Page 19 of Venomous Throne

Shaking my head, I dismissed the oddity. First, I began the coffee, and while it percolated on the stove, I requested a delivery service to send a family feast. Then, with my small coffee cup and saucer, I allowed myself thirty minutes on the back patio to shop online for my new wardrobe. Some of the pieces would even be delivered between five and ten tonight. Thank heavens for Prime. There wouldn’t be time for much in-person shopping in the future.

I turned off my phone, swirled the final sip of inky black goodness in my cup. The pool glittered in the morning light. It was a cruel reminder of how my life was changing drastically yet again. To the east was the stretch of hedges that formed a manicured maze. It was my husband’s pride and joy, a reminder of the old world.

Just like me.

“This is better than becoming another man’s trophy,” I whispered.

Me. A don.

A ruler of the underworld.

I smiled and drained the cup.

***

Gathered around my dining room table, helping themselves to pancakes, bacon, and eggs, the four men wore grim looks. Their uneasy body language did little to settle my stomach.

This wasn’t a game to them, and I felt that determination to my core.

“So,” I began, folding my hands on the table, “let’s talk about how we’re going to take control of my late husband’s organization.”

The men exchanged glances. Michele Rizzo, the oldest of the group with salt and pepper hair and a scar that curved around his left eye, cleared his throat.

“With all due respect, Signora Moretti, this isn’t something you just…step into.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I said, voice holding a bite. “I’m not stepping into anything, Mikey.”

Joseph, always the diplomat, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “What Michele means is that there are protocols. The other families will expect certain assurances.”

Alliances.

A conversation in the days following my husband’s funeral popped into my mind. Don Alessandro Mancini approached me and offered me a business deal. Appalled at the idea of becoming his wife so soon after donning the black, I refused him. Now, I was even more glad that I had.

Claiming the power and avoiding another gold band shackling my little finger was far better.

But still….

“I’ll set up a meeting with Don Mancini.” My words had a tumultuous effect. Evoking the name of the Blood King did that.

“They won’t believe a woman can handle it,” said Donnie, the youngest but perhaps the most dangerous of them all. His eyes were cold as he speared a piece of pancake.

Franky was silent. He wasn’t a capo, never aspired to be. He was a rough and loyal soldier, taking the job of being my bodyguard without complaint. We got along well, and I could easily read him most of the time.

Right now, his eyes held a warning.

It was the same one we’d spoken about last night before he left me alone with my dessert, wine, and nightmares.

“Let me set the record straight once and for all.” I set my second cup of coffee on its saucer. The porcelain clattered, punctuating the tense moment of silence. “I can handle it. You wouldn’t have approached me with such a mad idea if you thought otherwise.”

Joseph opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“And because I can handle it, I won’t tolerate anyone—not even you, my loyal capos—mansplaining. When we decide on a course of action, and when I give the order, I expect to be obeyed. Without question. Without complaint.”

They blinked, their eyes a string of synchronized Christmas lights, opening and shutting in rapid succession.

I laced my words with steel and certainty, watching carefully as my breakfast guests took measure of the woman who’d just seized the table from them. I leveled my gaze at each of them in turn.

“I’m not your pawn, your puppet, or your fallback plan to keep the business in the family. If I get even a whiff that you’re trying to play me—if I so much as suspect an ounce of manipulation behind my back—I’ll see to it personally that you land at the bottom of Lake Michigan, wearing cement slippers and a really bad suit.” I let the words hang, feeling the heat rush into my cheeks and pulse at my temples. There was no graceful way to say it. I needed to rip the tablecloth right off and watch the china fly. If this was to be my future, then I’d be damned if I started off as the soft-spoken, grieving widow. Let them see the hunger in me, the gravitas, the wound-stitched power that a decade of proximity to the criminal elite had sewn into my bones.