Page 11 of The Kingpin’s Bride

I smiled. Polite. Controlled. The same smile I used when I needed people to believe I was the reasonable one.

“I understand.”

I didn’t.

They kept talking for another twenty minutes about shipments and borders and the usual quiet threats. I listened. I nodded at the right times. I gave the answers they wanted. The entire time the restless, violent thing under my ribs paced like an animal in a cage that had just been told the lock would stay closed for years.

When the meeting finally ended I stood, shook the hands that were offered, and walked out into the hallway with my expression blank.

Santino caught up to me near the elevators.

“You handled that well,” he said.

I pressed the call button. “I handled it the way they wanted.”

He studied me. “Don’t do anything stupid, Matteo.”

I met his eyes and let a fraction of the truth show through.

“I won’t.”

The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside alone and watched Santino’s face disappear as they closed.

The second I was by myself the polite mask slipped. My jaw locked. My hands curled into fists at my sides hard.

They wanted me to wait.

They wanted me patient and grateful and small.

I thought of the girl from last night. The one who had looked at me like she knew what I was.

A wife.

Heirs.

A bloodline they couldn’t ignore.

If they wouldn’t give me a seat, I would build one they couldn’t take away.

And I knew exactly who was going to help me do it.

I drove straight home.

The penthouse was dark when I stepped inside. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city like it belonged to me. I dropped my keys on the marble console and loosened my tie as I walked into the main room.

Every wall in the open living space was covered in paper.

Maps. Photographs. Printed ledgers. Red string connecting names to buildings to drop points. The five families laid bare under my handwriting. I had spent months building it in secret. Santino knew I studied. He did not know how deep the obsession went.

I crossed to the largest section and stood in front of the Vernizzi cluster.

Old man Vernizzi. Seventy-two. Still sharp enough to keep his seat, but the years showed in the latest surveillance photos. Three sons. All in their forties and fifties. No wives of childbearing age. No legitimate heirs. A couple of acknowledged bastards who would never be allowed near real power. Their bloodline was a dead end and everyone at the table knew it.

Without the Vernizzi seat, the balance collapsed to four families. Four was unstable. Four invited war. The others tolerated the old man because removing him would create a vacuum none of them trusted the rest to fill cleanly.

That vacuum was my way in.

I reached out and touched the photograph of the eldest son. Soft around the middle. Too fond of his own product. The middle one had a gambling problem he thought he had hidden. The youngest was the most competent and the most dangerous, but even he had no children.