.

Of course, it wasn’t easy for us to get here. When news spread of my arrest and my father’s shooting, the Outfit was in an uproar. Rumors spread like wildfire—some saying that I had turned snitch, while others blamed the woman I loved for my own undoing.

It took my father, still lying in his hospital bed, to devise a solution that would silence all the noise the syndicate was making.

Vincent made it known that Izzie was not merely an FBI agent, but a plant strategically positioned there by him.

With her ties to the community and being born and bred on the South Side, it was easy for him to spin the narrative that he had emboldened Izzie early on in her life to do what she needed to get recruited by the FBI and placed in Chicago.

This way, he had eyes and ears on the enemy at all times.

It was just bad luck that an unhinged agent decided to go rogue and launch a witch hunt against his successor—me.

Worse luck was still the madman obtaining proof of Izzie’s alliance with the Outfit, thereby compromising her position in the Bureau and practically outing her as a syndicate spy.

Getting shot was just a misfortune that could easily befall any made man.

Vincent spun his web of lies so perfectly that no one dared to refute or challenge him. They believed that if their boss was ruthless enough to infiltrate the FBI with a spy, how could they be certain he didn’t have more infiltrators within their own ranks just to see how loyal they were to him?

It was that troubling doubt in their minds that left Izzie and me free to live our lives without the fear of some high-strung capo seeking retribution for my supposed betrayal.

My father is not only one of the best calculating strategists in the game, but one hell of a poker player, bluffing his way to get the results that he wants. And a fucking amazing Dad to boot.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Izzie says suddenly, pulling my focus back on her. “Professor Montgomery asked if we could move your session from Monday to Wednesday this week. She’s lecturing at Princeton over the weekend and won’t be back until then.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“Are you sure? We could fly to New York if you want to keep the routine.”

“No need. I’m good.” Her shoulders ease when she sees the truth in my eyes.

When Izzie told me she had a few ideas on how to best control my alter, I had no idea she had already been making moves in the background to guarantee I had the best professional help available, while ensuring the Outfit would never find out about it.

Seeking psychological help for any mental illness disorder is still considered a big no-no in my world.

The Outfit might not bat an eye if a made man exhibits sociopathic or psychopathic tendencies, but if they see someone suffer from depression or any other mental health issue that requires constant treatment, they are considered a liability that needs to be dealt with and permanently eradicated from the syndicate.

It’s still early days with Professor Montgomery, but therapy has been helpful so far, along with maintaining a steady routine.

I still go to the gym every day, as past experience has shown that this helps keep my alter more manageable.

Additionally, I’ve introduced meditation and even taken up yoga to help reduce my anxiety, since this is what primarily triggers the alter to surface more than anything else.

It took going to therapy for me to realize which pressure points to avoid to keep my alter caged.

Yes, the fucker still loves to whisper in my ear and vocalize his wants and needs, but I no longer feel as compelled to give in to his demands as I once did.

This new way of coexisting with him still feels precarious and tentative.

Still, at least I feel I’m finally moving in the right direction.

Aside from Izzie, only my immediate family knows the truth about my condition and my therapy sessions. Secrets like these can never get out, not in our world. Any capo in this room would seize the chance to use it against me.

However, tonight, their attention isn’t on me. It’s on Stella. And by the look on their faces, they hate every second of it.

That’s how fucked up this syndicate life is. They’d rather follow a man under a psychopath’s thumb than a strong woman who could outlead him tenfold. Misogyny at its worst.

And it’s not just us. It’s not just the syndicate or any other criminal organization that feels this way.

You only have to turn on the news to see men clinging to the illusion of superiority over women, holding on to the lie that says they alone know how to rule.

They think they have the right to dictate women’s roles in society and claim entitlement over not only their choices but also their bodies.

Assholes, the lot of them. They couldn’t survive one day in my sister’s shoes. Or in Izzie’s. Or my mother’s. Until that toxic narrative is purged from society, the women I love will have to blaze the trail for the generations coming behind them.

Stella is doing that today in taking the helm. Holding her head high among the glares and gossip, knowing the precedent she is setting will change the Outfit forever. And I, for one, couldn’t be prouder to stand at her side. Just like I couldn’t be prouder of the woman standing by mine.

Getting fired from the FBI didn’t break Izzie.

It just reinvented her. After getting her master’s degree in psychology, Izzie took a job as a research aide for Professor Montgomery at UChicago, studying DID and other mental disorders.

Falling in love with me may have warped her sense of right and wrong somewhat, but it also clarified what she would rather be doing with her life.

Now she prefers helping people like me rather than locking them up and throwing the key away.

She splits her time between her research and finding new ways to give back to the community. Whether that involves volunteering at the VA hospital, working with veterans battling PTSD, or teaching self-defense classes at Sacred Heart, mentoring young girls to step into their power.

She still trains at the gym a few nights a week. However, I think that has more to do with ensuring Nonno’s gym keeps with the times and doesn’t revert to its testosterone-filled environment.

The Bureau might have cut her loose, but she found a way to thrive, surprising even herself.

Not that I ever doubted her. Like every woman in my life, she’s a loud, impenetrable force to be reckoned with. Well, except Annamaria, perhaps.

My brows pull together as I catch sight of my younger sister across the room. She stands apart from the crowd, staring out the French doors over at the woods beyond. The sad frown on her lips doesn’t sit well with me, and I decide to find out what it’s all about.

“Give me a second, bella. I’ll be right back,” I murmur, kissing Izzie’s forehead before heading toward my youngest sister.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask softly once I’ve reached Annamaria. She turns, her sorrowful blue eyes making my chest ache. “What’s wrong, angel?”

She wipes a stray tear and glances over her shoulder at Stella, standing tall beside our parents, greeting capos and their wives as they arrive.

“Everyone’s found their purpose,” she explains wistfully. “It feels like you’re all leaving me behind.”

I wrap an arm around her shoulders, rubbing gently. “No one’s leaving you, Anna.”