Page 73 of Vow Of Fire

I slammed my hand onto the wheel. I was a Marcelli. I interrogated our enemies without batting an eyelid. I brought traitors to their knees.

Yet one kiss from her, my tragic Ophelia, and I was adrift, questioning everything. Her guilt, my decisions. My fucking life choices.

It couldn’t stand. Wouldn’t stand. Because I wasn’t going to let it.

I forced myself to breathe and focused on the empty road ahead. City lights danced in the distance, faint little fireflies calling to me. Urging me to keep going, to put her behind me.

I was just about done berating myself when my phone rang. I pressed the answer button on the dash and my brother’s voice came through the speakers. “Dante?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you?”

“Driving. What’s up?” I wasn’t in the mood to shoot the breeze, but somehow I didn’t think that was why Nico was calling.

“You know your snitch, Alberto?”

“Yeah.”

Some snitch he turned out to be. He’d dropped Evelyn in the shit. Directed my attention to her when in fact she had nothing to do with anything. I could have just let her be… oblivious to our activities.

But then she’d be dead, I reminded myself grimly. Tension coiled in my chest anew.

“The cops just pulled him out of the East River.”

Shit.

I took my foot off the gas.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” He snorted at his little pun. I didn’t. “Marco’s tapping his police consultant for more information, but right now there’s nothing definitive.”

Marco, the successful businessman and public face of the Marcelli family, and my older brother. The firstborn and heir to the Marcelli syndicate, if my mother ever relinquished control.

The “consultant” wouldn’t be anything official. A bent cop who wasn’t against supplementing his meager police salary with Marcelli backhanders. It was petty cash for us, and meant we had an inside man on the force.

“You sure Rocco didn’t go at him?” I asked.

“It wasn’t us. Also, I checked out that story about his uncle in the Caymans. Turns out it was legit.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Sorry. He really did inherit that money.”

“Fuck,” I murmured.

“Listen, Valentina wants a sit-down.”

I sighed. Of course she did. Spotting a gas station up ahead, I changed lanes.

“Now?”

“Now. At the penthouse. Can you get here?”

“Yeah, I can be there in half an hour.” If I put my foot down, which wouldn’t be a problem in my current mood.

“See you then.”