The Mafia Bride They Rejected Became an Underboss novel · Chapter 2 of 16

Chapter 2: Underboss

Hector hands Vera the Don's call in front of everyone, and her mother slaps her for shaming her father until Vera asks why he called her every Sunday.

For one second, nobody breathed.

Then Lorenzo threw his head back and laughed.

"The Duarte underboss," he said. "In those jeans."

Carina laughed so hard she had to hold on to Stefano's arm.

"Oh, Vera. Oh, honey. Did the trucker tell you that?"

The cousins joined in. Then the uncles.

Even the guard with the bitten wrist was grinning.

My mother didn't laugh.

She just looked tired, like I was one more thing that had spilled.

"Please," she said. "Not today."

The front door opened.

Hector Ybarra stepped in from the porch and took off his hat.

He was fifty-four and built like a mailbox. His suit was black and his boots were older than Tomás.

Two of our men came in behind him and stood by the wall.

Lorenzo put on his best smile and stuck out his hand.

"Mr. Ybarra. Lorenzo Lombardi. We're honored."

Hector walked straight past the hand.

He didn't even look at it.

He crossed the room, stopped in front of me, and bowed his head.

"Underboss," he said. "Don Duarte is on the line for you."

He held out his phone.

Carina's laugh died in the middle.

I took the phone.

"I'm here," I said.

Rafael's voice was low and even, the way it always got when he was worried and didn't want me to hear it.

"Did you see him yet?"

"I'm looking at him."

"And?"

I looked at my father in his casket.

"He looks small."

"I'm sorry, Vera."

"I know."

"And the rest of them?"

I looked at Lorenzo, whose hand was still hanging in the air.

"They're laughing," I said.

Rafael was quiet for a moment.

"Are they still laughing?"

"No."

"Good. I'll see you at the funeral."

He hung up.

I gave the phone back to Hector.

The whole room was staring at me.

Lorenzo's smile had set.

"This is a joke," he said. "This is some kind of joke."

"Mr. Lombardi," Hector said, without turning around. "Your family asked for a meeting about the southern route."

"Yes. Yes, we did."

"The Don doesn't take meetings about the southern route."

Hector nodded at me.

"She does."

Stefano let go of Carina's arm.

I watched him do the math.

The Marchettis moved everything they had through the Lombardis, and the Lombardis moved it through Duarte country.

Without our trucks, their warehouses sat empty.

Lorenzo came toward me with both hands up.

"Vera. Sweetheart. Let's talk in Dad's study. Just you and me."

"No."

"We're family."

"You were family at the Drake too," I said. "You handed me the glass."

Somebody's fork hit a plate.

Lorenzo's face went white, then red.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

I walked past him to the casket.

The kids went quiet for the first time in twenty-two hours.

They followed me in a little line, oldest to youngest, the way they did at church.

My father had on his gray suit.

Somebody had combed his hair the wrong way.

I licked my thumb and fixed it.

"Hi, Dad," I said. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Luz tugged my sleeve.

"Is that Grandpa Sal? From the phone?"

"Yes, baby."

"He doesn't look like his voice."

"No," I said. "He doesn't."

Behind me, the room had started to whisper.

From the phone.

I felt my mother coming before I heard her.

The click of her heels was the same as when I was nine and had broken a window.

She spun me around by the shoulder.

Then she slapped me.

It was loud. The kids jumped.

Tomás started forward and I put my hand out without looking. He stopped.

My mother's eyes were wet and furious.

"You don't get to touch him," she said. "You don't get to fix his hair."

"Mom."

"You ran off with some animal the night your father gave you everything. You broke his heart."

She was shaking.

"He never said your name again. Not once in eight years. Your father died of shame over you."

The room was dead silent.

Carina had her hand over her mouth, but I could see her smiling behind it.

Lorenzo nodded along.

I touched my cheek.

It stung, and I let it.

"If he was so ashamed of me," I said, "why did he call me every Sunday for a year?"

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