Chapter 37 Leonardo
Leonardo
My father’s antsy, chewing at the edges of his temper.
Even the waitstaff at Angelo’s scurry from his stare.
Dom leans back, restless, rolling his sleeve to check the time.
He knows this isn’t just a lunch. Sal wouldn’t haul us out if it was.
It’s just the three of us in the restaurant, a long wooden table between us, a stained-glass lamp dangling above like it’s listening too.
“Just say it already,” I mutter, impatient. But the old man’s not about to let us off easy. That’s not his style.
The restaurant’s empty, except for a busboy stacking glasses and the owner sneaking anxious looks our way.
Sal practically snarled when we walked in, said he’d reserved the place.
Angelo almost pissed himself clearing out the other tables.
The place is tired-looking, all old wood and faded curtains.
The kind of place that doesn’t give a shit about ambience because the lasagna’s better than sex.
Dom drums his fingers on the table, staring holes into the clock on the wall. “If this is about what happened at the docks, I already told you—”
“It’s not,” Sal grumbles, cutting him off. He crosses his arms, eyes flicking to me like I’m next on his list.
I shrug, lean back, and watch him stew. The air smells of garlic and marinara, and I’m starving enough to deal with a lecture if it means I get a meal.
“Still no lasagna, huh?” I joke, glancing at Dom.
He shakes his head. “Not until he tells us we’re disappointments first.”
The waiter sidles over, notebook trembling. He doesn’t bother with menus. We’ve been eating here since birth. Sal orders the Chianti before anything else, voice rough and impatient, the sound of a man who wants more than wine to settle his nerves.
“Risotto, eggplant parm, veal marsala,” he rattles off like a grocery list. “Lasagna for him.” He jerks a thumb at me. “And keep it coming.”
I grin as the waiter scuttles away. Dom’s trying to figure out what we did wrong this time, and I’m counting the seconds until I can shovel pasta in my mouth.
The Chianti arrives, deep red and heavy. Sal’s drinking before the waiter fills the last glass. I watch his throat work, the way his hands curl like he’s itching to tear into something—or someone.
“I thought you quit the red wine, old man,” I say, trying to draw him out, but Sal just grunts, pours himself another.
Tension is building. Dom glances at me, raises an eyebrow, like he’s asking if I know what the hell this is about.
“No clue,” I mouth, cracking my knuckles.
The food shows up, steaming plates and bowls crowding the table. The smells hit me hard, and I dig in without waiting, mozzarella stretching between me and the lasagna. Sal hasn’t said a word, and that’s making me nervous. The only thing worse than him yelling is him being quiet.
Finally, he sets his fork down. A hard thud against his plate. His eyes lock onto mine, then Dom’s. “It’s the Albanians,” he says, and I drop my fork. “They want to join the families.”
Dom tenses, his chair creaking as he leans forward. “How?”
“How the fuck do you think?” Sal snaps. He takes a long drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Marriage.”
I choke on a bite of pasta. Sal stares, unblinking, like he’s daring me to say something smart.
Dom’s quiet, but I can see him working it out, jaw tight, hands fisted in his lap. The Albanians are old-school like us. They’re not suggesting a fucking Halloween party. They want one of us to marry one of their daughters.
“No way,” Dom says, flat.
Sal leans in, his face dark, like the stained-glass lamp over the table. “One of you has to do it.”
Dom laughs, harsh and short. “It’s not going to be me.”
“It’s not going to be me,” I say, holding up my hand with my wedding band.
Sal shrugs, leans back. “I thought you were smarter than that. Both of you.”
The table’s silent. I’m still trying to get my head around it. One of the Rosetti sons as a peace offering. It doesn’t add up, doesn’t make sense. We’re stronger than ever, and those Albanians have been bleeding territory for months.
“We don’t need them,” Dom says, the edge in his voice razor-sharp.
“They’re desperate,” I add. “Why should we—”
“Because they asked.” Sal slams his hand down, glasses rattling. “And because it’ll stop a fucking war.”
A muscle jumps in Dom’s jaw. “Let them start one. We’ll finish it.”
Sal shakes his head, looks at Dom like he’s stupid or worse. “This isn’t optional. One of you single boys will marry, and that’s final.”
Dom’s on his feet, seething. “Get Emilio to do it,” he says. “Better yet, Matteo. He’ll sleep with anyone, even the enemy.”
I wait for the explosion, for Sal to take Dom apart, but the old man just nods. “It’ll be you,” Sal says, cool. “You’re the heir. Act like it.”
Dom stands there, breathing hard, trying to stare Sal into changing his mind. It doesn’t work. It never does.
“Eat,” Sal says, like nothing’s happened, like he hasn’t just tossed a fucking grenade into the family. “Food’s getting cold.”
I sit back down, watch Dom sit too, arms crossed like a kid in time out. I wonder if he’ll walk away from this, the way he walks away from everything else Sal tries to hand him.
We finish in silence, forks clinking, my mind spinning. I can’t see Dom going through with it, but he doesn’t call Sal’s bluff either. Not yet.
I think about asking what the Albanian daughters are like, but I keep my mouth shut for once. The old man gets up, heads to the restroom. Says we’ll see him outside. I look at Dom, and he looks like he wants to tear the table in half.
“Congrats,” I say, unable to stop myself. “You’re gonna be a family man.”
He glares, dangerous. “Fuck you.”
“Seriously,” I press. “Maybe you’ll fall in love.”
He laughs, sharp and bitter. “What would you know about it?”
It’s my turn to glare. “I know you’ll marry a corpse before you marry an Albanian.”
I lean back, cracking my knuckles, deciding I don’t care as long as I don’t have to have anything to do with those fuckers. Sal returns, shrugs into his coat. We follow him out into the brisk air. The street’s noisy, afternoon crowds moving like they’ve got someplace better to be.
“We’ll talk at the house,” Sal says, disappearing into the car that’s waiting.
I wait until he’s gone, until it’s just me and Dom in front of Angelo’s.
“What’s Ma gonna say?” I ask, grinning.
“Nothing,” Dom says, starting to walk. “Because it’s not happening.”
I watch him go, fast and determined. The knot in my stomach unwinds, but only a little. I’ve got a feeling about this. It’s going to be a hell of a year.