Ricardo
Chapter Thirty Eight
I look at Julia first.
She is still sitting beside Dante’s bed, one hand wrapped carefully around his. Her face is pale from exhaustion, but there is color in her now that was not there when we arrived. Hope, maybe. Fear too. The two have become impossible to separate.
Dante sleeps again, heavily, his breathing steady.
He woke.
Only for seconds, but he woke.
He asked if Julia was safe.
Of course that is the first thing he'd ask.
I touch her shoulder, and she looks up at me.
“I need to step out for a moment,” I say.
Her eyes move past me to Lorenzo waiting near the door.
She understands immediately.
“Go.”
“I will be close.”
“I know.”
I look at my son one more time, at the bruised pallor of his face, the IV in his arm, the lines and machines that have no place near him. My hand tightens once on the rail before I make myself release it.
“I’ll stay with him,” she says softly, reassuring me.
The words settle something in me, though they should not. She should be in bed. She should be eating. She should be protected from every difficult thing waiting beyond this room.
Instead, she sits beside my son with my child inside her and promises to keep watch.
I bend and press my mouth to her hair.
“Call me if he stirs.”
“I will.”
I leave before I can change my mind.
Lorenzo falls into step beside me as the door closes behind us. The hallway is quiet here in the recovery wing. Things seem more muted.
I hate this place.
I hate that Dante is here.
I hate that Julia has to sit beside his bed.
Lorenzo says nothing until we turn the corner and put distance between ourselves and the room.
Then he stops near the window at the end of the hall.
I turn to face him.
“So,” I say, voice low. “We received an answer.”
Lorenzo’s expression does not change.
But his eyes do.
“More than that, actually.”
I brace myself.
Conti Enterprises on this Sunday afternoon seems too bright for what’s about to happen within its walls.
Chicago lives on below us as if nothing has changed. Traffic along the river. Pedestrians crossing streets with coffee in hand.
In this conference room, things are very different.
Mario stands at the head of the table with his hands resting lightly against the back of a chair. He has changed from the clothes he wore last night, and though I know he got no more sleep than the rest of us, it is hidden.
Today is not the day to show weakness. Lorenzo sits to his right, phone face down on the table.
Diego is near the windows, arms crossed, gaze on the door.
Matteo and Tomasso stand behind Mario, as he has directed them.
His firstborn son and his second, only minutes younger.
Edoardo and Alessio flank Lorenzo much the same.
And I am at the opposite end of the table, reining in my impatience.
I would rather be at the hospital right now, but this meeting is too important. This is the meeting I wanted.
I just didn't know it would be happening so soon.
Or like this.
“They’re here,” Matteo says.
He has been watching the message feed from downstairs.
Mario straightens.
The room changes, and we become a unit. I take my place to the right of Matteo. No longer second in line, but still the second oldest.
Each of us takes our rightful position.
It is subtle, but it sends a message.
The door opens.
One of our people steps in first, then moves aside.
Vito Conti enters.
I have seen photographs. Reports. Security stills. Enough to know Luca Conti’s oldest son and heir on sight.
None of that prepares me for the sheer force of him in person.
He is tall, dark-haired, physically built in the way of men who do not stand back and let someone else do the work. His suit is black, perfectly cut, but there is nothing decorative about him. No wasted expression. No attempt to charm the room.
His face carries the power of his position, the same old-world bones, the same dark Conti eyes, the same silence around him that is a learned behavior.
He does not look like a prince.
He looks like a man who understands that inheritance is not a gift. It is a weapon handed over blade-first.
Behind him comes Roberto Conti.
One of Luca’s younger brothers.
Attorney.
This knife is just as sharp, but much more precise.
Roberto is a few years younger than Luca, dark-haired, fit, composed in a navy suit that costs real money. He carries himself as if he would be equally comfortable in a courtroom charming a jury, or in a backroom making a deal.
His expression is polite. Almost warm. The kind of warmth that might make a weaker man confess before he realizes the error of his ways.
The third man is Adrian Donato.
He is the only one whose name does not come with Conti blood, and yet no one in this room makes the mistake of discounting him.
He is taller than both of them, broad-shouldered and hard-built, with dark hair, a rough shadow along his jaw, and the alertness of a man who has lived too many years counting exits.
The cuffs of his shirt hide most of the tattoos I know are there from the files, but not all of them.
Dark ink peeks near his wrist when he moves.
There are scars too, faint but visible enough if you know where to look.
Caterina Conti’s husband.
Luca’s security chief.
Former military.
My first thought is: Good. Luca did not send symbols.
He sent capability.
My second thought is: Though they are blood, these men are dangerous.
Luca didn't come himself. That doesn't surprise me.
But he sent his heir and his brother, as well as the man trusted to guard his family.
This is not merely a courtesy call.
Mario steps away from the chair.
“Vito,” he says.
Vito’s gaze moves to him. “Mario.”
No title.
No flourish.
Roberto smiles faintly. “We appreciate you receiving us on short notice.”
Diego’s mouth curves without humor. “I have to admit, we were surprised by the response.”
Roberto looks at him. “We thought the situation warranted something a little more personal than a message.”
Adrian does not speak. His attention moves through the room, the doors, the glass, the positions of our people outside. He does it easily, without insult, but every guard near the door becomes aware of being assessed.
I respect it.
I dislike it.
Mario gestures toward the table. “Please.”
Vito does not sit immediately.
He looks at me first.
There is no hesitation in his gaze, no feigning uncertainty while he places me. He knows exactly who I am. Ricardo Conti. Francis’s second son. Dante’s father. The man whose son bled last night because an American political heir tried to reclaim a woman by force. My woman.
But there is another truth, one he does not know.
Luca is Francis’s son too. His eldest. Taken from him before knew he existed and raised by Francis’s brother, Elio.
In truth, Luca is my brother.
And now, Vito stands in front of me as Luca’s heir, and some private part of me thinks: nephew.
Then I bury the thought where it belongs.
Knowledge is not the same as permission. Francis gave Mario that truth before he died, and he gave it like a blade with no handle. Tactless and harmful.
Luca does not know. Vito does not know. Roberto does not know. No one from Atlantic City knows.
And this isn't the time to tell them.
So I meet Vito’s eyes and give him only what I am allowed.
“Thank you for coming.”
His gaze holds mine. “Your son is alive?”
He asked the question without any softness, without preamble
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Just one word.
Somehow, it does more than sympathy would have.
Roberto’s expression gentles by a fraction. “Luca asked us to convey that your family has his concern.”
Mario’s voice remains steady. “His concern is acknowledged.”
Vito finally takes a chair opposite Mario, which tells me he has been taught well. Roberto sits beside him. Adrian remains standing near the wall at Vito’s back, not close enough to crowd him, but placed where he can see everyone and reach the door before anyone else can.
Lorenzo notices too.
His eyes narrow slightly, thoughtful rather than offended.
Mario sits.
The rest of us follow, except Adrian.
For a few seconds, no one speaks.
The Atlantic City Contis are in Chicago. In our building. In Mario’s conference room. Because of a message that began on Bellandi’s body and was finally answered after Dante’s blood spilled.
Vito rests one hand on the table.
There is a simple wedding band on his finger and no other adornment. He is married to Adrian's cousin, if I recall correctly.
“My father received your message,” he says.
Mario’s face gives nothing away. “So I gathered.”
“He considered answering by phone.”
“And changed his mind?”
Vito’s mouth does not move. “He decided the matter deserved more respect.”
Roberto adds, “And more care.”
The attorney in him is evident in his words.
Mario leans back slightly. “You know the name involved.”
“The Winthrops,” Roberto says. “Yes.”
He places a leather folder on the table and opens it with neat hands.
Already prepared.
Of course.
A strange, cold satisfaction moves through me.
Luca did not send his people to ask whether we had overreacted. He did not send them to decide if Harrison mattered. He sent them with a file.
Roberto slides the top page forward, but does not push it to us yet.
“Harrison Winthrop III,” he says. “Son of Harrison Winthrop II, former senator, current senior adviser with direct access to the White House. Grandson of Harrison Winthrop, former vice president. Family foundations across Connecticut, New York, Massachusetts, and Washington. Campaign donors embedded in both public and private structures. Old money polished into public service.”
Diego looks toward me.
Julia’s warning repeats in my mind.
Political royalty.
One step below the Kennedys.
Roberto turns another page. “They are very well protected. Many powerful people have used their family name as cover at one time or another.”
Mario’s gaze sharpens. “Including people useful to Luca?”
Roberto looks up.
The faint smile returns.
“Everyone is useful to someone.”
It is smooth.
Too smooth.