Chapter 60

Aldo

How could you do this? The words echoed over and over in my head—the ones I wanted to ask. The answer I desperately yearned to know. My side ached with a vengeance, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

Layla had vehemently protested to me leaving my sick room at the manor. She had been even less happy with the idea of me walking out of my own accord.

Getting into the backseat of a car, letting Carlo drive me across town to the safehouse … She’d thrown up her hands and marched away. Declaring it my funeral.

But at the end of the day, I was the Don of this family, and that made this my responsibility—wounds or no. Doctor’s orders or no. I couldn’t send someone else to deal with my problems.

Not this time. Not this problem. There was no way I wouldn’t see this through to the end. I couldn’t leave this kind of betrayal for anyone else to deal with.

So it was on my own two feet, behind my expressionless mask, that I walked into the Upper Manhattan rowhouse where Carlo’s men had transported my traitor.

I’d been assured we wouldn’t be disturbed.

It was on my own two feet that I strode into the glossy wood kitchen, Carlo at my back. My side ached, and I thought I might feel blood bubbling through the bandage Layla had placed only that morning, but I ignored the physical discomforts.

Now was a time for strength.

Afternoon sunlight spilled across the marble flooring. Highlighting the chair settled beside the window. The chair where my traitor sat, head held high, bound but not gagged.

On my own two feet, I crossed to that chair to stand before my once-trusted friend.

And it was on my own two feet that I stared this traitor down. “You don’t need to bother with excuses or lies.”

She glared back up at me from her pathetic kitchen chair, her own mask perfectly in place. She knew she wouldn’t be here—knew I wouldn’t be here—if I didn’t have overwhelming evidence against her. If I hadn’t done my research, checked and re-checked my facts.

And this evidence had been checked.

More times than I cared to admit, in fact. And still, I hadn’t wanted to believe it. I’d looked for loopholes, other possible explanations. But in the end, the evidence was undeniable.

Photographs. Financial statements, bank statements. Correspondence.

Damning proof. So very much of it.

But it was the face staring up at me that told me, without a further doubt, that Aurora Falcone was my traitor. My mole. The woman who’d attempted to orchestrate my death.

“You’ve played an impressively long con,” I said, which was maybe my way of wondering how someone could be so goddamned loyal for so many goddamned years—only for it to be a lie.

Aurora flinched, like I’d struck a nerve. “Do you really think so little of me? I’ve been your friend—your truest friend—since the beginning.”

“Have you?” I let the barest thread of scorn slide through my words. “Is that why you’ve been working with the Moretti family to bring Marco back, to flood the drug trade, to orchestrate my assassination?”

My own traitorous mind raced through memories of Aurora—her sharp wit, her easy smile, her loyalty in times of crisis, the way she’d always seemed to understand me.

It didn’t fit. None of it fit.

“Oh, Vasco,” Aurora purred, her lip curled in a bitter sneer. “You really think this is about business?”

My brows lifted. “Is it not? Is that not what it’s always about?”

“Business.” Aurora scoffed. “This is family, Aldo. Personal. Just like my relationship with you has always been personal.”

The realization hit me like a shockwave. “This is because I never married you?”

“It’s because you never wanted me!” she snarled. “Because I have been nothing except loyal, except good and kind and loving and you spit on that love.”

My breaths felt suddenly too shallow. The truth in her words rendered me speechless.

“I wanted to be your equal. Your queen. But you always kept me at arm’s length. I was your perfect match—and you scorned me.”

She was right.

I had.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were children,” Aurora whispered, her eyes shining beneath the vivid white lights of the interrogation room. “You disappeared. You left me. But you came back. Eight years ago, you came back, and it was the happiest day of my life.”

I struggled to keep breathing as all these admissions, all these truths, tumbled from her mouth.

“And then she popped out of nowhere,” Aurora snarled, “like a fucking fairie and I got tossed aside like a piece of trash.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. She was right. She’d been my most loyal ally. My strategist. My friend.

And how had I repaid her? Not just by taking her for granted; I’d treated her like she meant nothing to me.

“I hurt you,” I said, and how could I not have realized it? I’d been so caught up in Layla, in Eli, in my own feelings, I hadn’t for one second stopped to consider Aurora’s.

“Hurt me?” Aurora laughed, cold and bitter. “I’m not that weak, Aldo. Why do you think I turned to Marco? The drug trade is worth billions. The Moretti family has incredible reach. I saw an opportunity to be a true queen—and I took it.”

“And I’m sure my attempted murder was part of that opportunity?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. I’d hurt her, but this … this type of betrayal was something else entirely.

“Your death would be very bad for the Marcello family, and very good for the Morettis. If it plays into my revenge …” Aurora merely shrugged. “Call it killing two birds with one stone.”

The words were sharp on their own, but it was the way she said them, so casually, that made them cut like knives.

“There are no second chances, Aurora.” I forced my voice to be cold, brutal. “Not in the Marcello family. Not for a betrayal like this.”

“Go ahead, Aldo.” She tilted her chin up to look me square in the face. “Kill me. Do it.”

“You betrayed your family,” I said, keeping my same cold tone. “You attempted to murder your own don, a man you’d sworn your loyalty to.”

She didn’t flinch. “Kill. Me. Then.”

“I hereby banish you from the Marcello family and all its associated allies. That includes the Falcone family.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched—the only sign the words affected her. I’d banished her from her own family, and if they wanted to protect their status in the Marcello Mafia, they’d have to respect the banishment.

She’d live … but she’d never be able to speak to her own mother again. Her father. Her brother or sisters.

Perhaps it was a fate worse than death.

Perhaps killing her would have been the merciful punishment. But I was the Don of the notorious Marcello family, and in our family, mercy was weakness.

“Go,” I said. “And never show your face here again.”