Page 2 of Virtuous Lies
The back door of the Town Car opens slowly, and my heart skips a beat. I avoid Tony’s eyes, afraid of the panic my older brother will be unable to hide.
Armando Rossi moves torturously slow, and I consider he does it purposely. I refuse to look at the buffed leather of his loafers as he steps out, my eyes kept forward as my father—all six-foot-two of him—unfolds from the car.
He straightens the cuffs of his pressed shirt.
He adjusts his collar.
He spins his wedding band three times.
He does all this before taking a single step. Before even looking at me.
The fury in his breath coats my face in warmth, and it takes everything within me not to grimace in repulsion.
I want to apologize, but I refrain.
I want to swallow, yet I clench my jaw to abstain.
“Look at me.”
My chin longs to wobble, the fear in my throat like acid. But I do as I am told.
The back of his hand scores across my face before I register he’s lifted it. The slap is hard enough the metal of his wedding band rips into my skin in a caress of reproach.
“Let it bleed,” he grates out when I lift my hand.
Fist clenched, I drop it to my side, my eyes watering unintentionally at the feel of blood trickling down my cheek and onto my neck.
“Tony,” he murmurs, refusing to take his eyes from me.
Tony moves toward the glass doors of the building without delay, and I send a prayer to anyone who will listen that he’ll be safe.
“No, Daddy,” I cry. “Please.” I throw myself toward him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket. “Don’t hurt him.”
He pushes me back with a disregard and disgust that pierces my heart in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“Get in the car before I’m forced to kill you.”
I swallow. It was always a possibility, but hearing the words fall from my father’s mouth with such ease slices me open and makes my heart stutter in pain.
I scramble toward the car, attempting to be seen as a dutiful daughter when, in fact, I’d just blown his entire world apart.
He waits long enough for me to swipe at my tears before following me into the car. His stare burns a hole into the forefront of my head, where a bullet would lodge itself right between my eyes.
“I love him,” I lie, massaging my hands in my lap. My eyes are cast downward, afraid my deception will shine through.
He snorts in disgust. “You knownothingof love. What of loyalty, Bianca?”
“I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
“Anything I ask?” he bellows. “It was implied, Bianca. You aregiven. You are promised to another. To thebossof the Outfit.” The veins in his head pulsate so fiercely that I fear his head will explode.
“And I will remain dutiful to him.”
“He will not want you,” he sneers. “You are no longer pure. What will Lorenzo tell him? The disrespect is unforgivable.”
My father is a beautiful man. Tall and muscular. A strong jawline and thick lips. Brown eyes the color of cognac. Women throw themselves at him. I’d love to say that he only has eyes for my mother—as beautiful as she is—but I’d be lying. He takes advantage of his beauty.
While he remains respectful of my mother, which is the Cosa Nostra way, he’s kept agoomahfor many years. Even then, he enjoys the women the family has on the payroll when it suits him.