4. Chris
CHAPTER 4
CHRIS
T he road stretches out before us, the landscape a blur of muted colors as we speed away from the city. I sit in the back of the car, lost in my thoughts, my mind a whirlwind of doubts and fears.
Zack glances at me from the driver's seat, his brow furrowed in concern. “You seem a little off today, Mr. Bonetti. Is everything alright?”
I let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I'm fine,” I reply, but even to my own ears, the words sound hollow and insincere. The truth is, I haven't felt like myself in a long time. Ever since I took over the business, I've been struggling to find my footing, torn between loyalty to my father and the desire to forge my own path.
It's been almost a year since I arrived in Seattle, and yet I've never ventured outside the confines of my territory. The thought of stepping out into the world beyond fills me with a sense of dread and unease, like a prisoner peering through the bars of his cell, afraid to take that first step into freedom. As we approach the warehouse where the cargo awaits, a knot forms in the pit of my stomach, a sense of foreboding gnawing at me from within. Dad may trust his men, but I sure as hell don't. The files reveal a staggering amount of money missing, and it's mind-boggling that Dad hasn't even batted an eye at it. That's why I've insisted on personally checking all the cargos myself.
As we make our way into the warehouse, a sense of unease settles over me like a thick fog and I can't shake the feeling that we're walking into a trap.
The guards stationed at the entrance are heavily armed and visibly tense, which only adds to my growing sense of dread. It's not like them to be on edge like this, especially considering we've been doing business with them for years. Their nervous energy sets my teeth on edge, and I exchange a wary glance with Zack.
“Occhi aperti,” Keep your guard up , I mutter to him as we continue forward. We pull up to the meet, and after exchanging a terse nod with our contact, we dive into some brief chitchat. He then motions us over, a silent signal that it's time to see the delivery.
“Open those crates, I need to take a look,” I order Zack, my instincts screaming at me to proceed with caution. And when we discover that five out of the fifteen crates are empty, my worst fears are confirmed.
The sound of gunfire fills the air, the shots echoing off the walls of the warehouse as chaos erupts around us. Without hesitation, I spring into action, pulling Zack out of harm's way as bullets whiz past us. But Zack isn't so lucky. A stray bullet grazes his shoulder, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. I curse under my breath, my heart pounding in my chest as I assess the situation. The guys with us are on high alert, finally doing their damn job as I haul Zack out and jump behind the steering wheel. Zack presses his jacket against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding as I gun it toward one of the clinics we've got in our pocket. His face has gone ghostly pale, but it's the terror in his eyes that really gets to me. That haunted look - he's petrified of what comes next.
After patching him up, I drop Zack off at his place and then drag myself back to mine. It’s already three in the morning, and I’m running on fumes, but the night’s events have at least clarified who’s got my back.
Sleep refuses to come, and after tossing and turning for a few hours, I head to the office, only to find Zack already there, hunched over his desk. His face is pale, the lines of pain and exhaustion drawn tight across his features. I can see the pain etched in his features; the strain of the previous day's events written across his brow.
“You should have taken the day off.” My voice stern but tinged with concern. “You're in no condition to be here.”
Zack looks up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and exhaustion. “I'm sorry, Mr. Bonetti,” he murmurs, “I've never had a day off.”
I feel a pang of sympathy for him, a twinge of regret for the harsh words I spoke. “My father is a fucking tyrant,” I say quietly, my gaze fixed on the floor. “But take mine as an order. Go home.”
Zack nods, his expression grateful. “Thank you, Mr. Bonetti,” he nods, “I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.”
And in that moment, as our eyes meet across the expanse of the office, I know that he's more than just a loyal employee, but a true friend and ally in this ruthless world we inhabit. “Call me Christopher, and it wasn’t your fault, now head home.”
“You haven’t got back to Italy. Can I say it’s weird?” The mention of Italy brings a pang of nostalgia to my heart, a longing for the familiar sights and sounds of my homeland. Zack's question pulls me out of my reverie, and I shake my head with a wistful smile.
“I miss it every day,” I admit, my voice tinged with sadness.
I miss the bustling streets, the aroma of Viola's homemade cakes wafting through the air, and most of all, I miss Leila. The memory of her haunts me, a constant reminder of the life I left behind.
As we arrive at the social event, I can feel the weight of anticipation building in the air. Alec and LaTorre are already here, mingling with the crowd, and I can't help but feel a sense of excitement at the prospect of finally making progress with my plan.
LaTorre approaches us, his smile warm and genuine as he extends his hand in greeting. “Signor Bonetti, che piacere rivederla,” Mr. Bonetti, it's a pleasure to see you again, he says, his voice smooth and polished. “And you must be Zack. I've heard so much about you.”
Zack nods, his expression guarded. “Likewise, Mr. LaTorre.”
As he mingles effortlessly among the crowd, I reluctantly follow suit, my eyes scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces. These events, typically tedious affairs I'd rather skip, suddenly seem worthwhile. Strengthening ties with a few judges on our payroll could prove invaluable. In this game, a favor for a favor is the currency of power, and I'm more than willing to spend. I wasn't raised to be tender-hearted. My father molded me into a beast, too bad he’ll be the one to have a taste of his hard work.
Latorre's presence commands attention, his aura palpable in the thick air of the room. More than once, I catch his penetrating gaze fixed on me, weighing and measuring. If the rumors hold any truth—that he's got a network spanning the entire nation—then he's undoubtedly aware of my maneuvers.
“How's the shoulder healing?” I ask Zack as we sidle up to the bar.
“Slowly but surely.” He grimaces slightly.
“Two whiskeys on the rocks,” I order, shifting my focus to Zack. “Deep wounds always seem to linger.”
“Your order, Sir,” the bartender announces a moment later.
I slide one of the glasses toward Zack with a nod. “Off the clock now.” A light chuckle escapes me. “Time to unwind.”
He accepts the glass, toasting to the night. “You sure you don't want to confront him?”
“He knows where to find me,” I reply with a confident smirk, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.
As we wait for our coats, a glance at my watch confirms the creeping fatigue.
“Cutting the night short, Mr. Bonetti?” LaTorre’s voice, smooth and unsettling, catches me off guard.
“I'm afraid so. It's been a long day, and the cherry auction isn't exactly my scene,” I respond, my distaste barely concealed. The thought of those young women, auctioning off their innocence to the highest bidder churns my stomach. It's a game I refuse to play.
“Seems the apple does fall far from the tree,” he muses, a hint of mockery in his laugh. “Perhaps we should meet for coffee. There are matters I’d like to discuss.”
“Sure, I'll reach out when my calendar clears,” I reply noncommittally.
“Looking forward to it,” he offers his hand. I grasp it firmly, not missing the sly smirk he throws over his shoulder as he departs—a clear signal that the game is on.
Weeks later, I make a bold move and invite LaTorre to lunch. To my surprise, he accepts without hesitation.
I choose Tony's for its central location within our territories and the comforting sense of security it provides. The familiar aroma of good, traditional food always makes me feel at home. I've booked the upper floor of the restaurant, hoping it won't be misconstrued as a threat. LaTorre is a delicate balance of madness and power and definitely not someone you want to provoke.
As I settle into my seat, attempting to quell the nervous fluttering in my chest, my gaze lands on the white roses adorning the table and without a word, I pass them to Zack. The atmosphere shifts even before LaTorre makes his entrance, as if the air itself grows heavier, charged with the weight of the impending meeting. I can almost taste the tension, mingling with the scent of rich Italian cuisine that fills the room.
Rising to my feet, I smooth out the front of my suit, an attempt to steady my nerves as much as to appear composed. I step forward to greet him, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. LaTorre.” I extend my hand, trying to mask the unease in my voice.
His arrival feels like the embodiment of a storm quietly rolling in—dangerous yet mesmerizing. LaTorre's reputation precedes him, a man who wields his power with an unpredictability that's both feared and respected.
“I couldn’t miss the opportunity to meet the one who's revolutionizing his dad's clan,” LaTorre responds, betraying none of the tension I feel. His eyes, sharp and assessing, seem to pierce right through me.
“Revolution...” I echo, allowing myself a brief, humorless chuckle. “I think it is time for a clean overhaul. Old habits can only be erased in one way.”
My words hang between us, a veiled challenge. I'm acutely aware of every nuance in his expression, searching for a sign of his intentions. This meeting is a gamble, one that could either elevate our standings or ignite a war between our factions.
LaTorre's gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, as if considering the sincerity behind my words. The silence stretches, a taut string ready to snap, before he finally breaks it with a nod, a nonverbal cue that he's willing to hear me out.
As we sit across from each other the tension crackles between us like electricity. I take a sip of wine, steeling myself for what's to come. This lunch could be the key to unlocking my plan, the first step toward dismantling my father's empire and bringing him to justice. And as I look into LaTorre's eyes, I know I'm ready to do whatever it takes to make it happen.
As we engage in small talk over lunch, I can sense LaTorre’s curiosity simmering beneath the surface, his keen eyes watching me with a mixture of suspicion and interest. It's time to lay my cards on the table, to reveal the true extent of my intentions.
“Voglio la testa di mio padre.” I want my father's head. I keep my voice steady despite the nerves coursing through my veins.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his expression unreadable. “That's quite a bold statement, Mr. Bonetti.”
I nod. “I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring him down.”
LaTorre’s lips twitch in a semblance of a smile, but I can see the skepticism lurking behind his eyes. “And why should I trust you?”
I reach into my jacket pocket and his men stand at attention, arms aiming at me as my men do the same. I pull out the envelope signaling Zack to put the arms down and LaTorre does the same, while sliding it across the table toward him. “Because I have something that may interest you.”
He raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued as he picks up the envelope and flips it open. His eyes widen as he scans the contents, his expression shifting from doubt to disbelief.
“These are...” he murmurs, his voice tinged with surprise. “How did you get these?”
I lean forward, my eyes locked with his. “My men found some interesting information,” I explain. “It turns out your organization has two members on my father's payroll: Bianchi and Dante.”
LaTorre’s eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths. “And what do you expect in return for this information?”
I lean back in my chair, while taking the glass and sip some wine. “The same thing I've been asking for from the beginning,” I reply evenly. “My father's death, and I can’t do it alone.”
For a moment, there's silence between us as LaTorre skims to the next file. And then, slowly but surely, a look of realization dawns on his face, followed swiftly by anger.
“Your father...” he begins, his voice trembling with fury as he abruptly gets up. “He's responsible for... for my fiancée's execution.”
I nod, my jaw clenched with determination. “Him and Rossi,” I confirm. “And now, it's time for him to pay for his crimes since,” I pause for a second, “well, we know you took care of Rossi.”
He slams the hands on the table, the tension in the air is palpable as again guns are pointed in every direction, LaTorre’s security team bristling with hostility.
I hold up a hand, “Guns down,” I order my men, my gaze firm as I meet the eyes of each man in the room.
Most comply immediately, but one hesitates, his finger tightening on the trigger. Without a moment's hesitation, I draw my own weapon and fire, the sharp crack of the gunshot echoing through the room.
The man falls to the ground, and I ignore him, turning my attention back to LaTorre.
“Tomorrow, 10 am,” his voice is cold and authoritative. “We'll head to Valle Verde and you’ll come with me.”
“We’ll be there Mr Latorre.” I nod.
He extends his hand, “It’s Ferdinando.”
“Christopher.” Firmly, I shake it.
This is it, the moment I've been waiting for, the opportunity to finally bring down my father is within reach.
As I watch LaTorre and his men file out of the room, a sense of triumph washes over me.
Jackpot!
As we pull up to the gates of Valle Verde, I can feel the weight of anticipation settling over me like a heavy blanket. This is it, the moment we've been building up to, the culmination of months of planning and preparation. I glance around at my trusted men and we’re ready for whatever lies ahead.
Before stepping in the house, I unholster my weapons and hand them over to Alec, issuing a silent command for everyone else to do the same. It's a precautionary measure, a show of trust and respect to our hosts, but it's also a signal of our readiness to engage in negotiations rather than confrontation. LaTorre nods in approval as he watches us disarm, clearly impressed by our display of cooperation.
As we enter the sprawling estate, I'm struck by the sheer opulence of my surroundings. The air is heavy with the scent of exotic flowers, and the sound of laughter and music drifts through the warm night air. Elena, Ferdinando's sister, and her imposing bodyguard, Marco, greet us. She's a vision of elegance and grace, her smile lighting up her face as she welcomes us into her home.
We're ushered into the dining room, where a sumptuous feast awaits us. As we settle into our seats, the conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and good-natured banter. But beneath the surface, I can sense the tension simmering, the unspoken questions hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
“So, Chris,” Ferdinando says in a casual tone but his eyes sharp, “do you have a woman in your life?”
I sigh, knowing that my answer will only serve to open old wounds. “Not anymore,” I admit. “There was someone once, but... things didn't work out.”
He and Elena exchange a knowing look, and I can see the curiosity burning in their eyes. They want to know more, to understand me. And so, with a heavy heart, I begin to recount the painful chapters of my past, from the loss of my mother to the betrayal of my brother.
“Quindi è una vendetta,” Which means this is all about revenge , Ferdinando observes.
The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, each syllable laden with unspoken meaning. “No, what he took off is priceless.”
I feel a pang of regret shoot through me like a bolt of lightning. Leila . The name echoes in my mind, a haunting reminder of what I've lost. But I push the feeling aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
“Allora riprenditela.” Get her back, then, Ferdinando suggests with a shrug.
I shake my head, the bitterness rising in my throat like bile. “I wish I could,” I heavily sigh, “But it's too late. They got married, and I... I respect her choice.”
A ping interrupts our conversation, drawing my attention to the screen of my cell phone.
X: Chateaux. 6 pm.
I glance up at Ferdinando. “è l’invito del Consiglio .” That's Consiglio's invitation , he explains.
My eyes widen in alarm, a nervous energy radiating from him like waves of heat. “Shit, what did I do wrong?” I mutter under my breath, hands trembling.
He reaches for his glass of wine. “Wrong?” he repeats, a grim smile playing at the corners of his lips. “If you did something wrong, you'd be dead, Christopher. No, they invite you for one purpose only.”
“Alleanza?” Alliance?