Too Late To Beg: The Scapegoat's Revenge

Elena Vitiello POV

The silence in the Don's estate is heavy, suffocating, like the air before a storm breaks.

It is Initiation Day.

The great hall is filled with Made Men in black suits, the air thick with stale cigar smoke and the cloying scent of expensive cologne.

The Don sits at the head of the long table, his face a mask of granite.

Beside him, the Capo—Dante's father—is sweating.

He keeps checking his watch. He keeps glancing at the heavy oak doors.

They are waiting for Dante.

And Dante is not here.

I stand in the back with the other Associates and family members, my hands clasped demurely in front of me.

My mother grips my arm, her fingers digging painfully into my skin.

"Where is he?" she whispers, terrified. "Elena, do you know?"

"No, Mama," I lie smoothly. "I haven't seen him since yesterday."

Last night, the Capo had banged on our door, demanding to know where his son was.

I told him the truth: I gave him his keys, and he left.

I didn't tell him where he was going. That wasn't my job.

The clock on the wall ticks.

Ten minutes past the start time.

Twenty minutes.

The Don taps his heavy signet ring against the mahogany table. Click. Click. Click.

It is the sound of a death sentence.

To be late for your own Initiation is an insult. To miss it entirely is treason.

The Capo stands up, his voice shaking. "Don Salvatore, please. There must be an accident. My son would never—"

The doors crash open.

Every head turns.

Dante stumbles in.

He is a wreck. His shirt is torn open, missing buttons; his hair is wild, and he reeks of stale alcohol and sex.

He can barely walk in a straight line.

The silence in the room transforms into shock, then curdles into disgust.

He missed the Blood Oath because he was hungover.

The Capo's wife, Dante's mother, lets out a choked sob and covers her mouth.

The Capo looks like he wants to shoot his own son right there.

Dante blinks, the bright lights of the chandelier hurting his eyes. He looks around, realizing too late the gravity of his mistake.

He sees the Don's cold stare. He sees his father's murderous rage.

Sheer panic floods his face. He needs an excuse. He needs a victim.

His eyes scan the room frantically until they land on me.

I am standing still, watching him with the same impassive expression I've worn since I woke up.

He points a shaking finger at me.

"Her!" he screams, his voice cracking.

The room gasps.

"She did this!" Dante yells, stumbling forward. "She was jealous! She drugged my drink! She locked me in a hotel room and tried to seduce me!"

My father steps in front of me, his face going pale.

"Dante, what are you saying?" my father asks.

"She's a whore!" Dante roars, desperate to shift the blame, desperate to save his own skin at the cost of my life. "She tried to blackmail me into marrying her so she could be a Capo's wife! When I refused, she drugged me!"

The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and poisonous.

In the Mafia, seducing a Made Man—or a future one—against his will, and causing him to dishonor the Don, is punishable by death.

He isn't just ruining my reputation.

He is signing my death warrant.