Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Remi
The study clears out, save for Angelo. He takes a seat on the couch, placing his head in his hands.
I walk to the drink cart, pouring him a shot of whiskey. Crossing the room, I take a seat beside him, offering it.
He accepts the glass with a guarded look.
“I showed you mine; it’s time to show me yours,” I tell him gently.
He rolls the amber liquid in the glass, lost in thought.
“Growing up, Fabien was my tormentor. He was bigger. He was stronger. And he loved power. A horrid combination for someone like me. A wet dream for a bully like him.” Angelo tips back the glass before placing it on the table.
“Fabien loved to rub in the fact that one day he’d be my boss.
I’d resigned myself to that fate, but then something happened that changed the trajectory of my life. ”
Angelo
Seventeen years old
My highlighter moves across the passage of my textbook. Exams are a month away, but I like to be prepared.
The wall begins rattling with the obnoxious bass of my brother’s stereo. Annoyance flashes through me as I bang on our shared wall. “I’m trying to study.”
He turns up the volume.
I slam my book shut with a frustrated sigh, tucking it underneath my arm and stalking out of my room.
Only to run into Fabien.
“What was that?” He gets in my face.
“I said I’m trying to study.”
The book under my arm gets smacked and goes skidding down the hall. “What now, smart guy?”
“Aren’t you a little too old for the bully routine?” I say in a bored tone, trying to cover for my pounding heart.
“Probably, but you’re such a pretentious little shit, I can’t seem to help myself.” He grabs my wrist, and I scream as he snaps my left index finger out of socket.
“I’ve got a piano recital this weekend, you asshole!” My finger dangles like a limp noodle.
“Don’t be a baby.” He grabs it and pops it back into place with a disgusting crunch, and I scream again.
And with that, he turns around and strolls back to his room.
My finger is finally out of the splint, albeit it will never be perfectly straight again. Using it, along with my other fingers, I text my piano teacher.
I’ve been medically cleared to resume playing.
Excellent. I’ll see you this week.
Entering the family room, I find Fabien giving our little sister a piggyback ride. It’s like he’s a different person with her. Just as well; I’d take the brunt of his torture if that meant Al gets a happy childhood.
“Angelo, there you are. Where is your splint?” Mama asks, joining us.
“Just got back from the doc. I’ve been cleared to resume playing piano.”
“Oh, thank heavens. You’re so talented, my darling.” She kisses the top of my head.
Fabien rolls his eyes behind Mama’s back. “Gotta be more careful, little brother, and not slam your finger in the door next time.”
“Yeah, I’ll be more careful.” I eye him down. It was pointless ratting my brother out. Papà would only agree with Fabien and tell me to quit being such a baby. Brute strength is rewarded; weakness is despised in this household.
“Come with me to the kitchen and let’s discuss your birthday plans.”
I follow Mama into the kitchen, where she whispers, “Your papà wants to meet with you in private, but give me a minute to soften him up.”
She grabs the coffee carafe and tray before disappearing down the hallway.
Giving it a few minutes to play it safe, I saunter down the hallway, wondering what I’ve done this time to disappoint my father.
I stroll past his open office door, and he calls, “Angelo.”
“Yes, Papà?” I stick my head in his office, finding him behind his desk, with Mama pouring him an espresso.
“Have a seat.” He gestures to a chair across from him. “How’s the finger?”
“It’s better. I’m back to piano lessons this week ? —”
“I humor your mama, but those lessons are about to come to an end. It’s time you man up and earn your button before your eighteenth birthday. Your brother was already a made man at sixteen.”
“Vitto, my love,” Mama says, placing down the coffee carafe. “Angelo is not Fabien. Let him be his own man; help the family in a different way.”
“Yes, Papà.” I pounce, Mama giving me the perfect segue to bring up my future plans. “I’ve been accepted to the best colleges ? —”
“You’re a Calvani. You’re becoming a made man, and that’s the end of it.” Vitto slams his fist down on his desk, causing the little coffee cup to rattle.
My mama, adept at handling Vitto’s angry outbursts, says, “Of course, my love. You know best.” Kissing him, she gives me a sympathetic smile before taking her tray and leaving.
“Your mama has made you soft.”
“We can’t all be perfect like my brother,” I snipe.
Vitto leans back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “Your brother is a hothead. He’s loud. He’s cocky. And I’m not sure he’s the best choice to lead this family when the time comes.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I could bestow the position to you, should you prove yourself.”
“How?” I ask, feeling like there’s a catch.
“Kill your piano teacher.”
“What?” I sputter. “Why?”
“Because he’s a plant by the feds.”
“That can’t be right. He’s never asked me anything about the family ? —”
“It would be too suspicious for him to start asking questions right away. That’s how they operate; they embed themselves in your life. Slowly gain your trust.”
“What proof of this do you have?”
“I’m the fucking boss of this family.” He stabs himself in the chest with his finger. “What I say is all the proof you need.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to murder someone,” I mutter.
He sighs impatiently. “Try suffocation with a bag; your dainty little fingers will stay clean.”
Ignoring the barb, I consider his offer. Not only would I get Fabien’s boot off my neck, I could be the one to finally grind mine into his.
But can I really do this? I’ve always been around violence, but the thought of me being the one to perform the deed has my stomach roiling.
“You’re going to have to earn your button one way or another.”
“Isn’t this risky if he’s connected to the feds?” I point out.
“High risk, high reward. You want to continue being your brother’s bitch, or do you want to be the boss one day?”
“How do I go about this?” I find myself asking.
“Here’s how you’ll play it. You’re going to kill him, stage the suicide, and then bring me his cellphone. The cellphone is the most crucial step in this operation. Do not leave the scene without it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Successfully pull this off, and we’ll discuss your seat at the head of the table.”
I’ve mentally rehearsed the plan to the point of needing to get this fucking over with. By sheer willpower, my hand is steady as I ring the doorbell, and a moment later, my piano teacher answers the door.
“Angelo, I’m surprised to see you. Your message said that you needed to cancel your lessons this evening.”
“I was able to shift things around; didn’t you get my last message?” I lie.
He retrieves his phone from his pocket, checking it. “It doesn’t appear so.”
“That’s odd,” I muse. “Can I come in?”
“Of course, come in,” he says, closing the door behind me.
Things have shifted to slow motion as I follow him, my heart pounding in my ears. I reach into my pocket and bring the bag out, and move it up and over his head.
He claws at where my hands connect with the bag as I mentally check out by counting the seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
He lurches forward, but I go with him, refusing to have to do this twice.
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
The bag moves in and out with his over-exaggerated breaths he simply can’t receive.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
His fingernails dig into my forearms, drawing blood, but I don’t dare release my grip on the bag.
The man puts up a hell of a fight until I reach the sixty-second mark. His body stills, all of his weight collapsing into me.
“Shit.”
Easing him to the floor is a struggle, but I get him on his back. Eyes wide and lifeless, I don’t feel much of anything. My concerns about committing the act were unwarranted; I’m a Calvani through and through.
Grunting, I drag the corpse across the room and get it seated into the correct position. Mentally, I go through my checklist. I need to don gloves and then tie his neck to the doorknob; make it look like a suicide.
But first things first. Vitto hammered how this was so damn important, and I grab my teacher's phone from his pocket.
The home screen is still unlocked from him checking his phone minutes earlier, and out of curiosity, I open the message screen.
The first is an exchange from a contact named Sugar Daddy.
That’s a weird handler name for the feds.
I open up the thread, my jaw landing on the floor next to the corpse.
I stroll into my father’s office like I own the place. Because he doesn’t know it yet, but I do.
“Is it done?”
“Yes.” I take a seat, and he eyes the manila folder in my hands.
“Did you run into any problems?”
“No problems. Smooth as the silk tie my teacher hung himself with.”
“Good. Where is the phone?”
“In a safe location.”
“I told you to bring it here ? —”
I slide the folder over his desk, and when he opens it, the look on his face is priceless.
All the text messages between Sugar Daddy Vitto Calvani and his sugar baby, my fucking piano teacher, printed in high resolution.
“‘Sugar Daddy.’ I wonder what our capos would think of these messages with your male sugar baby?” I taunt, knowing damn well the old guard harbors thinly veiled bigotry.
“Or the videos?” I tsk. “You and your sugar baby liked to put on quite the show.” I nearly vomited when I pressed play on one of many of my father’s sex tapes.
His face turns from bright red to a painful-looking shade of purple.
“Not a fed plant; he was your lover. But sadly, things soured with your sugar baby.” Anger rising in me, I lean forward in my seat and hiss, “You tricked me into doing your dirty work. Were you really offering me the head of family position, or was this just a clever way of getting me to murder your lover boy?”
“Does it fucking matter?” He flicks the folder closed.
“No. I guess it doesn’t.” I cross my leg at the ankle, wrapping my hands around my knee. “It’d be a shame if Mama were to find those videos.”
He doesn’t yell.
Or threaten me.
Or even try to murder me.
Vitto Calvani laughs.
“You’re more like your old man than you care to admit.”
“I’ve got a kill switch,” I warn him. “If I die or get pinched for the murder, then all of your dirt—the texts and the nudes and the sex tapes and the love nest deed—will not only be sent to your capos and Mama, but to the local papers and news stations across the city. You want to burn the Calvani empire to the ground? I’m holding the lit match. ”
He tents his fingers, looking at me with a mix of hostility and…is it pride? “What are your terms?”
“I’m out.”
He scoffs. “You were never in.”
“Then you’ll have no problem wishing me goodbye.”