Chapter 8
DANTE
I t’s late. The view from my apartment across downtown Chicago is the subject of my brooding stare.
The whiskey isn’t cutting it.
“It wasn’t the Russians,” Christian says from behind me where he is lounging on the couch. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
I’m thinking about a lot of things. But he’s right. Not one of them points to the Russians.
I’ve been trying to ignore the itch at the back of my neck like a target has been painted there. Maybe I’m reading this wrong—maybe it’s other outside unknowns and not the internal power play I suspect.
“You’re not arguing with me,” he says. “I’d bet money that Ettore is behind this.”
“You don’t have money to bet with,” I point out, turning to face him.
What he has is a significant trust fund for when he's twenty-five. My father gave him a moderate allowance, saying he couldn’t be trusted with money.
He can’t be trusted with a lot of things, including knives and guns, but someone in their infinite wisdom decided to let him loose with both.
I don’t even want to consider the material he watches on the dark web.
Even though he’s still classed as a minor he’s on his second beer, the epitome of relaxed with his suit jacket tossed over the back of the couch and his tie undone.
In some circles my responsible adulting techniques would be frowned upon.
He killed his first man when he was thirteen… I’ve given up worrying about the alcohol damaging his brain development. That ship has well and truly sailed.
“Exactly,” he says, pausing to tip the beer bottle to his lips. “I don’t need it. That’s a guaranteed win. I don’t trust the fucker. Neither do you. Word is Ettore was pissed when he heard your engagement to Carmela was to be announced. Cosmo was all up in his ear saying how he should marry her.”
“Cedro won’t give her to Cosmo.” What he’s done isn’t much better in my opinion.
“Don’t worry, I’d take Cosmo out in a heartbeat if Cedro gave that idea credence. But you need to push for your place in this. Bring the wedding forward. She’s turning eighteen soon. Fuck it, she’s hot.” He tips the beer bottle to his lips again as if to taunt the societal constraints.
Maybe I should be pissed that my brother thinks the woman I was destined to marry is hot.
Jealous even? His words barely get a rise when I’m still seething after watching Ettore put his hands on her today like a fucking showman, making sure everyone saw him help her out of the car and escort her to Cedro. Sowing the seeds for what is to come.
“What are you going to do?” Christian demands, reminding me of the belligerent teenager, which he is but rarely acts.
I haven’t told him yet that the wedding is off, nor about my conversation with Cedro.
I need to.
Only I don’t know how he will react. Chris is not always predictable.
“Something’s happened,” he says, sitting up and fixing me with a level stare.
I take another drink of the whiskey, letting the burn roll down my throat and into my gut.
“Tell me he’s not handing the reins over to Ettore.”
I shrug.
“Fuck everyone. I’ll back you up,” Christian says, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees.
I don’t soften my words. “Even in this world, you’re still a kid.”
He quirks one eyebrow at me. “I paid my dues. I did whatever I was told to. And didn’t lose any fucking sleep over it.”
My rage softens as I stare into my brother’s eyes. “I don’t think of you as a kid.”
“What about Carmela?”
“Marrying Ettore.”
“What the actual fuck! He must be like fifty?”
“Forty-three.”
“And you’re not pissed about this?”
“Of course I’m pissed,” I snap.
“Well, alright then.” He takes another sip of his beer. My rash outburst seems to appease him. “We need a fucking plan. Everyone says that Ettore is firing blanks. Two wives. No kid with the first. There are rumors the baby his second wife had wasn’t his.”
“It’s his kid,” I say, feeling a brief flutter of amusement because I know what’s coming.
“Not one he acknowledges. I swear the sprog had Cosmo’s eyes the one time I saw it. Poor fucker was doomed whichever brother his mother spread her legs for.”
The mother in question was a lap dancer known to be liberal with recreational drugs.
Their wedding was done on the quiet. Then the baby came, and everyone knew early on that something wasn’t running to Ettore’s program.
Both mother and baby mysteriously moved out of state.
They divorced. As far as I know, he has never visited them.
I sit on the couch opposite Christian and let my head roll back, closing my eyes.
“You’re not going to let the marriage go ahead, are you? Like you’ve got a fucking plan here, haven’t you?”
“I don’t have a plan,” I admit. “I’m not in any position to offer myself as a credible don.
Cedro said as much to me this morning right before he announced he was giving Carmela to Ettore to keep her safe.
Ettore has already been told, which means his men will know, and probably most if not all, the capos. It’s already done.”
“Ettore is a slimy prick.”
He works for the man indirectly, so the vehemence of his words brings a fleeting smile to my lips. “I agree with you.”
“Promise me I can be the one to kill him when the time comes,” he mutters.
I don’t give him the words he needs. I’ve been imagining strangling the fucker all day. Chris is going to need to get in the queue. “His hands on her today made me fucking livid. But I also understand my limitations.”
“I got your back,” he says, again. “However this goes down.”
“I know you do.” His unwavering loyalty and willingness to do anything I might ask offers me something when I feel like I have nothing. He’s also a consummate actor who has Ettore buying into his bullshit. For reasons that escape me, Ettore thinks Christian is loyal to him.
But he’s still too young—we both are. To some extent, being the consigliere gives you power above and beyond the capos.
But at the same time, you have neither soldiers nor assets beyond wealth.
You sit on the periphery, at least we did until my uncle made the shift—that didn’t end so well.
My law firm, established by my grandfather, manages all the contractual obligations.
I know the collective family business, including the strengths and weaknesses of the various branches and operations better than anyone.
My role, and that of my father before me, is an advisor.
The direct orders always come via Ettore. He controls the capos. He has his own businesses and men.
The situation fucking burns. The thought of Ettore with Carmela—just fucking no.
But it’s not only about me. I have a mother, and as much as Christian can probably handle anything I throw his way, I’m not fucking reckless, and I won’t play a role in getting him killed.
“He won’t want you around,” Christian says. “He’d be fucking stupid to push you out, but he also won’t want you near.”
My brother would have made a good consigliere if only he didn’t enjoy killing so much.
“Which is why I’m going to need you to be my eyes and ears.”