Chapter 21
DOMINIC
The attorney executing the will, Mr. Abraham Marino, a man who had worked for the Benedetti family for more than two decades, stood behind the desk.
He addressed the collected family members requested to be in attendance, going over preliminaries.
Roman stood beside him as if he owned the fucking place.
Salvatore sat to my right. Two guards stood just outside the doors and two more at the back of the room.
I wondered how they would all react once the will had been read, and I was named as head of the family.
I recognized all the people in the room. They ruled their own smaller families within the larger Benedetti umbrella. Some I hadn’t seen since my youth, and some attended every event.
Realistically, Roman could attempt a coup.
Hell, depending on how many men chose loyalty to him, he could win.
My father was dead. He could force his way in.
Although, without money and the accounts held in the Benedetti name, he’d struggle to pay them.
In all my years both in and out of life within a crime family, I’d learned one thing: in most cases, loyalty was a flimsy thing.
Money ruled. Loyalty generally leaned toward the side of cold, hard cash.
And after the reading of the will, it’d be my cash.
This house would be my house. The car my uncle drove would be my fucking car.
He’d hired my birth father to kill Sergio and attempt to kill Salvatore.
He’d betrayed my mother, his sister. He’d betrayed his nephew. He’d betrayed Franco. He’d betrayed the entire Benedetti family.
How in hell did Salvatore sit beside me now, revealing no emotion at all, not confusion, not even hate?
I’d been in my twenties when Sergio had died.
For a moment, I wondered why Roman hadn’t ordered my assassination too, but then I realized.
He’d been playing my father all along. I was a bastard.
My father already knew it. Roman banked on the fact that when Franco learned it was the man whose blood ran in my veins who had taken his sons’ lives, he’d disown me, at the very least. Hell, maybe he even counted on Franco killing me.
I thought of Henderson’s words: “Old age makes us see things differently, son.” He’d said it didn’t matter who my blood father was.
I was a Benedetti according to my birth certificate.
I was raised a Benedetti. There was some small part of me, something deep beneath the wretchedness, that smiled at that.
That felt more happiness at that than I probably should.
Did Franco really regret that night? Did he feel sorry about what had happened?
About telling me like that? Had he tried to find me?
Roman had known where I was some of that time.
At least in the beginning. Had he kept that information from Franco, knowing the old man wanted to reconcile? Had he wanted to reconcile?
I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyes.
I’d never know. That was all there was to it. I had to take it at face value. Franco Benedetti named me as his successor. He accepted me as his own in his final act. He was about to give me what I had wanted for so long—the rule of the Benedetti family.
And I felt heady with power.
Salvatore cleared his throat beside me, his gaze falling on me.
I straightened.
“Mr. Benedetti made a few changes to his will in the last days of his life.”
Mr. Marino glanced at me.
I kept my face expressionless, but noticed Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“This is his final will and testament, and it was his wish that no one should contest those changes but that they would be honored.”
A murmur fell among the crowd. The attorney cleared his throat.
Roman took a seat as the reading began. Mr. Marino went through mundane things first, small inheritances, moneys changing hands, debts being forgiven or passed on, mentions of family members, of children remembered.
Then came the rewards of past and future loyalty.
“It was Mr. Benedetti’s wish that I read this next piece as he wrote it, as if he were speaking to you now.”
Salvatore and I exchanged a look.
“I realize in a family such as ours, there will be differences. There have been differences. But family is family, and for the Benedetti, family is first. It is our motto. It is our path. In life, I did my best for my family, for all of you. I know it didn’t always seem that way, but I did.
In death, I hope to amend mistakes I could not be forgiven in life. ”
It took all I had to keep my face a dull mask.
“Each family has been given a sum of money, which you will receive privately upon the end of this reading. Each envelope also contains a contract. If you accept the funds being offered to you, then your loyalty to the Benedetti family is renewed, the bond welded like steel and unbreakable. If you choose not to sign the contract,…well—”
He stopped abruptly to meet every eye in the room. I wondered if my father had given him that instruction too. It would be like him.
“I hope you do not choose that path.”
My father. Franco Benedetti. He was my true father, not Jake Sapienti. Salvatore was right. Henderson was right. I was a Benedetti.
I sat up straighter in my chair.
“My son Salvatore has chosen to leave this life. He chose a different happiness, and I no longer hold that against him. He chose a path I did not. I could and would not. But I respect his decision and his family. My grandchildren shall receive trust funds…”
The attorney named the amount of the funds.
“Salvatore and his wife, Lucia, shall always have the protection of the family.”
But no money.
I glanced at Salvatore, whose own mask stood firmly in place.
“To Roman, my once constant friend. Ah, Roman, my beloved wife’s brother…”
I could almost see Franco shaking his head.
“You know the saying, ‘keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?’”
All eyes turned to Roman, who looked straight ahead.
“Well, friend, you kept me in your pocket, didn’t you?”
Murmurs broke out, but the attorney held out his hand for silence and shifted his gaze to me.
“To my youngest, Dominic. I leave you what you have always wanted. I leave the Benedetti family, your family, in your hands, son. Despite everything, out of all my sons, you are the most like me, aren’t you?”
Roman stood. “This is…”
“Please sit down, Mr. Russo.”
One of my father’s personal bodyguards, a man I’d known to be around since I was a kid, walked behind Roman’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. Roman sat. Two more soldiers loyal to my father approached the desk and stood behind it, their gazes on no one and on everyone.
“Now, on to those contracts. I have each of the envelopes here. When your name is called, please approach the desk. Mr. Benedetti?”
It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me. Once I met his gaze, he continued.
“Your signature is also required.”
He gestured toward the chair behind the desk. Franco Benedetti’s chair. My father’s chair.
I stood, feeling all eyes on me as I made my way forward. I glanced once at Roman and then sat. Salvatore moved toward the door and took up a place where he could see each family as they were called up, their envelopes opened, and contracts placed before them.
I didn’t know if this was custom. If after the passing of the father, old agreements were reinforced, renewed, reminded. I didn’t know if he did it for me, to safeguard my position should anyone ever learn the truth behind my parentage. Should anyone contest my right to this seat.
The first man, Antonio Santa Maria, signed the contract. Antonio was a cousin, distant but powerful. His allegiance to my father had never been questioned. His sons, Gregorio and Giovanni, both in their late twenties, flanked him.
“Your father was a good friend. My loyalties have not before and will not now waver,” Antonio pledged.
“Thank you, Antonio,” I said. I turned to each of the sons and shook their hands, met their eyes, and nodded once. I wondered if they would remain allies or become enemies one day.
They walked out of the room.
The next man approached. Then the next. Each of them pledged allegiance.
Each man signed. I took note of those who glanced in the direction of my uncle.
These men knew to refuse to sign meant their death.
I had no doubt Roman had supporters among them.
No doubt they planned mutiny. But today, I would send a message.
Today, my first day as head of the Benedetti family, I would send a very clear message.
Finally, almost an hour later, all the contracts were signed and only the attorney, four soldiers, Salvatore, Roman, and I remained.
The attorney packed up his papers, each of the contracts placed neatly into his briefcase. He then turned to me.
“I hope we will continue to work together, Mr. Benedetti,” he said, extending his hand. “I look forward to being of service to the son of my friend.”
Friend. Funny. But he was loyal. I extended my hand and shook his.
“Thank you, Mr. Marino. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He glanced once at Roman, then, without acknowledgment, moved toward the door, shook hands with Salvatore, and left.
“Make sure the house is cleared of guests,” I told one of the men, my gaze falling on Roman.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I want Gia in here.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Salvatore asked.
“Get her for me, brother.”
Salvatore’s disapproval clear on his face, he walked out the door and returned a few moments later with Gia at his side.
She looked at the assembled men, her face betraying no emotion to those who did not know her. But I knew her. And I felt it coming off her.
She stood at the wall near the door by Salvatore’s side.