Page 20 of Venomous Throne

Michele blinked, then actually smiled—a slow, sly, predator’s smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. “Forgive me, Signora. I didn’t mean to imply you were anybody’s pawn.”

“Even if you did,” I replied, “I’ll prove you wrong.”

The others followed suit, one after the next. Joseph offered a genteel dip of his head, his eyes flicking with new calculation; Donnie smirked, like the idea of a woman bossing him around was equal parts insult and cosmic joke, but I caught his gaze returning to me, measuring this newfound fire. Franky finally met my eyes and gave the subtlest of nods, a signal I tucked away for later. But beneath the choreography of breakfast politics, I felt the tension harden—a subtle, invisible current that electrified the table. I knew it would follow me everywhere from now on. I exhaled slowly, bracing for the next test.

What nobody understood was that as much as I feared the blood and the backstabbing, what I feared even more was the thrill. Power coursed through me like a drug; I wanted to taste it, to climb the mountain of expectation and plant my heel in the faces of anyone who said I didn’t belong. Unbidden, the memory of my husband’s face the morning of his death flickered in my mind, his last look a mixture of condescension and brutality. He would never suspect his pretty little wife of such iron willpower. And now that the chessboard was mine, I would play to the end.

Part of me wished he was alive to see me dominate.

“Now, do what you do best, and advise me on how we take down my brother-in-law and those men loyal to him,” I stated. Things were going to become very bloody, very bleak.

But the sun always rose. Daylight always shattered the darkness. Someday, we would come out on top.

I would refuse any alternative.

“She’s perfect,” Michele breathed, and the words were a benediction. Not for the dead, but for the living. For me.

Relief, so sharp it was almost pain, radiated up my spine. If I could win over these four men, then perhaps there was some hope of surviving the week. But even as the mood shifted—a joke here, a wry smile there—I caught the undercurrent. They were watching, waiting. Every move I made would be dissected and discussed, not only among themselves but among the men and women who depended on the Moretti name for their salaries, their secrets, and sometimes their lives. My responsibility weighed a thousand tons. It was a weight I accepted, and one that I would bear with dignity and grace.

***

Our plan was simple. Elegant.Bloodthirsty.We would take out my brother-in-law and, once Marco was dead, pick off those most loyal to his cause. When the dust settled, the other players would have the choice to join us, leave the city, or die.

All that talk of death unsettled me. As soon as breakfast was done, I wandered around the empty house, hands shaking, throat closing tight.

Grabbing my pistol, which tucked into the waistband of my pants, and switching into my athletic shoes, I dashed out the front door. A short walk in the neighborhood, a lap around the community park, and then maybe the demonic cackling in my head would subside.

The history of organized crime was painted in shades of red. Coming from a criminal family, I studied it with the romanticized glasses of youth. Going to college showed me that normalcy was equally corrupt. There was little structure in business to protect the common worker from a totalitarian corporation. At least in the underworld, we protected our community. That was the difference between the mob and the legal businesses.

But I never could have imagined that I would be the one getting my hands dirty. Women supported their husbands at home, and then out in the community. I had been a damn good wife, and Vincent had been lucky to have me.

He never said thank you. He never noticed how popular I was with the families and individuals living in our streets.

That was going to be the biggest advantage in the upcoming war with my brother-in-law. I felt confident that people would rally under my banner, quickly taking my side, despite Marco’s power and penchant for violence.

I looked lovingly over the houses lining Maple Street. While ours was large, practically a mansion, these homes were modest. Yet they were well-kept and clean. In the streets beyond, the quality dropped as the desperation soared. Not every house knew about the mob, not every individual was privy to the information about who really ran these streets. But they all benefited from the Moretti name, even if they didn’t know it was more than a car dealership close to the highway.

But those who did know the truth, those were families I made a point of taking care of personally. I could name every mob family living here. Each person was an individual with a story, life, and dreams. When I had none of my own, I basked in theirs, listening to their voices as their words painted unique pictures.

I wanted to knock on every door, tell them that it was my turn to forge a path.

But my capos and I decided silence was our best friend until the moment came to strike.

“I have capos,” I murmured softly, turning into the park.

A vivid thrill shot through me. Captains of my very own, who commanded soldiers.

So wrapped up in the delightful turn of events, I nearly walked past the bench at the park without noticing who was sitting there. Some sixth sense made me look.

That poor organ in my chest thumped double-time.

Just stop and say hello.

He was a neighbor after all. I could be the bigger person and not let the weirdness from the other night affect me. Yes, I was lonely. I let my personal emptiness momentarily cloud my better judgment. But purpose fueled me today. It was better nutrition than a short tryst with a man.

Still…he lived in the neighborhood. He might just be a normal civilian, unaware that an organization ruled this territory. But I still wanted him to feel welcome in my kingdom.

Cutting across the grass, I pasted a friendly smile on my face. “Hi, Jaxon! How’s your arm this morning?”