Page 14 of Bene

Vanna had nothing.

This—her life—was not theirs.

This wasn’t happiness.

She blamed them.

The vendetta that she had left to linger in the back of her mind, simmering but never boiling over as she focused on her grief and growing up, was now forefront and sharp in clarity. It’d been years since the Guzzi name even passed the lips of someone from the Detti clan. They had little to no interest in causing problems for the Guzzi mafia, and Vanna understood why when their organization was doing just fine on its own.

That changed nothing.

A vendetta was a vendetta.

Even if it was one woman’s vendetta.

It would mean going against the people who cared for her after the death of her father … it meant becoming what some people believed she would be. A traitor to the clan, just like her grandfather, and father before her.

That was fine.

The vendetta was on.

Vanna’s thoughts drifted to the newspaper burning a hole in her purse that she’d placed at her feet after getting in the passenger seat of Mario’s car. He chatted on as he navigated the mid-city streets, returning her to the penthouse she had bought shortly after she turned eighteen and had finally been given access to the trust fund left to her by her father.

It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was enough for her to live comfortably. To buy a Toronto penthouse, pay for her education when she finally settled on the fact she did want to be a chef, and she had a nice savings to dip into when she needed it.

The money also allowed her a sense of freedom because once it was in her hands, she no longer had to depend on Mario, or his family for anything. Not like she had for a couple of years after her father’s death, anyway. She didn’t have to ask them for anything, and while she was still considered a Camorra woman, and part of the clan, she came and went with little pushback from the boss, Mario’s father.

Thankfully.

“Are you even listening to me?” Mario asked.

She glanced over at him, saying, “Yes.”

But not really.

Her mind was on that fucking newspaper, and the picture on the front. She considered the men and things her father told her, and what she might be able to do with the information. She had to plan, didn’t she? Surely, she couldn’t just waltz into the Guzzis’ life, and tear it down piece by fucking piece. She would need time to work out exactly how she was going to ruin them … the same way they had ruined her.

Why should she care what Mario was saying?

“Anyway, about next week,” Mario said, pulling a sharp left to turn into the underground garage of her building, “are you good for it, or what?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What you need me to do.”

Mario rolled his eyes. “See, you weren’t listening.”

She didn’t bother to deny it that time.

“Dinner—I wanted you to come with me. At my parents. Their anniversary.”

Vanna should refuse him. God knew these little dates—because that’s what he believed them to be—only served to make Mario think they were something, or eventually would be. Really, her perceived closeness to him simply allowed her to do what she wanted with her life. No one was choosing a husband for her, yet. No one cared that she was twenty-one today, and still unmarried, never mind attending college, and living on her own without a chaperone.

All things that were no-nos for Camorra women.

Vanna bent the rules.