Chapter 6 The Weight of Blood

Salvatore Beaumont

I glance at the watch I’ve worn since I was sixteen. A gift from my father.

Not that he was loving or affectionate, especially with me, the bastard. Living with him was still better than living with my grandmother, an alcoholic with bipolar disorder. I never really knew whether she loved me or if my presence was just a burden she didn’t want in her house. Maybe she hated me for being the constant reminder of something my mother had left for her to deal with. I carry cigarette-burn scars across my back. I never had a choice about living with her.

Ironically, one day she decided she could profit from my existence and went looking for my father to tell him he had a son. At first, I wasn’t welcomed, but my intelligence eventually caught his attention, and impressed by it, he decided to acknowledge me as his son.

Until I was eleven, I didn’t even know what it was like to sleep in a bed. The closest thing to it was the hard floor, covered by nothing more than a doormat.

I don’t use pillows. I hate blankets.

I learned to hate touch. Being close to anyone made me feel filthy, as if my skin carried the weight of not being loved by anyone. Not by my mother, who abandoned me. Not by my grandmother, who treated me like an animal. Not by my father, who only wanted me because he saw some use in my intelligence.

I have habits that never change. I live in a constant state of hypervigilance. I suffer from obsessive control: everything has to be in the right place, aligned, predictable.

My mind never stops. Not even when I want it to.

I’ve always been intelligent. Since I was a child.

I won medals in math competitions.

I forced my way in before the allowed age range.

My IQ is above average. That was one of the reasons my father kept me close.

I wasn’t the legitimate son, but I was useful. After he died and power passed to my brother, I distanced myself.

I split my days between Sicily and Philadelphia. Victor has an entire team to guide him.

I prefer to work on the outside.

Killing doesn’t bother me. Sometimes it’s even therapeutic to unload your frustration on the right son of a bitch.

I never wanted to live trapped in the world of the mafia. I never dreamed of the legacy, of the structure of the “family.”

But fate likes to play games.

Frank died. Coincidence or not, he was my brother’s consigliere. And now, on top of having to take care of my friend’s daughter—who was also my mentor—I was appointed to replace him.

At first, I refused.

I asked Victor to find someone else. But my brother told me, “You’re a Beaumont. You can’t run from your responsibilities forever.”

Responsibilities...

I’m not like him. I don’t like ruling or making decisions for other people.

I prefer solitude.

The certainty of my own existence. I don’t want to perpetuate the bastard bloodline I carry.

My mind drifts to Lizzie.

I think about yesterday. About the way she changed my bandage. About what her careful touch did to me. I also think about her marriage to Damien. About her blind determination to be happy with him.

She’s right when she says I wasn’t a present man. I didn’t watch her grow up.

Truth is, I’m not present in anyone’s life. I don’t like forming bonds.

Back then, I didn’t understand why Frank wanted me to be her protector.

I’ve never liked children. I hate how loud they are, restless, unpredictable. They ruin everything, and that goes against everything I value: order, silence, control.

But Lizzie... Lizzie isn’t a little girl anymore. She grew up.

I vaguely remember her as a skinny child, always in the shadow of her father. Now she’s different, taller, her freckles still there, her hair long, almost reaching her waist.

She’s fierce. My mind returns to the sight of her holding that shotgun.

I smile to myself at the memory.

I don’t know why Frank placed her in my path—maybe he believed I could be good for her. But one thing I do know: I’ll do everything to protect her. I’ll watch over her.

Lizzie is my obligation.

My responsibility.

My precious burden to carry... until she gets married.

I check the time on my watch again.

It’s impressive how punctual I can be while my brother is perpetually late. Even Scarlett, with all her madness, is more reliable with time than he is.

I turn on the couch, irritated.

It was my choice to schedule this meeting here, in the apartment. It seemed more practical than the nightclub, and besides, I wanted to stop by and check the place, even if Elijah takes care of everything.

The doorbell rings. Even before opening the door, I hear Victor and Xavier talking outside.

I type in the code. Unlock the door. Open it coldly.

“When I schedule something with you, Victor, you’d better show up on time,” I snap, already stepping aside to let them in.

My brother walks in. He has pale blue eyes, a sharp jawline, the face of a Hollywood actor—some handsome, arrogant pretty boy. Xavier walks in beside him. He’s Victor’s best friend and right-hand man, and also the underboss.

“I’m still newly married... and things at home aren’t going very well,” my brother mutters.

They sit on the couch. I don’t ask anything. I don’t want details about his marriage to Ivy.

“He’s sleeping in the guest room, can you believe it?” Xavier comments, throwing him a mocking look and earning a cold stare from Victor in return.

Now my curiosity throbs.

“You’re not sharing a room?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.

Victor takes a deep breath.

“Our agreement doesn’t allow it.”

I frown.

“Agreement?”

“The marriage, Salvatore. Mine with Ivy... it’s not real. It’s an arrangement.”

The sentence hits me head-on.

I sit down on the couch as if I need to anchor my body.

“So you’re not in love?” I insist, even though the answer seems painfully obvious now.

Victor lets out a dry laugh.

“Does that woman look in love with me?”

I stay silent, processing.

She looked so steady by his side, so convinced... I remember her in the church, her beautiful white dress, the ceremony.

“Then... why?”

“Mama,” he answers simply. “She said I’m already getting old. She was going to shove me toward some random girl, and I don’t have the time or patience to build a relationship. Ivy needed my help, so I killed two birds with one stone.”

“And how is that supposed to work? You’re married. What happens if you don’t even share a room?”

“I asked the same thing.” Xavier raises his hands as if washing them of the whole thing. “If Mama finds out he’s cheating on his wife, it’ll be hell.”

True. She went through too much with our father. If she finds out Victor is repeating the same mistakes, the disappointment might kill her.

“Xavier’s right, Victor. You didn’t think about that?”

“Not enough,” he admits. “Ivy agreed to fake a happy marriage. But I didn’t consider the sexual part.”

“If all you wanted was a wife for appearances, it would’ve been easier to find someone willing to at least share a bed with you.” I let the jab hang in the air.

Victor stares at me.

“She needed protection, Salvatore. You know what it means to be the boss’s wife, don’t you? She has the tattoo. She wears my ring. Everyone knows she’s my woman now.”

Something clicks quietly inside my mind.

The pieces start falling into place.

It makes sense. Ivy needed safety. Marrying Victor wasn’t about love—it was survival. Joining herself to the enemy, no matter how cruel he might be, was her only way out.

“Sometimes I genuinely consider that you’re insane,” I comment, not bothering to hide my disbelief.

“I told him that too,” Xavier cuts in.

I could feel victorious over my brother’s unhappiness in marriage, but I don’t.

I love him, and I don’t want him to be miserable. I sigh and swallow what I feel, just like I did in that damned church, with her in my arms.

“Try to win her over. Ivy likes simple things. She doesn’t care about expensive stuff... but dinner, maybe. There are good restaurants in the city.”

“Curiously, you, as a ‘friend,’ seem to know more about her than I do as her husband.” The word friend lands like a punch straight to the gut.

“I used to visit her and her sister... from time to time,” I say, trying to sound casual. It’s not exactly a lie. I really did visit both of them.

Xavier shifts on the couch.

“Got anything to drink in here?” he asks, already getting up and heading straight for my liquor cabinet.

I almost run after him.

I know exactly what he’s looking for.

“No fucking way you’re touching the whiskey I brought back from that trip.”

“God told us to divide and share, you selfish bastard,” he shoots back, opening the cabinet door with the grin of someone who doesn’t care about boundaries.

“Share the hell out of your own ass!” I shove the door with my shoulder.

Victor laughs. A dry, rare sound.

“Forget it... He doesn’t share that with anyone. It’s like a pussy to him.”

I roll my eyes.

What a stupid comment.

“I’m going to have to vacuum my apartment after you leave,” I complain, folding my arms.

“You’re the one who invited us here,” Xavier shoots back, setting a glass down on the counter. He ignores my whiskey and grabs the Campari from the cabinet.

“Let’s focus on the new routes I came up with, hmm?” I say, trying to get both of their attention.

I pull out the map and the small markers I prepared. I studied this all morning.

“Victor, you mentioned we’ve been having trouble with missing shipments. So I came up with a more efficient solution.”

I spread the material across the coffee table and look at both of them, waiting for them to come closer.

“Here...” I point to one of the routes marked in red, “...is where we had the latest loss. Truck intercepted, driver unharmed, cargo gone. It’s already happened three times on the same stretch, always between three and four in the morning.”

“Coincidence?” Xavier raises an eyebrow.

“Coincidence is for people who believe in luck. I believe in patterns,” I answer. “So I mapped out a new route. Longer, yes, but with three checkpoints running through zones we fully control. Stations with our men. If anything happens, we’ll know immediately.”

“And the cost? Three checkpoints, more fuel with the longer route...” Victor questions.

I smile, already prepared with my answer.

“I did the math. We’ll lose time, but we’ll save on losses.”

Silence stretches for a few minutes.

“We’ll test it for a week. If it works, we’ll restructure everything,” my brother says.

“It will work,” I say. Certain. Precise.

“I missed this.” He shrugs. “You’re good at planning. I don’t understand why you hate our way of life so much.”

“I don’t hate it... I just wasn’t born for it.”

Our eyes meet, and without me saying a word, he understands exactly what I mean.

“You’re one of us. You know that.”

I nod, not brave enough to contradict him.

“Well, we found a solution for the routes, but now we need to figure out who’s feeding our shipments to the Mexicans.” Xavier swirls the drink in his hand, watching the liquid move lazily before taking a sip.

“A rat among us?” I ask, feeling the weight of suspicion in the air.

“A big one,” Victor murmurs.

“How long?” I ask, trying to measure the seriousness of the problem.

“Basically, Frank used to be in charge of the routes. You know how smart he was. You were his apprentice.” Victor pauses briefly, then continues more directly. “After he died, we started having problems... I think someone very close to us is trying to hit us.”

“I’ll find out who it is...”

“How?” Victor arches an eyebrow, skeptical.

“With my intelligence,” I answer without hesitation, a smile tugging at my mouth.

“Really?” Xavier doubts.

“If someone is giving our routes to the enemy, then it becomes my problem. If something doesn’t go exactly the way I planned it, my mind won’t be able to function the way I need it to.”

They never understood what it’s like to live inside my own head. My routine is built around everything I organize, and if something doesn’t happen the way it should, I feel like I’ve failed. Everything I do has to be precise, structured, perfect.

If there’s a traitor among us, I’ll find him—for the good of the clan and to keep my mind free of distractions, with absolute focus.