Of volume lineage

Spy.

There was a thrill to my deception, to what I would and was going to do. I felt like a child who had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, euphoric on the danger and chocolate chips melting in my hot mouth.

In the shadows of Uncle Angelo’s guest room, I poured over names and faces, co

The man who had killed Valentino Lo Duca had been Vincent Montalti, Vigliano’s underboss. His father was also a part of the Vigliano organization, he had a widowed ward, and had been with the Viglianos since Maine.

Learn everything you can, my mother’s lesson sounded in my mind. Everyone is important, from the Don to the gardener.

The moon was my only light, the silvery glow just bright enough for me to make out the ink. It would be too risky to turn on a lamp–my uncles had to believe I was asleep and not misbehaving.

As did the soldati, who roamed in the shadows of the balconies and streets below, like wraiths haunting their graves.

They weren’t loyal to my uncle. If they had been, perhaps I would’ve turned on the light. No, instead they answered to my future husband, the new Don in charge. A few hours after it became clear we had a new king, they had arrived. Uncle Angelo hadn’t put up much of a fight.

The apartment had been quiet for hours. My uncles had quickly excused themselves after di

Some wild part of me wanted to tell Uncle Angelo my mother’s plan but whenever I went to spill my guts, my throat closed. I wondered how he would react. Would he support the destruction of the Viglianos or had my uncle’s alliances shifted forever?

Voices suddenly erupted from the balcony, the Vigliano soldati leaning over the side of the building to the streets below. They couldn’t see me from where I was crouched behind the bed, so I crawled over to the only window without a disrupted view.

Below, the streets of Manhattan remained busy and loud, despite being covered in a sheet of white snow. A row of heavy-armoured vehicles had parked on the side of the road. Men leaped out, sharing orders and commands with each other.

They weren’t the men I had grown up around–they were his men.

A car door opened, and all the men seemed to halt. The entire street paused for a second, anticipation holding us all captive. Then he stepped out into the night, standing tall amongst the shadows. Darkness clung to him as he moved forward, hiding his face from my view.

He could’ve been wearing a paper bag over his head, and I still would’ve known who he was.

There wasn’t a single photo of him, not one clear image. Everyone else in his organization had some sort of photo of them on record, from mugshots to FBI surveillance photos. But not the Vigliano Don. He could’ve looked like Freddy Kruger and we would be none the wiser.

Uncle Angelo stepped out of the foyer and onto the street. He took a few steps forward and then back, suddenly unsure. All my life, he had done everything with certainty and power. But now, he paused and hesitated, no longer the big fish in this pond.

He stepped forward, the light from the building catching his features.

I couldn’t get a good look, the distance of my position making it hard to see his face. All I could make out was his inky-black hair and Grecian nose, as well as his thousand-dollar suit.

Uncle Angelo joined him, the two briefly speaking. Some part of me wondered what they were talking about. It wouldn’t be an interesting conversation–interesting conversations didn’t happen on the side of the street surrounded by over a dozen civilian ears.

The Vigliano Don began to walk forward, Uncle Angelo and the soldati moving in time with his movements. Even the patrons that filled the sidewalks seemed to turn their heads towards him, captivated by the king and his soldiers.

I pressed my nose to the window, trying to get a better look but no luck.

Under the possession of my curiosity, I stepped out onto the balcony, ignoring the freezing wind and alarmed looks of the soldati. They quickly averted their gaze, stepping as far away from me as they could get without taking a tumble to the street below.

Interesting, I noted, before peering over the railing. I could only make out the top of his head, the inky black hair–

He turned his head upwards.

Giova

His eyes met mine, arrowing straight for my soul.

That’s impossible, I told myself immediately. He can’t see you at this height.

Yet I could’ve sworn he was staring right at me.

The second he dropped his head and entered the building, air filled my lungs once more. Until I remembered why he was here, what was being discussed in the study down the hall. I quickly left the balcony, locking the door behind me and darting over to my notes.

It was Giova

There was only one thing I knew for certain: my mother had been right about my part.

Not even twenty-four hours had passed before the traditional families began to demand a traditional marriage. Giova

I was the highest-ranking eligible female in the family, one who came from an excellent bloodline and whose parents were married. I was also the daughter of the late boss, something that pleased my father’s men. Like it would make up for them turning their backs on him.

It happened exactly as my mother had predicted.

I folded up my notes and images, tucking them between the mattress and bedframe. If anyone had found them, I would’ve been killed immediately. Not even my family name could’ve saved me from the wrath of the Vigliano Don.

I had no intention of being caught.

I retied my robe, drawing it tighter to my body before venturing out of my room. Voices echoed down the hall, the study door left open under the assumption everyone was asleep–or that no one would dare spy on the Made Men.