By My Rules

The wedding was set for two days later. The venue was a newly built seaside estate on the north shore of Long Island, the same plot of land where the olive grove had once stood before it was cleared for construction.

Every mafia family in New York received an invitation. To outsiders, this was Drake’s declaration of independence—his first grand event. It was a way to tell the world he was no longer just a blade raised by the consigliere, but a man capable of making his own rules.

I didn’t stop it. In fact, I made sure the cash gifts, floral arrangements, and security details were handled flawlessly. My right-hand man didn’t understand. He asked if I was really planning to swallow this.

I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, trying on a pair of black lace gloves. When I heard that, I just smiled.

“How could I possibly swallow it?” I said. “I just want him to stand a little higher… so the fall is harder.”

The night before the wedding, I received a video. In it, Lina stood in a glass greenhouse with a Rottweiler at her side. She took my mother’s blue diamond necklace and fastened it around the dog’s neck.

“Does it look good, Violet?”

She even pulled out an old photo of my mother and stepped on it with her heel.

Lina pressed her foot against the Rottweiler’s exposed belly and gave a command. “Violet. Roll. Good dog.”

After the dog obeyed, she slapped it across the face.

“Miss Violet. Violet really is such a good dog, isn’t she?” Lina laughed sweetly. “Look at this necklace. It suits her perfectly.”

Then, she pulled out another photograph from her pocket—a yellowed black-and-white portrait of my mother when she was young. She shoved it onto the dog’s head, grinning with a mix of innocence and cruelty.

“Violet, your mother’s back,” she said lightly. “And she’s kneeling at my feet, begging me. Aren’t you happy?”

The dog rolled on the ground, eager to please. The edges of the photograph quickly curled and tore, bits of paper flaking off. Each step Lina took landed precisely on my mother’s face.

“Cheap dog. Worthless trash,” she muttered, her voice sharp and venomous. “You’re dead, and you’re still haunting me.”

The Rottweiler, as if beaten stupid, didn’t resist. Instead, it leaned forward to lick Lina’s palm, its tail wagging even faster.

“That’s right, old woman. Wag that tail.”

When the video ended, I replied with one message.

“The wedding proceeds as planned.”

The next afternoon, the wind picked up along the shore. Luxury cars lined the estate grounds. The priest, the band, and the guests were in place.

Drake stood at the altar in a black suit, handsome in a way that felt almost staged, like a carefully packaged illusion. The guests praised him for his loyalty. They said he had the guts to cast aside me, the consigliere who built him, all for the sake of one woman.

I stood in the shadows of the second-floor balcony, looking down at the crowd. For some reason, everything felt very quiet.

When Drake looked up, he saw me. He thought I was here to ruin everything. There was even a flicker of caution in his eyes. However, I simply raised my glass and gestured to him from afar. For a brief moment, he froze.

Just before the ceremony started, the emcee suddenly announced that the bride had prepared a special gift for the groom. The crowd stirred, turning toward the side of the stage where a few attendants pushed out an old-fashioned refrigerated container. Drake frowned, and as if he had sensed something, he started walking toward it.

The moment the lid opened, there was no Lina inside or a body. Instead, the container was filled to the brim with ledgers, cassette recordings, wire transfer slips, keys to port warehouses, and a long-missing blue diamond brooch. The top sheet was stamped with a temporary asset preservation order issued by the New York Federal Court.

The entire venue erupted. Drake snapped his head up, finally looking toward me on the second floor. Through the crowd, our eyes met, and I began to clap, slowly.

“Your wedding gift,” I said. “Do you like it?”