Lizzie Salvatore runs her tongue along the edges of her teeth, shooting a predatory grin at Vince. “You obviously haven’t had enough,” she says. “Take one with us.”
“I don’t drink on the job,” Vince grumbles.
“That’s too bad,” she purrs, shaking back her honey-brown waves and batting her eyes at him. “I’m awfully drunk, just ripe for being taken advantage of. You could put it anywhere you wanted, and I wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.”
Vince shifts around, looking uncomfortable, which sends my friends into a tizzy of laughter.
“Oh, leave the poor guy alone,” Bianca says, hooking her arm through Vince’s muscular one. “You’re making him blush.”
We throw back our heads and let the sweet, sticky nectar of the gods run down our throats. Then we all smash our glasses on the floor, which is already coated with a sheen of water from the melting ice other people have dropped.
Bianca Luciani is my best friend and sometimes enemy, depending on the month or year. She’s the perfect frenemy—totally different from me but with similar life experience; hot enough to hate her for it when we’re at war and be part of our squad when we’re not. As the daughter of one of the other dons, we’re as likely to go to war as our families. But right now, my family has hate only for the Valentis, and Bianca and I share the common goal of getting fucked up, though probably for very different reasons.
Lizzie… Well, she’s a whore, but she’s always down for a good time, and that’s what I’m after tonight. When she takes yet another shot, I reach for another for myself. Before I can take it, Vince grabs my hand. “Miss,” he says sharply. “You’re only supposed to have three drinks, and you’re well beyond that.”
I burst into howls of laughter. I must be going on a dozen shots by now. I’m drunk off my ass, but I don’t care. We’re young and rich and we own the city. When anything new opens up in New York, we’re on the list. When a new luxury handbag or jewelry line comes out, we’re on the list. We get invited to the best parties, are the first to know the best gossip. What’s it all for if not to enjoy it?
It’s not for sticking to a three-drink maximum, that’s for damn sure. Not when I know that any night could be my last. That one day, Daddy’s going to put the brakes on this. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to go all out, balls to the wall, and no one, not even my bodyguard, can stop me. So, I enjoy this night like it’s my last, just as I soak up each night, reveling in my freedom, glutting myself with it, even when I’m puking it out and the fun is long gone. I attack partying with a determination that is beyond hedonism. I want more than to feel good, more than fun. I want life.Mylife. I want anything I can call my own, even my own mistakes.
“You’re going to make yourself sick again,” Vince snaps. I grab another shot, swaying on my feet, and throw it down my throat like a dare. I stare back at Vince, whose jaw twitches in annoyance. Without breaking eye contact, I reach for another.
“No more,” Vince says, snatching it from my hand and tossing it onto the floor without even taking the shot first. What a waste of good alcohol.
I try to get another shot, but he steps between me and the bar, blocking my way. Even sober, I wouldn’t be able to fight this buffoon. He’s a giant, all muscles and tattoos and flinty eyes.
Instead of backing down, I grab a barstool and climb on. Vince makes a grab at me, but I’m already stepping onto the bar in my Manolo’s. I reach down and grab a bottle of liquor from behind the bar.
“Eliza,” Vince barks. “Get down!”
My friends scream and cheer me on, their voices urging me to go harder, to be bigger, to live larger. To grab life by the balls and ride it hard. I stand and thrust the bottle into the air, raising my arms above my head in a symbol of victory. My head swims in the noisy bar, my voice dancing with the crystals in the chandeliers overhead, echoing off the mirrors on the ceiling. I shake the bottle and scream at the world, “You can take my drink, but you can never take my freedom!”
three
King
At the head of a long, mahogany table stands one of the most dangerous men in New York. Around it sits a group of stone-faced men ranging in age from eighteen to eighty. They’re all armed, all staring at me. But I am not afraid. I’m solid, my muscles made of steel, my blood of ice.
“This is King Dolce, my great nephew, and he’s going to make a fine soldier,” Al says, laying a hand on my shoulder. I can feel the strength in that hand even though he applies no pressure. I can feel the ability to take lives, to make calls that take lives. Al Valenti might as well be a god, and I carry his blood. I’ve always been proud to call myself a Dolce, but this time, I have a reason to feel pride. This man didn’t promise a son or daughter to be paid as a debt for a loan he took twenty years ago. This man didn’t take loans to get where he is. He spilled blood.
I stand tall, swelling a little just standing beside the legendary don. His blood runs through my veins. Al Fucking Valenti. I will make him proud. I will make him trust me, need me. I will become more than a made guy, more than a soldier. One day, I’ll be a fucking god like him.
I don’t waver. My voice is sure, my resolve strong. I take the oath ofomerta. The code of silence. The vow to see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. To take care of our own business and ourselves, and not bring in outsiders. We don’t need them. We have each other.
I spill my blood for them. It’s an honor.
I walk out of the room with my head held high. This is my life now. Forever. There’s only one way out once you’ve taken the oath.
I’m confident in my path.
We entered through a back door at the bottom of a set of concrete steps. The door led into a below-ground conference room where the group gathered. Al dismisses them, and we step out of the room into a hallway. We pass a game room with tables for pool, foosball, and ping-pong. Another room with a theater set up. A few closed doors remain, but Al isn’t giving me a tour. He leads me upstairs, and I find myself in a house—his house, I assume.
We enter a study that smells of leather and scotch and cigars. Al takes a seat behind a heavy walnut desk. The walls are lined with shelves of leather-bound books that remind me more of a professor’s office than a mafia boss’s.
Al gestures for me to sit, so I do. I expected bodyguards and servants, but it’s just us. And even though I’m sure of myself, sure of my decision, being alone with him is more intimidating than being in a room full of armed men. Al watches me, his green eyes taking in everything, as if he can read my soul and see my unworthiness.
After a minute, he pours a finger of scotch into two glasses and hands one to me. “You’re a made guy,” he says, his gaze boring into me. “How’s it feel?”
“Feels great,” I say, taking the glass. It does. I’m still a little high off the adrenaline. I’m part of a new family. One where the rules are clear, where my role is clear, where there’s no waiting for inept authorities to find a sister they never find. One where I can be proud again.