Chapter 24
Leo
Those damn fuckers calling themselves the syndicate won’t ever let me go free. I can’t sit idle and just let things happen, as my father told me to, and not get involved. These piranhas, they want blood. My blood. I don’t need them to know Bianca is alive to train a target on me full-frontal—they don’t need any specific reason to start gunning for me. I’m the next generation, so not one of theirs, not a member of their old world and obstinate clique.
I spoke to my grandmother before setting out to come here. I welcome her advice, and I also wanted her up to date on everything that’s been happening. She’s given me pointers as to how to deal with these men—she’s a woman, and a cunning one at that, in their world, and she’s learned how to navigate their tricky, treacherous waters. I’m keeping her words in good stead today.
Needless to say, she was ecstatic at the news she has a great-grandson. Aghast that we didn’t know about him for all these years, she however came round when she learned of the circumstances surrounding his conception. When I told her I’m marrying his mother, I received her blessing, because it meant I won’t be marrying that slut—her words, not mine—of Paloma Salvatore. I’m aware Bianca will have some groveling to do to win my nonna ’s full favor, but at least, she’s in, which is saying something. I’m counting on Enzo to bring my grandma around.
The minute I step into the big room hosting this meeting Roberto Bonucci has called inside a secluded and trusted club on the Upper East Side, I can feel all the eyes zeroing in on me.
“Don Pellegrini,” Don Salvatore exclaims as I take my seat.
I acknowledge him with a nod. To not do so could mean a declaration of war. We might all be sitting at this table, but this peace between us is tenuous, at best. We stay civil because we need to, not because we want to.
“My Paloma is meeting me for dinner when we’re done,” he adds.
I read the unspoken words: join us . And ultimately, marry her .
Over my dead body will I ever go near Paloma Salvatore. Even if she’s the last woman on Earth. Never mind Bianca has returned now, so this question is moot. No other woman, much less Don Salvatore’s daughter, will ever land me as theirs.
Thinking of Bianca reminds me why we are here. As Dons, we all sit at the table, our consigliere , if we have one, or our second in command standing behind us against the wall. Mattia’s thus here with me. We’re waiting for his father to arrive now. The Dons always settle in first.
Mattia and I went to his house last night, to discuss the strategy for this meeting. We’d agreed the news of Bianca’s reappearance should be delivered by him, as her elder and closest of kin. Never mind that Mattia’s at the head of their family now—as long as an older person is alive, they’re the nominal patriarch.
My mind hadn’t been on this meeting, though. Or it had been, just not as we planned for it to go. The USB stick Bianca had given me had sat in the pocket of my suit. I’d already forwarded the files to my brothers. Sergio and Emilio are computer whizzes—there’s nothing they can’t find online. But as they always say, you need a red thread to cling to when going down the dark web. They actually call it a white rabbit, and that’s exactly what I provided them with the information on that key.
Bianca has done well to keep it securely. The fact she came back partly so she could deliver this intel to me? It warmed a part of me. She cares. She wanted to help me in this shaky position I’m in with the other Dons. Knowing what it’s like to be at their mercy, she didn’t want me to experience this. I get that she mainly came back because Enzo is my heir. She’s protecting her child. But she also thought of me in there, and I’m clinging to this notion. Having our son in our lives now, it’s thrown an unpicked grenade into our midst. The repercussions of that blowup are about to come.
I don’t know yet how to shield her and my child from them. She gave me a possible solution—with this intel from the Accountant’s diaries, I have something to go on with regarding the Dons. My brothers will also uncover all there is to find on them now they know where to look and for what. But blackmail? It’s something my father never did, a level he didn’t ever stoop to.
Will I have to, though? I hope not, but this, only time will tell.
A hush falls on the room when Roberto Bonucci is escorted in. Glances are exchanged, a few of the men looking at Mattia and consequently at me. Silence thrums, until Don Salvatore throws the gauntlet.
“To what do we owe the honor, Roberto?”
Anyone can hear the sarcasm dripping from his words. After all, it’s because Roberto Bonucci’s daughter didn’t marry an Abrashi that the war started. Too bad the man preening like a cocky peacock doesn’t reckon he also had the means to put a stop to said war, if he’d married his precious Paloma to one of them.
To his credit, Roberto seems unfazed. I never liked the smug countenance he could affect so easily, but today, this is working to his advantage.
He nods softly at all the Dons at the table, one by one. When his gaze returns to Don Salvatore, he starts to speak.
“As a member of this syndicate, my allegiance is to it,” he begins. “It is the reason why I felt it necessary to apprise you all of a development that has just happened.” He pauses, as if for emphasis. “My daughter, Bianca, has been found. She has returned home, safe and sound.”
It’s almost as if I can hear a ringing in the air, like the remnants of a stun grenade going off inside the room. Everyone is stunned, until everyone is in uproar. The questions fuse from all sides.
“What do you mean, she’s back?”
“So she was alive all this time?”
“How? Who hid her?”
“Why did she run?”
“She has to answer for this!”
This last one, of course, comes from Don Salvatore, who seems to have appointed himself as our capo di tutti capi , our godfather, the one at the head of what’s supposed to be a round table.
His words land onto me like the crack of a whip, and I’m speaking before I can even think about it.
“She owes you nothing.”
My quiet tone has somehow breached through the furor blanketing the room. Every pair of eyes turns to me.
“You don’t get a say,” one of the Dons says. “This is something the Bonucci family has to answer for. Roberto and Mattia.”
“It’s because she left that the war started,” Don Salvatore throws out. “We thought she was dead. And all this time, she was alive. Is it a coincidence she is suddenly back when the war is over? When good men have been killed over it, over her?”
He all but spat that last word, which got my hackles rising.
“It’s because of you the war began. You could have married your daughter into their family,” I counter without raising my voice.
The fucker’s face turns red. “As if I would ever subject my daughter—”
“But he was?” I chin-nod to Roberto Bonucci.
“He offered,” the Don bites out.
I can feel my face morphing into a snarl. I catch Roberto’s eye, and he flinches. I’ll never forgive him for having sold Bianca off to those Albanian bastards. All for what? The ear of the syndicate? He would’ve gotten far more if she’d been made mine—I sit at the goddamn table!
“Wait,” someone says. It’s Don Vespucci, a good friend of Don Salvatore’s. He turns his beady eyes to me. “You killed the Accountant.”
I shrug. It’s true, though they don’t know the whole truth.
“You have something to do with this,” he continues.
It’s the moment of truth. I can remain silent now, keep my piece, and go on with my life. I’ll claim Bianca as mine, and we’ll be a family with our son. Except, we can’t. Enzo’s existence will raise so many questions. Even if he’d been born at full term when he did, that would set his conception back to May, when Bianca’s engagement had already been announced. There’s no way out of claiming we weren’t involved at the time.
Sometimes, the best defense is offense. They’re not expecting me to strike first. The best I can wrangle from this situation now is creating chaos that I can then somewhat control if the narrative is mine.
“Bianca Bonucci was carrying my son at the time,” I say.
It’s another blanket of silence for a few seconds, then the uproar picks up again, the Dons now on their feet. I remain seated, though. The power is mine, not theirs.
“Did you know about this?” someone throws at Roberto, who shakes his head, his jaw tense.
“And you, you covered for your sister,” another throws at Mattia.
“My allegiance is to my Don,” Mattia calmly replies.
I don’t turn to look at him, but he must know he has my thanks, for standing up for me like this. More than a soldier, he’s my best friend, and he’ll be my brother-in-law, too, soon if I have my way.
But the storm I just created in this room, it won’t abate anytime soon. I know this; we all know this.
“You killed the Accountant,” Don Vespucci shouts.
“That’s not news,” I reply.
“You didn’t want peace!” he throws, spittle flying from his mouth.
“He was taking what is mine,” I return.
“Because of you!” Don Salvatore accuses. “You’re the reason behind the war!”
We can all hear the click when it resounds in the room. All eyes turn to Don Vespucci, who has trained a gun on me.
I’m not afraid to die, but this old fucker won’t be the one to end me. I swear this on the life of my son. I lock eyes with him, goading him to even try to squeeze that trigger. Inside, I’m laughing. A quick glance showed me he’s not even unlatched the safety on the side. His generation, they’re all about revolvers. Give them a semi-automatic and it’s like asking them to handle a smartphone without an operating manual.
“Enough of this madness,” Mattia says in a strong, clear voice.
“Who are you to dare speak, cazzo ?” Don Vespucci asks him.
If he’d spat after saying those words, I wouldn’t have found it strange.
“I am my Don’s second, is what I am. And as you’d all do well to recall, your seconds or your consiglieres are meant to be your voice of reason.”
I catch sight of Don Vespucci’s consigliere , a man named DiPalto, stepping up to the aging Don and quietly touching his arm.
The hand holding the gun trembles. From tension or humiliation, I don’t know. The gun is lowered, sheathed, but not before fiery eyes meet mine from across the room.
“This isn’t over,” Don Vespucci murmurs.
“This is war,” Don Salvatore hisses at his side.
Mattia’s hand is on my shoulder. I take it as my cue to get up. I take my time, unfurling my tall frame which makes me tower over those men even with the table between us. My hands casually do up the top two buttons on my suit jacket, my eyes never leaving the men.
Without another word, I step out of the room, Mattia at my back, his father following us. I wait until we’re in the car, Pano, my driver, starting us on the road before I speak while looking out the window.
“We need to kill this war before it erupts.”