Page 37 of Venomous Throne

“Well, we’re going to have our new friends take care of the problem that is Marco.”

Their eyes lit with interest.

Knowing I had their attention, that I’d created a dynamite solution, I unfolded my plans. The admiration they showed was the perfect reward, a sweet euphoria. The underworld whispered that I was the Black Widow? I owned the role.

***

The occasion called for a dress. It was black, a style that Jackie Kennedy would approve of. Climbing out of the cab, my kitten heels scraped on the sidewalk.

Marco met me at the door, taking the handbag I offered, then kissing my cheek with too much saliva.

One of his capos, a man who was ruthless and unpredictable, hovered near the kitchen of the Queen Anne. His name was Rocco Bonetti, and his face was as mean as his attitude. At least the Moretti brothers were good-looking men. Bonetti was part goblin, what with his hideous countenance and surly disposition. But he and Marco had been friends since they were kids. He was angling to be Marco’s right hand, now that Marco was ruling in Vincent’s stead.

“Mama is in the front parlor,” Marco said evenly. If he was surprised that I was here, he didn’t show it.

I braced myself for the biting cold and walked into the room where the witch held court.

“Buon giorno, Mama,” I simpered, dropping into a curtsy.

“You look bloated.” Her comment was an icy snap. “You’re eating too much.”

I forced sadness into my eyes. “It’s hard to eat properly when…when….”

“Oh, don’t start blubbering, girl.” The accent came out strong with her displeasure. “Everyone knows you’re the grief-stricken widow.”

Good. I’m fooling them all.

I sank into the embroidered armchair that the old witch gestured toward.

“Now, what is this business about not marrying my son?” Signora Moretti barked.

“With all due respect, my husband just died,” I said softly.

“And his brother is willing to take care of you, though why he wants the bother, I can’t for the life of me understand.” The signora rubbed her chin with her gnarled, arthritic hand. There were hairs growing there, and under her jaw, desperately needing to be waxed.

“It’s very kind of Marco,” I said carefully. This was where the game grew tricky. If I hadn’t banished him from my home the other day, this conversation would be a lot easier. “While I still think it is too soon, I’m coming around to the idea of having his protection.”

I shot a look at Marco, gazing up at him from under my lashes.

It worked.

His eyes lit with interest. He swept a greedy look over my body. My long hair was curled just the way he liked. I sat still, the demure picture of a perfect wife.

But I was the spider, and this was my web.

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” Marco said with a nod.

“I have. Or, rather, I did all along; it was just so sudden, you know? We only just buried Vincent, and….” I forced a choked sound in my throat.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, girl, pull yourself together!” the old witch snapped. “Your tears were acceptable at the funeral, but I don’t want to hear them now.”

Funny. I never cried that day.

I kept my gaze pinned on Marco.

“And what, cara mia?” the prick insisted, inching closer.

Bonetti appeared in the doorway, surveying the family drama. If he interrupted us now, if he pulled Marco away before I could sink my fangs into him, I might just order Franky to shoot the capo.