The Gallucci family had a lot of rules, but only one was really important for Violet to follow: she didn’t see, hear, or know a thing. From the time she was young, she knew that was the only thing her father really cared for her to learn. The rest of the rules came along after.
But some things couldn't be ignored. And with readily available Internet at Violet’s fingertips, and her family being a sort of dynasty in New York, there was only so much pretending she could actually do. When new people learned her name, or even her father’s, she answered their questions with a shrug and a smile.
She knew who her father was.
She knew what he did.
She just wasn’t supposed to.
Cosa Nostra wasn’t meant for girls, after all.
Both Nicole and Amelia were the daughters of her father’s right and left-hand men. And because of that, they had been placed in Violet’s path from the time she could walk. They were respectable, acceptable, Catholic, Italian girls that understood the secret, sometimes smothering, lifestyle that Violet was surrounded by.
They lived it, too.
“So … where’s your brother tonight?” Nicole asked.
Violet passed her not-so-subtle friend a look. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Curious.”
“You should drop his ass before it becomes a habit,” Violet said.
Nicole lifted a single shoulder in response. “He makes it easy.”
Because he was easy.
To anything with legs and tits.
Violet forced herself to swallow those words back. She wasn’t particularly close to her brother, being that he was six years older than her, but his attitude didn’t help most days. Carmine felt like it was his personal duty to make sure his sister was staying out of trouble and keeping her nose clean.
Nothing irritated her more.
Nicole was the perfect example. If it was Violet who was running around with some guy, her brother would probably take offense. But his choice to run around with a girl was perfectly acceptable and none of her business.
Not that Violet wanted to know what Nicole did with her brother.
“You’re not telling Franco where we’re going, right?” Violet asked Amelia.
Her other friend glanced up from her phone again. “Why, so he can gain himself some brownie points with my dad and yours by ratting us out?”
“Just asking.”
“Don’t worry,” Amelia said. “I was only trying to get him to meet up with me later.”
Violet checked out the window, looking for a sign of how close they were to their destination. It couldn’t be far—maybe another ten minutes.
Then she could forget about how she was failing several of her classes, how her father was going to flip when he found out, and about everything else that was stressing her out.
She just wanted to party a little.
That’s what being twenty-one was for, right?
Who cared if Coney Island was no man’s land and off-limits for a principessa della mafia?
The loud crunch of bone was enough to make even the strongest of men flinch, but as Kazimir Markovic—or Kaz, to those that knew him well—straightened, flexing the fingers of the fist he had launched into the man’s face, he didn’t look bothered at all.
“Was that really necessary?” Abram asked from his position in the corner, arms folded across his chest as he regarded the scene with thinly-veiled amusement. “He was just about to tell us the good news, isn’t that right, Marcus?”
Kaz and Abram both looked to the man sprawled on the floor, one hand cradling his face as he groaned in pain. His shirt was wrinkled from Kaz’s former hold on him, and spattered with his own blood. His nose had already been broken, the soft cartilage giving way beneath Kaz’s strength.
Contrary to popular belief, Kaz wasn’t as violent as people made him out to be. He much preferred using rationale and reason to get the things he wanted from others, and that had served him well over the years.
But tonight, he was in no mood.
The last thing he wanted to be doing was tracking down men like Marcus to find out where his money was. He liked to think he was a patient man, giving those that owed him a chance to pay their debts before he came to seek them out.
Except, Marcus had chosen to duck and dodge him for the last three weeks, practically a ghost in a city where no one could hide—at least not from Kaz.
When he had gotten the phone call from Abram that Marcus had been found and instructions were needed, Kaz had to postpone the meeting with his brother to deal with this bullshit.
And if there was one thing Kaz hated, it was being late for a prior engagement.
So, no. His patience was gone, and the last thing he wanted to hear from Marcus was another excuse.
“I-I’ve got your money,” Marcus stuttered out, holding an arm out in front of him, as though that might help ward off any more blows from Kaz. “Please, I can get you—”
“Zatknis’—shut up.” Reaching into his coat pocket, Kaz pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief, tossing it down on the man. “Clean yourself up.”