Chapter 4

Two days later, the interstate arms deal signing dinner. Core figures from all Five Families attended, along with two old Dons who'd flown in from Sicily. At this level, one detail out of place could get someone killed.

Vincent had me work the door.

Every person who walked in, I knew their name, their family's current position, what they most didn't want mentioned, and how they wanted to be greeted.

The old Ferraro Don from Sicily didn't drink red wine — only local whiskey. Thirty-year habit.

The North Side capo, Ricci, had a son nobody could bring up in public; he'd been killed in a turf war two years ago, by his own people.

The liaison from the East Coast had been seated somewhere that made him lose face last time. Tonight I put him at the left of the head table by the window. He scanned the seating chart on his way in, didn't say anything, but I saw his shoulders drop a fraction.

Before the guests arrived, I'd gone through every table's drink list three times. Positions of the family crests had been adjusted by seniority across the Five Families. Contingency plans were folded inside my jacket pocket — two backup menus and an emergency evacuation route.

I always handled all of this myself.

Guests seated, dinner opened. Nothing missed.

It was only now that I realized I hadn't drunk a sip of water since six this morning.

My heels ached. My calves had gone stiff.

But Vincent still hadn't come down. Normally by this point I'd have been on his arm, greeting guests with him.

Tonight, for whatever reason, I decided to go up and get him. I'd just put my foot on the first step —

Vincent came down the stairs. Sofia on his arm.

She was wearing a burgundy gown. That dress had been tailored to my measurements. It had been made for tonight.

I stood frozen on the step. Vincent looked at me.

Just one calm look. No words.

After all these years, I knew what he was saying: You're a dog I keep. I can give you anything you want, and I can take it back whenever I feel like it.

He walked Sofia to the head table. I followed quickly.

Until the termination paperwork cleared, I couldn't afford to be impulsive.

Vincent took the head seat, placed Sofia on his right, and turned to the old Ferraro Don.

"This is Sofia. As of today, she's the lady of the Maro family."

The old Don glanced at Sofia, then at me, standing off to the side. He didn't say anything.

He was old-school. He'd seen enough family business to know when to keep his mouth shut.

Vincent smiled easily. "Elena, of course — you all know her. Been with me a long time. She knows when to stand and when to step back. Truly an excellent assistant."

Someone at the partners' table said something I didn't catch. I saw the person next to them glance at me, then look away.

Seven years.

Seven years ago when I first showed up at an event like this, every person in the room knew I was the most important person at Vincent Maro's side. Not because he'd introduced me as such, but because everyone knew that half of what had gotten the Maro family to where it was, was me, holding it up from behind.

And now he was saying I was an excellent assistant.

The word came off his tongue easily. As if it had always been my title.

Sofia looked at her own wine glass, then at the whiskey in Vincent's hand. "I don't want whiskey. It burns. I want red wine."

Vincent glanced at her, didn't hesitate, and his eyes went straight to me.

"Elena, go change it out for red wine."

Not a request. Not a question. An order. In front of everyone, sending me off like a waitress.

I took a step forward.

"Wait." Sofia took Vincent's hand. Her face arranged itself into the perfect picture of mild distress. "Is that really okay? Elena's been running around all night. Making her go back and forth like this..."

Vincent patted her hand. "It's fine. It's what she does. You're the lady of the Maro family. Of course she takes care of you."

It's what she does. Of course she takes care of you.

Not because he thought I mattered. Not because he trusted me. Not because he thought I was competent. Just because — I was the person who was supposed to do these things.

I brought the red wine back and set it in front of Sofia. She glanced down at the dark red in the glass, looked around the room, and started to smile.

"Vincent, the dinner looks beautiful tonight." Her voice brightened with surprise. "The flowers are so pretty, the lighting is just right, the tableware is gorgeous — Elena, you're amazing."

She turned to me. "Elena, why don't you sit down and join us? I know you're Vincent's assistant, but I don't think anyone would mind."

"No." Vincent looked at me. Nothing on his face.

Not mockery. Not contempt. Not disgust. Just an emotionless assumption that this was how things worked.

He continued: "Elena, go to the partners' table. They still have questions about the terms for the route change on the smuggling line. Clarify it for them."

I looked at him. Just once.

"Of course," I said quietly. "I'll go now."

I turned and walked over, sat down at the partners' table, and walked them through every clause. Every number on the rerouting plan. Every piece of the risk assessment. I laid it out cleanly, not one detail vague.

The partners' lead closed the folder at the end and said to me, "The Maro family's consigliere is really something."

I didn't correct him.

Consigliere, assistant, it didn't matter. None of it had ever been what I actually was.

As the dinner wound down, I brought the old Ferraro Don his third whiskey. I laid out duplicate copies of the alliance agreement beside every head guest's seat and double-checked that every signature page was in order.

No one had told me to do any of that either.