Page 43 of Volatile Vice

It’s a two-hour drive, which is far longer than my doctor cleared me for.

But I’m going to do it anyway.

If I leave now, by the time I get there, it will be about dinnertime.

“You should know,” Savannah says, “that the place is a fortress. You need a code to get through the gate. Otherwise you’ll have to call the butler on the intercom.”

“What’s the code?”

No reply.

“Savannah, please. I’m going one way or the other. You can make it difficult for me or easy for me. The fewer people who know I’m going, the better for me and for Vinnie. So if I can get right through…”

“Fine.” She gives me the code. “Please. Falcon is going to give me holy living hell for this. Please stay safe, Raven.”

“I’m going to your mother’s home. If it’s a fortress as you say, I’ll be safer there than I am in my own place.”

Again, silence.

Until— “I love you, Raven. Falcon loves you. And I’m sure Vinnie does as well. So please, for all of us, make it back here.”

14

VINNIE

Imake it home to Mom’s house by six p.m. I spent the remainder of the day ruminating over Raven—asking her to stay away from me, and regretting it.

In between that, I thought about Belinda and how I could help her.

Would her father allow me to marry her now? It’s disgusting to even think about, and is it even allowed with parental consent?

I wouldn’t touch her, of course. She would simply live in my home with Mom and me in her own room. I would treat her like a daughter.

The idea sickens me, but how else can I help her?

Perhaps I don’t have to marry her to bring her to my home. Aren’t there some cultures where the intended lives in the husband’s home until she comes of age?

Oh hell, who knows? And who cares? None of this is possible.

As much as I want to help the girl, I just can’t.

She should be playing piano, exploring her musical talent, going to competitions, getting scholarships—not being abused by her father and being groomed to be a Mafia wife.

How can I help her?

“Vinnie, what’s troubling you?” My mother asks as I sit down next to her for dinner.

It’s chicken parmesan with a side of spaghetti. One of my favorites, next to lasagna. But I’m not at all hungry.

And I’m not amused by my mother’s question.

“Whatisn’ttroubling me?” I retort. “You know the life we’re leading. It’s fucked up, Mom.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You know I don’t like that language.”

I slam my fork down on the table. “I don’t like thislifeI’m living. This is my home now, until I build my own. And I’m the head of this home. I’ll speak the way I want to.”

My mother looks down at her lap.