The first rule of marrying a mob boss: never go through his pockets. The second rule: if you do, don't let him see your hands shake. Mine don't. I'm hanging up Garrett's tuxedo jacket — the one he wore to the Bonanno christening last night — when my fingers close around something stiff in the inside pocket. A receipt. The Plaza. Two glasses of Dom Pérignon. One filet, rare. One lobster, butter on the side. A chocolate soufflé, for two. He sees me holding it. Doesn't even blink. "Sit-down with the Sicilians. Vivian sang at the after-party. I left before dessert." "Sure." I drop the receipt into the trash. There are a hundred women orbiting the Cole family — showgirls, capos' daughters, the redhead who runs the casino floor in Atlantic City. But there's only one Garrett would sit through a three-hour dinner for. Only one who could make the Reaper of New York behave like a goddamn altar boy. Vivian Marsh. I used to fight him over her. Screamed. Threw a crystal tumbler at his head and split his eyebrow open. Almost walked out — twice. Then I took a bullet meant for him in a parking garage off Mulberry Street, crawled across the concrete with my own blood pooling under me, and dragged him into the back of his Lincoln before the second shooter could finish the job. He broke after that. Knelt by my hospital bed with his forehead pressed to my hand and swore on his father's grave he'd never see her again unless it was family business. That was eighteen months ago. I walk out the back door to the woodpile. We have staff for this. I don't care. I like the weight of the axe. I like the sound steel makes splitting something clean down the middle. I bring it down. Crack. Garrett follows. Stops a few feet behind me. "Scarlett." His voice is too careful. "You're not going to say anything?" Crack. "You're not even going to yell at me?" I almost died for this man. And here he is — smelling like another woman's perfume, asking why I'm not throwing a tantrum. I'm not, because somewhere between the ICU and tonight, I stopped loving him. I just hadn't said it out loud yet. I split one more log. Stack them neat against the wall. Brush the bark off my palms and walk past him into the house. He follows. Of course he follows. "What the hell is going on with you, Scar?" I run cold water over my hands at the kitchen sink. There's blood under one of my nails — not mine, from a soldier I sewed up in the safe-house basement two nights ago. It won't come out. He hates my hands. He's never said it, but I know. He told me once Vivian's hands looked like they'd never touched anything ugly in her life. Mine have touched nothing else. I dry them on a dish towel and pick up the leather notebook on the counter. Three months of work. Every contact in the underground medical network from Boston to Miami. Every off-books surgeon, every safe-house pharmacist, every gunshot protocol I rewrote from scratch. My handwriting, every page. Last week, old Doc Warren came to see me. He's the Family Doctor of Record — the one official, licensed physician the Cole family puts on retainer. Clean medical license. Townhouse on Park Avenue. A private practice that quietly doubles as a laundering front. Six-figure annual stipend signed off by the Don himself. Only one such seat in the whole organization. Warren's stepping down at the end of the year. He told me, eyes wet, that I was his pick. Twelve years of basement surgery — and finally, a way out into the daylight. A real license. A real life. Clean hands. It's all I've ever wanted. I push the notebook across the island. "It's done." He flips through it. Doesn't really look. "I'll pass it up the chain when I get a minute." He sets it down at the edge of the counter like it's a takeout menu. I don't say anything. I start the water for pasta. We eat in silence. Then he sets his fork down. "There's only one Doctor seat, Scarlett." My hand stops on the wine bottle. "I know." "Baby. You're the best off-books surgeon on the East Coast. With or without the seat, you're set for life." I look up. "But Vivian's different. Her lungs are shot from singing six nights a week. The seat is her only way out." I set the bottle down. "And?" He won't meet my eyes. "I put her name in with yours. She tests better. Sacred Heart pre-med. Gold Star daughter. Big-city polish. Her file's stronger than yours, sweetheart." The blood drops out of my face. "Garrett. Doc Warren told me the seat was mine. A month ago." His jaw tightens. "Nobody promises anything in this life. Best candidate gets it." "Don't —" "Don't be petty, Scarlett. You'll never want for anything. But Vivian goes back to that club, she's dead in a year. You really want that on you?" I don't answer. I can't eat another bite. Upstairs, I lie on my side of the bed and stare at the ceiling. He comes in. Slides a hand around my waist. Lower. I push him off. He goes still. "What now?" "I'm tired." "Christ, Scarlett. You're impossible to live with these days." He turns his face to the wall. I lie there in the dark with my eyes wide open. For the first time in five years of marriage to a man the rest of the world is terrified of — I'm not afraid of him at all anymore. I'm just done.
The next morning, I walk past the back garden of the Velvet Room. There she is — Vivian Marsh, draped across a wicker chaise with three cocktail girls in silk robes around her, sipping mimosas at eleven in the morning. She sees me. Her voice climbs three octaves on purpose. "Ugh, you know Gar. He's just too good to me." "I told him a girl like me has no business on Park Avenue. He wouldn't hear it. Said my daddy bled for this family — and he stayed up half the night filling out my paperwork himself." One of the girls coos. "You and the boss, Viv — it's like a movie." Vivian giggles into her mimosa. Eyes flick at me over the rim. "Stop. You'll embarrass Dr. Reed." She lowers her voice. Just loud enough. "You know how she is. South Boston girl. Bit of a temper on her." I tighten my grip on my medical bag and walk straight past them. I go to Linda's. Linda Hayes is the closest thing this family has to a queen mother — Don Hayes' wife, the only woman in the inner circle who ever looked at me like a daughter instead of an outsider. She pulls me through the door before I've even knocked. "Scarlett, honey. You and Garrett fighting again?" I shake my head. "Linda. I need to know about the Doctor seat." She sighs. "Oh, sweetheart. Garrett's gone and made a mess of this one." "That seat was yours. Doc Warren went straight to the Don and said so himself." "Then Garrett went around him. Put Vivian's name in over yours. Pulled every string his father left in this city." She shakes her head. "The Commission doesn't know what to do with him." My stomach drops. So he didn't just file her application. He fought for it. Against me. I walk out of Linda's house and the sky over Long Island is dirty and gray. The wind off the Sound cuts straight through my coat. Dylan jogs up the path from the carriage house. My baby brother. Twenty years old and built like a brick wall. "Scar. You okay?" I can't answer. "It's that bitch, isn't it. Vivian." His face goes red. "I'm going down to the club." "Dylan. Don't." I grab his sleeve. "It's the family. You don't —" "You took a bullet for that man, Scar. A bullet. You almost died on a concrete floor in Little Italy." "And now he's handing your seat to a lounge singer?" "He's a piece of shit, Scar. He's an ungrateful piece of shit." I clap a hand over his mouth. "Stop." That night in the parking garage is the one thing Garrett and I don't talk about. He hates it when I bring it up. He told me once a real man doesn't owe his life to anyone — and a real man's wife doesn't remind him she's the one he owes it to. Dylan rips my hand off and storms down the gravel drive. My heart kicks. I run after him. By the time I get to the Velvet Room, it's too late. Dylan is on his knees on the back patio. Two of Garrett's enforcers pinning his arms. His lip is split. Vivian is crying — beautifully — clinging to Garrett's chest. "Garrett, I swear — I just wanted to talk to her —" "Her brother — he grabbed me — he grabbed me —" Dylan thrashes. "I didn't touch her!" "She's lying!" Garrett doesn't even look at him. Drives his boot into Dylan's ribs. "You don't put hands on a woman under this roof. Ever." I throw myself between them. "Garrett — stop! He didn't do it!" His eyes are ice. "This is the brother you brought into my house? You keep defending him, I'll put you in the basement with him." He turns his shoulder against me. Slides an arm around Vivian. Voice softer than he's ever used on me. "It's okay, baby. I've got you." Vivian buries her face in his shirt. I stand in the wet grass and feel something behind my ribs go quiet. Like a light switching off. They take Dylan to the basement. Lock him in. Garrett tells the family the boy will take the fall publicly. A formal strike. By Christmas he's out of the organization. No protection. No name. No welcome anywhere in the five boroughs. I go to his study that night to beg. He's at his desk. Polishing his father's old service revolver. Doesn't look up. "It's family law, Scarlett." "He didn't do it." "Vivian said he did. Two of the girls said the same. Whose word — yours or theirs?" "Garrett. He's my brother." He finally lifts his head. His eyes are full of disgust. "I told you to keep him in line." "Now there's a mess. And you want me to bend the rules for your feelings?" He shakes his head. "You disappoint me, Scar." He snaps the cylinder shut. Lays the revolver in its case. "The seat's decided. Vivian. The Commission announces Monday." A pause. "I'll keep your brother out of the books. No paper. No whispers. But the basement stays. The strike stays. That's the most I'm giving you." Like he's tossing me a coin. I walk out of his study. The whole world goes black.
Watch? https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260619TMQn56Z8yc ? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "Novelix" app ? search for "ni256489", and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix