Chapter 2
A Toast to Enemies
The grand dining hall of the villa was a testament to wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers, each delicate but enormous, hung from the ceiling like clusters of stars, casting a soft, golden light over the long dining table below.
The table was draped with the finest white linen, and laid out with a display of China so pristine it gleamed under the flickering candlelight. Each place setting was equipped with silverware that glinted with the promise of wealth and influence, while centerpieces of fresh lilies, roses, and irises added a fragrant touch to the otherwise imposing atmosphere.
The air itself was thick with the heavy scents of roasted meats, garlic, and herbs, mingling with the sharper, intoxicating smells of expensive wine and the thick, smoky plumes of cigars that floated lazily through the air. It was an aroma that spoke of power, of wealth earned through dark dealings.
The summit’s attendees were seated according to a meticulous, almost theatrical plan. The arrangement, carefully designed by Don Vittorio, was meant to test the alliances, provoke tensions, and draw lines in the sand between rival families.
Matteo Moretti found himself seated at the very center of this delicate web, directly across from Aldo De Luca. Matteo knew this seating choice was no accident. Don Vittorio, ever the schemer, ever the orchestrator, had designed it precisely to pit the two families against one another in a subtle, yet unavoidable confrontation. Matteo could almost feel the weight of Don Vittorio’s gaze as it flicked between them, like the eye of a spider watching its prey.
Aldo leaned back in his chair with the air of someone who was used to being in control. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes, dark and sharp, seemed to pierce through the room with an intensity that unsettled Matteo, even from across the table.
Aldo swirled the deep red wine in his glass, watching the liquid swirl with a detached curiosity. The crimson caught the light, casting dark reflections that made the room feel smaller, as though their history, their rivalry, was suddenly encroaching on the very space they shared.
“Moretti,” Aldo’s voice cut through the low hum of the room, smooth but laced with an unmistakable challenge. He was clearly enjoying this. “I didn’t think Enzo would send his little brother to do his dirty work.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened at the mention of his older brother. His fingers curled around the edge of his glass, but he forced himself to stay calm. He couldn’t afford to be rattled; not here, not now. He kept his expression neutral, offering a quiet but firm response. “Enzo trusts me to handle things. And after what happened with your father, I think he’s earned the right to take a step back.”
The mention of Giovanni De Luca’s death immediately dampened the atmosphere, the word hanging like a heavy shroud between them. Matteo had been there that night. He’d seen it with his own eyes; the cold, unflinching determination in Aldo’s gaze as he stood over his father’s lifeless body, the single shot ringing out, silencing the room. Aldo had acted swiftly, decisively, as though he was erasing a stain from his family’s legacy. Matteo still couldn’t decide whether it was a moment of ruthless betrayal or of grim necessity.
Aldo’s expression darkened at the mention of his father, and a flicker of something raw passed through his eyes, a rare, unguarded moment. He set his glass down slowly, deliberately, as though weighing each word before speaking. “My father crossed a line,” he said, his voice low and steady, but betraying a hint of bitterness. “He put a target on an innocent man’s back, your brother’s partner. I couldn’t let that stand.”
Matteo’s gaze never wavered; his sharp eyes fixed on Aldo’s. “I know why you did it. I was there, remember?” Matteo’s tone was colder now, edged with an unspoken frustration. “But don’t expect me to thank you for it. Your family’s mess almost got Julian killed.”
Aldo’s lips twitched at that, the faintest ghost of a smile. It wasn’t an expression of amusement, but rather something more calculating, like a man who had seen the worst of what life had to offer and now wore his pain like armor. He leaned forward slightly, eyes darkening as he spoke, his voice growing more deliberate.
“I didn’t do it for your gratitude, Moretti,” he replied, his tone growing sharp with the weight of conviction. “I did it because it was the right thing to do. My father lost sight of what it means to lead. He thought power meant control, but that’s not leadership. Leadership requires responsibility. I won’t make the same mistake.”
Matteo studied him for a long moment, searching Aldo’s face for any sign of deception. The words were honest, but that didn’t mean they were true. It didn’t change the past, or the blood that had been spilled. Matteo still wasn’t sure whether he could trust Aldo, or whether this was just another form of manipulation. But as he searched Aldo’s gaze, he saw something there; a flicker of genuine regret, an acknowledgment of the weight of the decision Aldo had made. For the briefest of moments, Matteo found himself questioning his own perception of Aldo.
The silence between them stretched for several seconds, thick and heavy, as the weight of their families' history hung in the air. Neither man was willing to back down, but there was a grudging recognition between them; an unspoken understanding that they were far more alike than either would admit.
As the first course was brought in, an intricate dish of roasted meats, paired with fresh, seasonal vegetables, the conversation shifted, the air lightening slightly. Talk of business, politics, and the shifting dynamics between the various crime families filled the space between them. Matteo and Aldo exchanged measured words, polite and professional, but laced with subtle barbs and veiled insults. The words were carefully chosen, calculated moves in a game that neither man could afford to lose.
But beneath the carefully crafted civility, there was a tension, growing, undeniable. Both men, in their own ways, were sizing each other up, reading the other’s every movement. Neither could afford to seem weak, nor could they show too much interest in the other. It was a dangerous balance they both walked.
As the night wore on, the wine continued to flow freely, and the conversation continued to shift, moving between topics with practiced ease. It was the kind of evening where anyone with the right connections and the right touch could shift allegiances in a heartbeat. But Matteo felt something else brewing, something more than just business. Something that was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being drawn into Aldo’s orbit, whether he wanted to be or not.
Don Vittorio, who had been watching the exchange between Matteo and Aldo with a quiet amusement, now stood up at the head of the table. The room immediately quieted as he raised his glass, his voice carrying with the weight of authority that came from decades of bloodshed and negotiation.
“Gentlemen,” he began, his voice low and commanding, “We are here tonight not as rivals, but as allies. The world is changing, and we must change with it. To unity among the families.”
Matteo’s eyes never left Aldo’s as he lifted his own glass. “To old enemies and new beginnings,” he said, the words dripping with irony. There was a flicker of something in his chest, something darker. They were both pretending to agree, pretending to drink to something that wasn’t real.
Aldo’s lips curved into a smirk, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise controlled expression. “To survival,” he replied, his voice low and deliberate, almost challenging.
The glasses clinked, the sound sharp and final, but the moment felt fragile, too fragile to hold for long. The unspoken tension between the two men had not dissipated; if anything, it had only intensified. The truce, such as it was, was a fragile thing, a thin veil covering the chaos that both men knew was inevitable.
As the night drew to a close, dessert was served; an intricate platter of cannoli, rich tiramisu, and dark chocolates. The conversation softened, as conversations often did when people were full of good food and wine. Yet, even in this more relaxed moment, Matteo found himself watching Aldo with a new intensity. The animosity between them remained, but there was something else now; a curiosity, a question hanging in the air that neither of them could quite name.
For the first time, Matteo found himself wondering what it would be like if the two of them weren’t enemies. What if they were allies instead?
As the evening wound down, Matteo stood to leave. He caught Aldo’s eye once more across the table, and for a brief moment, the distance between them seemed to narrow. Aldo’s lips curved into a faint, almost teasing smile.
“Until next time, Moretti,” Aldo said, his tone laced with a hint of something, something unreadable, but undeniably dangerous.
Matteo nodded; his expression unreadable. “Next time,” he agreed, the words slipping out like a promise, or perhaps a threat. Whatever came next, he knew the game between them was far from over.
And the stakes had just been raised.