Page 4 of Brutal Vows

“No fucking way.”

“Luca.”

The tone in his voice, the look in his eyes…I know both. He is serious, and it would be madness to test him. This is the Don speaking.

Fuck. I don’t want this. I want out for fuck’s sakes, and now…this…this will be tying me down in two fucking crime rings.

I don’t deserve this, but who am I fooling? It’s not about deserving. It’s the script you get handed and best you play your fucking part. Matteo is doing exactly that, playing his role as head of Il Consiglio. In many ways, I’ve lucked out. Second last in a string of six brothers, the Don growing older, his sons growing wiser, ever more protective over the younger ones so much so that Benedict and I have been spared the brunt of our psycho dad. Lucky Luca, indeed.

Matteo says nothing, only studying me as I keep my poker face glued on, refusing to give away any of the emotions rioting in my mind. Fuck. I was so damn close. Rebellion stirs in my gut, even if it’s pointless. Still⁠—

“Just no fucking way,” I repeat, but now my mind is jumping to Gabriella. Our quiet sister, held hostage in some way. Why else would Matteo and Dominic let her go to Ivan Petrov’s house on Long Island, suffering who knows what?

And that is present tense. Who knows what she suffered before?

It’s the one topic us Scalera boys have been skirting around since we learned of her existence, too scared to speculate exactly what she went through from the moment she was born to when Dominic found her in the convent in Potenza. Fuck knows, I can read between the lines. I’m not on the dark web for nothing. Mother Lucia’s murder wasn’t a fluke. It was planned. Tortured for information, followed by an execution.

I drag my fingers through my hair, dropping my gaze. Matteo has already digested all of this. Probably also had a discussion with Dominic about it. They’re the top brass of Il Consiglio, after all. The need-to-know basis we work on sometimes takes its time to funnel down to the lower echelons of our brotherly organizational chart.

“Why me and not Benedict?” The others are all already spoken for.

“Pecking order. You’re next in line.”

Fuuuuck. Just like that. Freedom nipped in the bud when I could finally smell it. A number drawn. A prop to position. Just another human becoming collateral damage.

There must be another out. There’s no fucking way I’m making ‘married’ my permanent status.

“For how long?”

Matteo shifts in his seat. “I believe the vow goes until death do us part.”

Fuck my life. Which will be short if I stick around the Mafia long enough. Never mind cavorting with the fucking Bratva. I fist my hand where my fingers are still buried in my hair. “Are you for real?”

“Yep. Here’s more news you’re not going to like.” He pauses, takes a sip of whiskey and sucks through his teeth as if he is steeling himself when he places the glass back down. “Gabi is getting married to Petrov on Friday too, so⁠—”

I propel out of my chair and lean over the desk, ready to grab him by the throat, but he’s out of arm’s reach so I slam my hands down instead, making the whiskey tumblers jump.

“Are you fucking mad? How dare you allow this?” I hiss. “Jesus fucking Christ, using her like this.”

Matteo stands, controlled, in charge, the Don he’s prepared his whole life to be.

“I’m not fucking mad, but Il Consiglio fucked up.” His voice is chillingly soft. “You were there when Dominic killed Petrov’s cousin. You have as much a hand in it as him. This whole fuckup is coming full circle, and you get to go for the ride.”

A curse wants to let out, but I guess I’m all cursed out. That fucking day we got to deal with two more Russians because the cell we have next door to this apartment was already brimming with the fuckers. We were just following orders. If only I could reverse time, but I can’t. Matteo is right. I was there, I played hangman. I might not have killed Petrov’s cousin, but his friend swung around mere minutes later, this one at my hand.

And here we are. Facing the fucking consequences. And this is how Matteo chooses to deal with it, using Gabi.

We glare at each other, Italian tempers flaring. I count to ten, needing to get my rage in its cage. I’m used to this status quo, but Gabi…fuck, she doesn’t need to be a sacrificial lamb too. Us brothers is something, but her? No. No way.

“Why don’t you just admit that things are out of control, Matteo?” I bite out. “That you’re out of your depth, that this isn’t us reaching full circle, but more like us being stuck in an infinite loop.”

Every action has a reaction, and ever since he killed Randazzo, and then the Don—he might fool some, but he isn’t fooling me—things have been going from bad to worse.

Matteo blinks, purses his lips. Then he leans an inch closer. “Everything. Is. Under. Fucking. Control,” he spells out. “Respect your fucking elders. Respect your Don. You’ve never earned your fucking stripes, so what do you know about things being out of control?”

The room freezes over.

Cold fury washes over me like an ice bath.