Page 10 of The Kingpin’s Bride

Not the loud kind. The quiet kind. The kind that lived in the way her shoulders curved inward and the way her hands trembled just slightly when she lifted them above her head. It called to the darkest part of me. The part I kept locked down around Santino and Aurora and the twins. The part that wanted to see how much further that pain could go. How pretty it would look if I were the one causing it.

I stopped walking.

A man in the front row reached toward the stage. She flinched. Barely. But I saw it. Something hot and possessive slid through my chest.

I forced myself to stay where I was. Watching. Cataloguing. The soft curve of her waist. The way the lace dragged over her hips when she turned. The visible effort it took for her to keep dancing while men stared at her like she was bought and paid for.

She looked up.

Just once.

Her eyes found my gaze across the dim club and held. Dark. Wide. Full of a fear so raw it made my cock harden in my pants. For one long second neither of us looked away. I let her see exactly what I was. Not the controlled version Santino preferred. The real one. The one that wanted to drag her off that stage, pin her down, and find out what kind of sounds she made when she broke.

Her lips parted on a soft, startled breath. Then she looked down again, cheeks burning darker.

I exhaled slowly and adjusted my cuffs, feeling the weight of my watch against my pulse.

She would do.

Young. Broken in ways that showed. Beautiful enough to make the other families take notice. Soft enough to shape. Strong enough not to shatter completely when I finally let the darker pieces of myself off the leash.

A perfect wife.

I turned away before I did something stupid and walked toward the bar, the image of her burned behind my eyes.

I would come back.

And next time, I wouldn’t just watch.

The next afternoon I sat in a long room with dark wood paneling and a table that had seen more blood deals than honest ones. The air smelled like cigars and old power. Five men sat across from me. The heads of the remaining families. Santino was there too, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, silent and unreadable.

I kept my posture relaxed. Ankle over knee. Hands steady.

Don Esposito spoke first. He was the oldest, the one whose word carried the most weight.

“You’ve done good work on collections,” he said. “Clean. Efficient. No mess.”

“Thank you.”

“But a full seat is not something we hand out because a young man is hungry.”

I nodded once, respectful. Inside, something sharp twisted.

“I’ve proven I can handle more,” I said. My voice stayed even. “I’m asking for the chance to do it.”

One of the others, Greco, gave a thin smile. “Ambition is useful. Impatience gets men killed. You’re green, Ventura. Santino’s protection only goes so far.”

Santino didn’t move from the wall. He didn’t defend me. He also didn’t contradict them. That silence said enough.

I looked each of them in the eye, slow and deliberate.

“I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for a real position. Give me territory. Give me responsibility. I’ll deliver.”

Esposito folded his hands on the table. “You will wait. Continue the work you have been given. Show us consistency over years, not months. When the time is right, we will discuss a larger role.”

Years.

The word landed like a door shutting in my face.