The Name I Buried Became the Name That Destroyed Him

On the eve of the Brancato crew's formal recognition by the Commission, Salvatore couldn't wait to throw a lavish celebration inside the family's private club. To top it off, he ordered his personal courier to hand out double cuts of the take, all in cash.

With a sweet smile, Vittoria personally passed neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills to every associate in the room. But when she reached me, she suddenly shoved me aside.

"Move it. Filthy strays don't belong here."

Confused, I asked her what she meant.

Vittoria sneered and threw a folded slip of paper right in my face — the mark of exile, my name struck from the crew. "A shameless tramp like you has no right to a cut. Get lost before you make us sick."

As she spat the words, the wide projected screen behind her lit up with a series of intimate photos of me and one of the family's biggest silent partners.

Then came the list of cuts. The numbers on the screen stung my eyes. Everyone had taken at least a six-figure share, except me. My column was marked with a glaring red zero.

I clenched my fists and looked up at Salvatore where he stood near the bar, a glass of something dark untouched in his hand.

"Are you sure you want to cast me out — tonight?"

——

I asked as the screen kept cycling through those photos of me and the partner.

In the frames, I was either walking side by side with the men, touching glasses in a toast, or, worse, being held around the waist as I stepped into a hotel on one of their arms.

Hearing my question, Salvatore dragged his gaze off the screen and looked at me coldly, saying nothing. The music had died somewhere behind us. No one moved.

"Are you sure, Salvatore?" I asked again.

Every eye in the room turned to him, filled with sympathy and pity.

Ignoring the looks from his associates, he slowly stepped forward until he was towering over me. His voice came out cold as the ice settling in his glass. "Adriana, what right do you have to stay in this crew? Every bit of what we've built came from work, from blood. Everyone earned it. Everyone but you."

"Am I short on money? On care for you? Is that why you chose to shame me like this in front of my own men? Don't tell me these are the reason you wouldn't come home and be the devoted wife I asked for."

He suddenly pulled a stack of photos from inside his jacket and slammed them hard against my face. The sharp edges grazed my skin before they scattered across the floor. He straightened his tie, smoothed his lapel, as though the gesture could settle what he'd just done.

A sting shot through me. I raised my hand and touched my cheek. My fingers came away stained with red.

"They tell me it was a noble thing, bringing this family's name before the Commission. But I won't let a disgrace like you ruin it, even if you're the woman I was bound to marry."

I looked at the cold, dignified man before me, still convinced he was only misled by the pictures. Patiently, I explained. "Salvatore, others may not believe me. But you? Everything I built came from my own work. It has nothing to do with those photos."

"Your own work?" Vittoria cut in, her tone dripping with mockery. Two fingers brushed the base of her throat, just for a breath, before her smile locked back into place. "And what kind of 'work' would that be? Your talents in bed? We've all heard just how 'deep' your dealings with the partners run."

Laughter broke around us, a few voices murmuring their agreement across the smoke-thick room.

"Exactly. Who knows how many partners' beds she crawled through to bring in those numbers? And to think we used to look up to her, learn from her on the quiet."

There's a saying: kick a man once he's already down. I never thought the very associates I'd once broken bread with would prove that proverb so perfectly.

I clenched my teeth and forced myself calm. "Those photos prove nothing. My dealings with them were business, nothing more."

"Business?" Vittoria bent and picked a photo off the floor, the one where a man had his arm around me as we walked into the hotel. "Bedroom business, you mean. Then explain this one. How do you talk your way out of this?"

She went on with a sneer. "This is a still from a high-definition video. Shall I play the whole thing for the room?"

I stared at the photo a moment. Then, without meaning to, I let out a laugh of pure relief.

Because the man in that picture was my older brother.

That night, I'd been drunk. I'd meant to call Salvatore to come for me. Instead, I had called Lorenzo.