Dance of Deception: Chapter 6

Some seats of power were built.

My family’s was claimed.

I slide out of the driver’s seat of the matte black Lamborghini Aventador, pausing to glance up at the towering 5th Avenue home.

The Barone mansion is a relic from a bygone era, standing up defiantly to time, wealth, and anyone who’s tried—and then failed—to take it. A hulking, French Renaissance fortress, its limestone façade glares over Central Park like it owns the whole goddamn city. Maybe, in some ways, it does.

New York has changed around it, steel and glass rising to stifle the past. But this house hasn’t moved, bent, or cracked since my great-grandfather, Giovanni Barone, won it in an honest-to-God card game during Prohibition.

Back then, New York was the wild fucking west. A city ripe for the picking for men with ambition and a willingness to do whatever it took.

Giovanni came from Tuscany, where his family had been winemakers for generations. When he stepped off the boat in New York, he saw immediately that this place wasn’t built for the dreamers. It was built for the takers.

So… He took.

He started small—bootlegging, backroom deals, running numbers for the right people. Then he got bigger. Smarter. Bloodier.

Eventually, he was the one setting the rules.

And the house?

Some millionaire playboy with more money than brains sat across a card table from my great-grandfather one night and bet the mansion on a bad hand, probably after too much bootleg whiskey.

Giovanni ended up taking the deed home, and it’s been the seat of power for the Barone empire ever since.

It’s seen wars, power struggles, assassinations, love affairs, betrayals. It’s housed both the men who built this empire and those who bled to keep it. And someday, it’ll be mine.

I try daily not to dwell too much on that.

I adjust my cufflinks as I approach the grand front entrance, shaking off the remnants of last night. I don’t bring the Court home with me—not to family.

Here, I’m just Carmy.

Roguishly charming. Sarcastic. Fun. Maybe sometimes a little too much of a playboy.

Honestly? It’s all just another mask. But it’s the one I wear best.

Leo and Sal, two of my father’s long-time guards, give me quick nod as I approach the front door. Before they can open it, though, a black town car pulling up to the curb pulls my attention back around.

Bianca cracks the door open before the car can even come to a stop, still wearing ballet tights and a cropped sweatshirt, an enormous bag slung over one shoulder, her hair still twisted into a tight bun.

“Wait wait wait!” she blurts, shutting the car door before any of Pop’s guys can even try to do it. “I can’t be the last one in!”

I grin, arching a brow and folding my arms over my chest.

“Really pushing the limits on the ‘casual’ part of ‘casual formal attire’, aren’t you.”

She rolls her eyes and flips me off.

“I was at work, okay? Besides, that rule is just for you guys.”

Sunday dinner has always been a big thing with Vito. I mean, hello: Italian family. But this whole “dress sharp for it” thing is more recent, possibly stemming from his forays into cooking dinner himself as of about a year ago.

At least his cooking has gotten substantially better. Thank God. At first, I gotta say, it felt almost insulting to be asked to dress up for legit vomit-inducing undercooked poultry or blackened lasagna.

I mean, I’m a shitty Catholic who has no fucking idea who any of the saints are. But I’m confident whichever one is in charge of cooking put a fucking hex on our house and probably offed themselves into the bargain after seeing Pop murder something basic like cacio e pepe.

I frown. “What you mean, ‘you guys’?”

“I mean you guys. The boys.” She shrugs, grinning. “Dad doesn’t care if I dress up.”

“What makes you think that?”

Bianca winks. “Because I’m his priiiincesss,” she teases.

I roll my eyes, and she cracks up.

Bianca is one of the few people in the world who sees me and doesn’t expect any power plays or politics. Just family.

And believe me, anyone who once felt the need to mention her not technically being my blood has long since learned to shut the fuck up.

Bianca, like her brother Dante, have been Barones since the day my father took them in.

Their old man, Angelo Sartorre, was our dad’s tailor and close friend, one of the few people Vito trusted implicitly. When Angelo died, leaving his kids with no one, my father didn’t hesitate.

He opened his home and raised them as his own.

Dante was already almost a man back then, but Bianca was just a kid. Now she’s standing here, all grown up, married, carrying her oversized bag like she didn’t just spend the last four hours ruining her body at rehearsal.

I shake my head. “You’re a masochist, you know that?”

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Ballet.” I gesture at the kinesiology tape wrapped around her calf. “You literally make a career out of destroying yourself and calling it art.”

She huffs. “You literally make a career out of destroying others and calling it business.”

“Fair.” I grin. “Wanna switch jobs? You can run the criminal empire, I’ll wear the tutu and jump around on stage.”

She snorts. “Please. You’d last five minutes in my world.”

I’ve seen Bianca dance enough, seen the wounds she carries home. Five minutes is generous. I doubt I’d last one.

I glance at her bag again, at the tape still wrapped around her leg.

I think of the other dancer.

The one I caught.

The one who ran.

The one who is still in my fucking head, the phantom pressure of her body still lingering against my hands.

Bianca’s brows lift slightly. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

She doesn’t push. Never does. Bianca, more than most people, understands that there’s much more to me than the charming, cocky exterior I present to the world. She been quite blunt in the past about the…darker angels of my nature.

Probably because even though she was being a sarcastic brat a second ago, she’s not wrong. She’s “the princess” in our family. And at times I’ve let my dark, inner monster out to protect and shield her.

Like the time when she was in 8th grade, and some little fuck at school lifted her skirt and snapped pictures of her ass.

Needless to say, the shit-stain learned two very important life-long lessons. One, don’t be a creep. And more importantly, two, do not, under any circumstances, ever fuck with a Barone.

And all it cost him was a broken nose and jaw. I would say that’s getting off more than easy.

Have I ever felt badly about that? Considering Bianca is ten years younger than me, which means I was like twenty-four when I was breaking a junior high school kid’s face?

Nope.

Am I supposed to?

Bianca shifts her bag on her shoulder as we climb the steps to the front door. Sal and Leo bow stiffly again, the latter offering to help her as they open the door for us. Bianca politely declines with a smile, asking them both how they and their families are.

Considering the not-so-hidden darker tendencies that Nico, Dante, and I all harbor, it feels like proof of cosmic balance that Bianca ended up so good.

I glance at her. “Where’s your husband, by the way?”

She smirks. “Already here, helping Dad with dinner.”

I cross myself dramatically, offering up a prayer of gratitude. Bianca cracks up as we step inside.

“Come on!” she laughs. “Dad’s gotten way better!”

“Yeah, thanks to Kratos, Sunday dinners with Pop have stopped being a near-death experience,” I grunt. “Do you remember that turkey dinner he tried to whip up himself before your husband started pitching in?”

Bianca makes a face, holding her stomach like she’s going to be sick. “Yeah. That one was especially egregious.”

“Fuckin’ thing was so rare it might as well have still been gobbling.”

My sister bursts out laughing again, and for a second we just stand there: me with my jovial mask on, Bianca carefree.

It’s moments like this that make me forget that I wear a different face for almost every room I walk into.

Forget that my hands were on a woman’s throat just last night. That I hunted her through the dark, that I made her break and then reveled in it.

Forget that someday soon, I’ll be taking my father’s place as head of the family.

I let out a slow breath. Then I sling an arm around Bianca’s shoulders.

“Come on, ballerina. Let’s eat before Pop starts pulling a Gordon Ramsay.”

She laughs and we step inside the house together.

The rich smell of slow-cooked garlic and tomatoes hits me the second we enter, and my stomach growls viciously. Yeah, that’s the smell of Sunday dinner at the Barone house.

We bump into Kratos first, almost literally, as we step into the dining room. This isn’t difficult to do, given that the guy is almost seven feet tall and about two hundred and seventy pounds of solid muscle.

He turns, a large grin instantly spreading across his face as his eyes drop to my sister.

“I believe this belongs to me,” he murmurs, deftly plucking her out from where my arm is over her shoulder, pulling her into him.

Bianca blushes and rolls her eyes, halfheartedly trying to push him away.

“Stop, I’m gross. I was running late and haven’t showered yet.”

“Good,” Kratos grins, trapping her against his body and lifting her chin and gaze to his with one massive hand. “I love the smell of sweat on you.” His brow cocks. “And the taste.”

“Dude, I’m standing right fucking here,” I grunt, making a face and glaring at my brother-in-law.

Bianca laughs. Kratos shrugs unapologetically. “That sounds like a you problem, Carmy.”

“Let’s keep it PG during family dinner at least?” I mutter.

“Hey, I’m a perfect gentleman,” Kratos snorts in a deep, baritone chuckle.

“No you’re not.” Bianca giggles quietly as she stands up on her tiptoes. She still has to pull him down to kiss him.

Any other man—and I mean that literally—getting this cozy with Bianca in our own house, I’d already have him splayed out on the table like a medical dissection, using steak knives to remove his organs.

But when you save my sister’s life you earn my respect, so Kratos gets a pass from the hungry monster lurking under my skin. Besides, he makes her happier than I’ve ever seen her, constantly.

So I leave the two of them to paw each other like love-sick puppies as I turn to the rest of my family.

Dante is watching his wife with all the wariness of a man who knows he’s already lost the battle.

Dante runs Club Venom, the most exclusive, underground kink club in the city where the dark, dangerous and deviant indulge in their blackest vices. Tempest, his wife, is his opposite in every way. She’s loud and brassy with a gothy aesthetic and has zero respect for Dante’s need for order. She also loves making him miserable.

I like her.

“Tempest,” he says slowly, dire warning in every syllable.

She doesn’t even look up, just keeps fussing with the food on the antipasto platter, rearranging the olives, stacking cheese cubes like little Lego towers.

“What?” she asks, batting her eyes and popping an olive into her mouth.

“You don’t have to touch everything.”

She giggles, turning to grin impishly at him. “See, that’s your problem. You own a literal sex club, but you’re allergic to fun.”

I snort, dropping into my usual chair. Tempest is still grinning as she turns to me. “Hey Carm.”

“Tempest,” I grin, watching as she tosses another olive in the air as if to catch it in her mouth. She misses, and it bounces off her chin and rolls down Dante’s white dress shirt into his lap as his wife cracks up.

He sighs heavily.

“Hey, you married me,” Tempest smirks, turning to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“I seem to remember being tricked into that.”

Tempest grins. “And yet, here you still are.”

“Every single day, I reevaluate that particular life choice,” Dante says.

“Admit it,” she sing-songs, nudging his wine glass out of place just to watch him fix it again. “You’d die without me.”

Dante exhales slowly, like he’s gathering patience from the deepest recesses of his soul.

“Little hurricane, you are incapable of sitting still.”

Tempest pops a piece of Provolone in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “That’s not true. I sit still when I’m asleep,” she finally offers.

“You kick me in your sleep.”

She shrugs. “Not my problem.”

Dante presses his fingers to his temples, breathing deeply. “You’re going to kill me,” he murmurs. “Slowly. Painfully.”

Tempest beams. “Please. I’m a fucking delight.”

Dante stares at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leans in, his voice dropping.

“Yes, you are,” he murmurs, his tone rough and warm all at once.

Tempest blinks, startled, a prosciutto slice halfway to her open mouth.

I can’t help but laugh.

That’s how it always goes with them: she pushes, teases, causes utter chaos, and just when she thinks she’s in control, Dante reminds her exactly how much she belongs to him.

The other door to the dining room suddenly swings open and I glance up as Nico walks in with Pop, the former holding two bottles of Barolo from the cellar.

Sixty-two years old, tanned as hell, and still handsome as fuck, Vito somehow always manages to walk the fine line between gangster chic and smooth Italian finesse. The guy dresses like a king—all Armani, all the time—but still has a little bit of the streets on him. The gold chain glinting against his chest with the top few buttons of his shirt undone. A classy, modern haircut that makes him look like a movie star but doesn’t quite cover the cauliflower ears of a man who spent his youth brawling for turf.

“The gang’s all here!” Vito grins, arms wide as he takes in the room.

He’s been saying that since we were kids.

Back then, it was when we piled into the living room for Saturday morning cartoons or he picked us up from school. Now, it’s when we gather at the family estate, our conversation about power struggles, alliances, and the empire we’ll inherit.

Bianca is the first to reach him. She wraps her arms around him tightly, and Vito plants a loud, exaggerated kiss on her forehead.

“My beautiful girl.” He cups her face, beaming before his brow furrows. “Look at you. You don’t eat anymore? You’re all bone!”

“Dad, I eat plenty,” Bianca sighs, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves her off. “Still my bellissima ballerina.”

His gaze shifts to me. His grin turns playful but sharp as he walks over. I stand, and the two of us embrace, my nose filling with the familiar scent of him: Italian aftershave, clean linen, and the lingering aroma of a cigar I’m betting he had earlier while listening to Sinatra.

“Remind me later,” he nods as we pull apart. “I need to talk to you about an opportunity we might want to jump on, fast.”

I cock a brow. “Yeah?”

“What kind of opportunity?” Nico adds as he joins us, rubbing his palm over his jawline.

Vito pulls closer to the two of us, lowering his voice. “Word has it, Andrei Mushkin got one of those summons…” He clears his throat, his voice lowering even more. “From those Black Court psychos.”

My brow knits, but Nico and I don’t even look at each other.

That’s just how it is.

The Black Court might be infamous throughout the underworld, but no one—no one—knows who we, the Shadow Kings, really are. Not even our families.

We don’t talk about what happens there once we leave. Outside those walls, if The Bull and I were to sit down in a social or business situation—which we frequently do—we address each other with our real names. Just as in Court, we only address each other using our Shadow names.

“Oh yeah?” I say evenly.

Pop nods. “Yeah. Word is, Mushkin’s been missing the last few days.”

Nico snorts. “I dunno, Dad. I think this whole black court thing is just a mafia world ghost story.”

Vito doesn’t even blink. “It’s not,” he grunts. “That shit is real. Either way, Mushkin’s gone missing, his people are losing their shit trying to keep it quiet, and I think we all know what that means for those warehouses of his in Queens.”

I nod slowly. Then, Pop shakes his head.

“Not a conversation for right now. I just wanted to put that in your heads.”

“Hey, you’re the boss, Pop.”

He smiles and claps me on the shoulder. “Not forever, kiddo.” He clears his throat as he turns and rubs his hands together, looking pleased. “All right, all right, everyone, take your seats. Dinner is ready. But first, a toast.”

Nico uncorks one of the bottles with practiced ease, pouring deep red wine into each waiting glass as we all take our places around the table. Vito stands at the head of the table, lifts his glass, and we all follow suit.

“Alla famiglia,” he says with a warm smile.

To family.

“To the past that shaped us, the present that binds us, and the future that awaits us.”

He clears his throat, frowning slightly before raising his glass again.

“May our hands remain steady, our hearts remain strong, and may we always find our way home.”

We clink glasses, laughter and conversation swelling again.

Except suddenly, something’s wrong.

Pop is still standing, his glass aloft. But he’s not taking a sip, and his face is twisted in a grimace.

“Dad?” Bianca blurts.

I watch it happen in slow motion. Vito staggers back, his glass slipping from his grip and shattering against the floor, red wine pooling like spilled blood on the floorboards.

Then he drops.

Fuck.

No.

Bianca screams.

Nico lunges forward, catching Pop just before he hits the ground.

Tempest gasps, her chair scraping back as she jumps to her feet.

Kratos is already shoving the table aside, Dante moving swiftly to help lower Vito onto the floor.

I drop beside him, hands gripping his shoulders.

“Pop,” I choke out. “POP!”

This isn’t how this happens. Vito Barone isn’t supposed to collapse at family dinner.

“Someone call a fucking ambulance!” Nico roars.

This isn’t happening.

Pop’s face is ashen, his breathing shallow.

His eyes meet mine. For the first time in my life, Vito Barone looks afraid.

And for the first time in my life⁠—

So am I.