6. Matteo
6
Matteo
T he underground room beneath Club Velvet is dimly lit, the scent of whiskey and burning cigars thick in the air. It’s neutral ground—one of Isabella’s establishments.
A place where the Bellanti Syndicate’s fixers meet to decide the things that never make the headlines but shape the city, nonetheless.
When I step inside, they’re already seated around the long mahogany table.
The five men who hold the strings behind our family’s operations.
They don’t get their hands bloody in alleyways or leave bodies in dumpsters.
They operate in the shadows—dealmakers, strategists, manipulators.
They glance up, sharp eyes assessing. No greetings. No pleasantries. We’re here to handle a problem.
I stride to the head of the table and drop a USB drive onto the polished wood. The small device looks almost insignificant against the backdrop of crystal tumblers, scattered documents, and the distant gleam of a few loaded firearms.
“This,” I say, voice steady, “is everything we need to burn Massimo Caruso to the ground.”
A beat of silence. Then—
Bruno Jareto, the oldest among them, leans forward, eyes narrowing. At fifty-six, he’s been running the gambling side of our operations longer than I’ve been alive. He is old school, razor-sharp, and has a temper that can either set a room ablaze or be wielded like a weapon.
“So what the fuck are we waiting for?” He exhales cigar smoke, tapping the ash onto the tray beside him. “We leak it all. Let the bastard drown in the weight of his sins.”
Predictable. Bruno prefers brute force.
“We do that,” Stefano Testa interjects, ever the diplomat, “and we bring a hurricane of heat onto all of us.”
At sixty, he oversees our legitimate businesses, and is the man responsible for keeping our public face clean.
He has pressed his suit, and his cufflinks gleam. A stark contrast to Bruno’s rolled-up sleeves and perpetual scowl. “The Commission won’t tolerate that level of scrutiny. We need to be smart.”
“Smart?” Julian Salvatore, the one who controls our street territories, scoffs. He’s got an easy smirk, but his eyes are sharp, always watching. “Smart is eliminating a threat before it festers.”
I don’t let my expression shift. Julian is useful, but I don’t trust him .
He’s too slick, too quick to play both sides, and he's been on my radar ever since he arrived late back at the safe house.
I make a mental note to have Valentino put eyes on him.
The argument ignites from there, voices rising as half the table pushes for immediate action while the others urge restraint. I don’t intervene. Not yet. I sit back, arms crossed, listening as the debate spirals.
Giovanni Costa, who runs our weapons trafficking, finally speaks up. He’s the most calculated of the bunch, always weighing every angle before committing to a course of action.
“Matteo,” he says, voice measured, “what’s your play here?”
I let them stew a moment longer before I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table.
“We’re fixers,” I say quietly, my voice cutting through the noise. “Not butchers. We use a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.”
Silence falls.
I tap the USB drive once. “We leak pieces of the trafficking operation. Just enough to put pressure on Massimo. Make him paranoid. Make him come to us. The ritual killings and the Commission Don’s murder? We hold on to those. They’re our insurance.”
Valentino exhales slowly and nods. “That’s a play we can control.”
Bruno doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t argue. He knows that challenging me when I've decided is unwise. Julian leans back, feigning boredom, but I don’t miss the way his fingers tap against the table. Calculating.
Giovanni merely studies me, then the USB drive, before giving the smallest incline to his head.
Approval.
Stefano adjusts his cuffs, exhaling sharply.
I rise to my feet.
With a firm tone, I announced, "The decision has been made. Now we wait for Massimo to take the bait.”
After the meeting, I take the back exit of the club, stepping into the chilly night air. The streets are quiet at this hour, save for the occasional headlights cutting through the darkness.
My father texted me to meet him at Nico's estate. I head straight there, my mind already shifting to the next problem. He wouldn't come all the way here to meet unless it was important.
Low light cloaks the estate by the time I arrive; the security detail gives me a curt nod as I pass.
I barely make it through the front door before I see him—Luca Bellanti, my father, seated in one of Nico’s leather chairs like every inch of a Don that he is.
Nico stands near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight. His usual smirk is absent, which means this conversation won’t be pleasant.
“Matteo,” my father greets, his voice carrying a weight of authority. “Have a seat.”
I didn’t. “You said it was urgent. ”
He studies me, then nods toward Nico. “Tell him.”
Nico sighs, running a hand through his dark hair before speaking. “Word is spreading. Other families are asking why we’re putting so much effort into gutting the Caruso.” His gaze sharpens. “Some think we’re making a power grab.”
“Let them think what they want,” I say flatly.
Luca shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. If the Commission believes we’re stepping out of line, they’ll get involved.” He levels me with a look. “And that’s a war we don’t want.”
I grind my teeth. This is the problem with our world—power shifts like sand, and if you’re not careful, it buries you alive.
“We move carefully,” Luca continues. “Play this like a chess game, not a street fight.”
I nod, understanding the weight of his warning. We’re treading a fine line, and one wrong move could bring the full force of the Commission down on us.
A sound from the hallway catches my attention—Elena’s voice, soft but clear as she hums to Fiona while getting her ready for bed.
My father notices my shift in focus. His expression changes—not to disapproval, but to something else. Something thoughtful.
Then he says something I don’t expect.
“Sometimes the most honorable path isn’t the easiest one.”
I stiffen, meeting his gaze. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to .
Without another word, he rises, nodding once before heading toward the door. Nico lingers for a second, watching me with something that almost looks like amusement before following him out.
The door clicks shut behind them.
I exhale, turning toward the hallway.
And I see her.
Elena stands near the kitchen, two steaming cups of coffee in her hands. She hesitates, then steps closer, offering one to me. “Thought you might need this.”
I take it, fingers brushing hers briefly. “You make a habit of listening in on conversations?”
She smirks, unbothered. “Not my fault you were talking loud enough to hear.”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I take a sip.
She leans against the counter, growing serious. “Your father… what he said. What did he mean?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I look at her—the woman caught in the middle of a war she never asked for. The woman who’s been through hell and still stands strong.
“He meant that doing the right thing doesn’t always make life easier.”
She studies me for a moment. Then, quietly, she says, “I have nightmares. ”
I glance at her. “About your husband?”
She nods, gripping her cup tighter. “Every night. I see him dying. I hear the gunshots.” A shaky breath. “Sometimes I wake up, and for a second, I forget he’s gone. And then I remember.”
I set my cup down. “I know what that’s like.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, searching. “You do?”
I hesitate. “I watched my mother place a loaded gun against my sister's head, threatening to kill her.”
Elena’s lips part slightly, her expression softening. “Matteo…”
I shake my head. “It was a while ago. But the nightmares don’t care about time.”
For a moment, we just stand there, drinking our coffee in silence.
Then, because I don’t know what else to do, I say, “If you ever need someone to wake you up from them… I’m here.”
Something flickers in her eyes, but disappears quickly.
And for the first time since I met her, she looks at me like I might be something other than a killer.