Page 4 of Vows of Blood

“The kitchen just got the signal. They’re arriving any minute.”

I let out a slow breath, calming the unease building inside me. “Thank God. Then we can start the meal. Maybe some food will sober these people up.”

She whispers out of the side of her mouth as she continues to scan the crowd, “Originally, I thought maybe a professional athlete had bought this place. Or a musician.”

I groan. Not this again. I know she’s excited to find out who it is, but I’m just excited for it to be over. I wish I could make myself enjoy the evening, the big reveal, and the fancy celebration, but all I want is to be at home in bed.

“But now, I’m not so sure. So far, the VIPs, they look a little… I don’t know, rough around the edges. Don’t you think?” Rebecca nods her head subtly toward a round table near a marble column. “I mean, look…”

Three men sit there, champagne untouched, dressed in expensive suits tailored to perfection, but something about them is off. One has a tattoo covering his neck. Another has a thin, jagged scar through his dark eyebrow, and he appears to be missing a pinky finger.

They aren’t talking to each other or smiling. None of them have dates or drinks in their hands. They’re simply watching.

“And the guy by the bathroom door,” Rebecca murmurs. “Navy suit. Look at his jacket.”

I glance over.

The jacket bulges beneath his left arm. When he moves, the hard, grey butt of a gun peeks out from behind the expensive fabric.

The noise in the room fades to a dull roar. “He’s carrying.”

Immediately, I look away, not wanting to be caught staring as my already alert brain starts spinning wildly, struggling to accept what my body picked up on long ago.

“So are at least three others I’ve spotted. No wonder the chef is freaking out.” Rebecca tips her head at an older man leaning against the bar, and two big guys, who look like club bouncers, hanging out near the entrance.

We look at each other, eyes wide. This is definitely not our usual clientele.

Her voice wavers, a hint of nerves kicking in. “So, I’m thinking it’s not yacht money we’re dealing with anymore.”

Looking around, I really take in the people in the room, not just as wealthy patrons keeping me from my bed, but individually. And as I take in the tattoos, the weapons, and the obscene wealth, it finally dawns on me.

I know exactly who and what they are because I’ve dealt with them before. That’s why I’m so on edge.

“What then?” I ask, needing to hear someone else say it first, so I don’t sound crazy.

“Something worse.” She swallows, eyes darting around to make sure nobody is listening before she speaks, her words coming out more as a panicked hiss. “Godfather money.”

Now that it’s in my head, I can’t unsee it.

Dotted throughout the room, among the more normal, happy partygoers, are different, far more dangerous types of men. The strategic positioning near exits, the constant movement of eyes, and the rigid sets of shoulders gives them away.

These aren’t relaxed guests enjoying a night out with friends, congratulating them on finding love. They’re guards. Enforcers.

Or should I say, Picciotti.

Security. Soldiers. Here to keep a close eye on everyone in attendance. Because these aren’t your average wealthy customers.

“It doesn’t matter who they are,” I say, trying to sound calmer than I feel. “It’s just a party. We do our jobs and get through the night.”

“Oh my god, I didn’t actually think I was right until just now.” Rebecca squeezes my arm absently, her fingers trembling. When I scowl at her, she straightens, pushing her shoulders back. “You’re right, okay. Yes. It doesn’t matter,” she repeats. “We’re just servers. And if the groom is our new boss, there won’t be any trouble. Not in his restaurant. These are his friends. Right? Just friends with guns.”

Convincing herself it’s no big deal, that she doesn’t need to be afraid of the kind of men who bring weapons to an engagement party, she plasters a bright smile on her face and heads back to her section, sashaying through the crowd. Only the way she fiddles with her hair tells me she’s not perfectly at ease.

After she leaves, I stand frozen for a moment, my heart beating too fast, transported back to a time in my life I’d rather forget. I grip the bar beside me, let my eyelids fall closed, and breathe in and out slowly, regaining my composure.

Just breathe.

I’m so focused on pulling myself together that I barely notice the string quartet begin to play near the entrance, or how the conversations hush right before the door opens, or even the swell of applause as the guests of honor arrive.