The Copy

The boardroom smells like leather and old cigar smoke. Three captains sit at the long table, their chairs angled toward the head where Roman should be. Marco to the left, thick arms crossed over his chest. Reyes in the middle, calm, his hands folded on the polished wood. Voss to the right, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm that stops the moment Roman pushes through the door.

I follow a half step behind him. My heels click against the floor, sharp and even. I can feel their eyes on me, measuring. Weighing. The outsider who married the Don days ago. The blonde with no family name and no history they could dig up. I wonder what they found when they looked. I wonder what my uncle planted for them to see.