Chapter 29
29
B rooklyn, New York – 1949
The black 1947 Cadillac idled outside a nondescript brownstone in Carroll Gardens, its engine a low growl in the quiet night. The neighborhood was Sicilian— old Sicilian—where the cobblestone streets whispered of men who had crossed the ocean with vendettas stitched into their suit linings. The air smelled of garlic, simmering tomatoes, and the salt-tang of the East River.
Inside the car, Matteo Ricci tightened his grip on the wheel, his knuckles pale under the dim glow of the dashboard lights. Beside him, his younger brother Carmelo exhaled sharply, rolling a silver dollar across his knuckles—a nervous habit.
"You ready for this?" Matteo muttered; his voice low his gaze focused more on his plan than what was beyond the car.
Carmelo smirked, but his dark eyes were sharp, calculating. "We walk in there like we own the place. Like we’re meant to be there. We are Don Ricci’s sons. We can’t let him intimidate us. No matter what he says."
Matteo nodded. The plan was simple: play the eager sons, hungry to learn the family business. Their father, Don Cosimo Ricci, thought they were out chasing skirts or wasting time in pool halls. He didn’t know they had spent the last four days listening at closed doors, tracing the threads of power that really controlled their world. Mama Stewart had prepared Matteo. He understood the large task ahead of them.
And all those threads led to him .
DeMarco Salvatore.
The Sicilian consigliere . The man who had taught their father the old ways—the real ways—when Cosimo first joined the Five Families. The man who, if Mama Stewart was right, was the neck that turned the head.
Matteo killed the engine. "Remember—we’re here to learn. To impress him. If he thinks we’re just dumb kids, we’re dead."
Carmelo’s smirk faded. "And if he sees through us?"
Matteo met his brother’s gaze. "Then we’re already dead."
Matteo reached for the door handle. Carmelo grabbed his arm and stopped him. Matteo looked over. “What is it?”
“Ma. Have you spoken to her, about the baby and everything?” Carmelo asked.
Matteo sighed. “I tried but she cried so hard and prayed that I had to stop. I wish she hadn’t found out this way. That I had the time to get her ready for the news, to help her see how this is not a threat to the family but a blessing.”
Carmelo nodded. “She heard us that day talking. No turning back now. I’m worried. She’s been weird. Matteo?”
“What do you mean?” Matteo asked.
“I dunno. It’s just how she acts now. She spends a lot of time in the basement, and she is ignoring Nino. I must watch him more. But then she comes out all smiles and talks about me and Maria Romero. Knowing that I love Kathy. It’s like… I dunno. She’s in her own world or something.”
Matteo sighed, “I’m going to take her to church and shopping. Spend the day with her. That usually works. First, we need to deal with DeMarco. Second, we go on bended knee to father. You take up the boxing he wants you to do, and I’ll get in the business.”
“Perfecto.” Carmelo agreed.
The Brownstone
The door opened before they could knock.
A hulking soldato with a face like a meat cleaver eyed them, then stepped aside without a word. The foyer was dim, lit by a single brass chandelier, its light glinting off the polished walnut paneling. The air was thick with the scent of cigars and something darker— power .
At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stood ajar.
Matteo took a steadying breath and stepped forward.
Inside, the room was a study in controlled opulence. Persian rugs swallowed their footsteps. A mahogany desk, its surface gleaming under the glow of a green-shaded lamp, dominated the space. And behind it?—
DeMarco Salvatore.
The Sicilian didn’t look up as they entered. He was writing something in a ledger, his pen scratching across the paper like a blade. His suit was immaculate—charcoal gray, tailored to his lean frame. His hair, silver-streaked black, was slicked back, and his face was all angles, sharp enough to draw blood. The scar on his cheek didn’t appear ghastly in this light. It looked more tribal, like a right of passage he had to take to come out of the slums of Sicily to this posh life.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were black pits.
"Matteo. Carmelo." His voice was smooth, accent thick as Sicilian wine. "Your father doesn’t know you’re here."
It wasn’t a question.
Matteo forced a smile. "We wanted to come to you first."
DeMarco leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Oh?"
Carmelo stepped forward, playing his part perfectly. "We want to learn. The real business. Not just the street stuff. It’s time Papa sees us as men. The men he raises to take the family forward."
“But you are lovebirds. Matteo with his negro whore and you Romeo, who misses his Juliet,” sneered at the boys. Carmelo didn’t have to look at his brother to know the insult landed it’s target. He could feel the tension rise in the office. Matteo had a pure heart but a temper like a volcano. So Carmelo stepped forward.
“Who we love, who we fuck, who we entertain ourselves with is not of your concern DeMarco. What is of concern is you as a consigliere have spent no time in educating us, preparing us for your Don’s succession. And we both know Papa wants it.”
DeMarco left brow arched but he continued to glare at Matteo and smirk.
Carmelo continued. “If you wish not to help, we will go to consigliere Alessandro Nero. Who services Don Lombardo and tell him that we are lost boys, wanting to make our Papa proud and remove the shame we have brought upon him with our mistakes. But you are too busy counting his money behind his back instead of counseling us on the ways of the Mafia.
Matteo blinked out of his rage. He looked over at his little brother shocked. Carmelo was more in control and more of a pro than he had ever believed possible with all he’s been through.
A slow smile curled DeMarco’s lips. “Smart kid. You could learn a lot from your baby brother Matteo.”
Matteo face flushed red with embarrassment.
DeMarco set down his pen. "Sit."
The Lesson
What followed was a masterclass in Cosa Nostra .
DeMarco spoke of Omertà —the sacred silence. Of respect. Of blood.
"A man who speaks to the law is already dead," he murmured, pouring three glasses of rosso . "But a man who betrays his family?" He slid a glass toward each of them. "That man wishes he was dead."
Matteo took the wine but didn’t drink. His pulse hammered in his throat. He and his brother’s entire mission of assimilation was to overthrow his father. DeMarco’s gaze twinkled, as if he sensed that fact between them. They had to be careful. "You want to be made men? Then understand this—the Family is everything . More than your wives. More than your children. More than your own life . La Cosa Nostra is the thing we do."
Carmelo’s jaw tightened. Matteo knew what he was thinking— Debbie. Kathy. The girls they weren’t supposed to love would certainly be in the Mafia’s cross-hairs for the rest of their lives if their father deemed them a threat or learned about the baby.
DeMarco noticed. His smile turned knife-sharp. "You have doubts?"
Matteo forced a laugh. "No. But you’re not telling us everything.”
“I am not?” DeMatco smirked.
“Yes, the thorned rose. The symbol of the Castellammarese clan. Father killed Don Emilio Cattano, but put it on the Irish, just as Don Emilio had done to the big Boss. Except Don Emilio was able to walk away from the crime because he had the medallion. Now everyone thinks either father or Luciano does. No one’s seen it. No one even speaks about it.”
DeMarco nodded. For the first time since they arrived that evil smirk of his was gone. He narrowed his eyes on Matteo. Seeing wisdom in him over Carmelo for the first time. “How do you know this?”
“I listen, I watch, I learn,” said Matteo.
“Your father doesn’t have that medallion, neither does Luciano. If either of them had it this war simmering between them since Luciano arrest and exile would have ended in one favor or another.”
“So where is it? The medallion? And why is more important than the sacred vows?” asked Carmelo.
DeMarco wiped his hand down his face. “The medallion is a symbol of power. And we Sicilians are traditionalist. Without it in the hands of one man the Five Families can exist in harmony. Each Mafia boss owns their territory. But if one man, like Don Emilio wears it, he is the Boss of all Bosses. Capisce? He is the King. So, we pretend it is out there, my guess is the old black woman keeps it. Why else would Luciano protect her even now from Italy?”
“Do you want it? Does Papa want it?” Carmelo asked.
“Every soldato in La Cosa Nostra wants it. But Luciano was wise to say no, to not claim it but to set up a dynasty where we all are men of importance. If that medallion surfaces the Dons will war with each other and we will ultimately lose. Your father doesn’t understand this. He’s Italian. He thirsts for power only.”
The Sicilian studied them for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached into his desk and pulled out a lupara —a sawed-off shotgun. He laid it on the desk between them. “You want to be made men?”
“We said yes,” Matteo answered.
"Then prove it."
The Realization
As they left hours later, the weight of DeMarco’s lesson pressing down on them, the brothers didn’t speak until they were back in the car.
Carmelo was the first to break the silence. " Jesus. He wants us to kill an innocent? He’s fucking insane,"
Matteo gripped the wheel so hard it creaked. "He’s not just advising our father. He’s replacing him. He knows Mama Stewart has that medallion."
“She does? How do you know that?” Carmelo asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Luciano is still the man he fears and respects. He’s a traditionalist. He won’t go after Mama Stewart or do anything while Luciano lives, even from Italy.”
“But if Luciano dies? Then what?” Carmelo asked.
“Then DeMarco or anyone will come for her and the medallion. She knows this, Carmelo. This is why she is teaching me. She wants to give it to me so she can live her days in peace. But she says I’m not ready. That we aren’t ready. We are just hungry for power like Pa. We have to go the distance.” Matteo looked to the sawed of shotgun between them in the car. “I’ll go the distance.”
“Matteo know! Street wars, and turf, knife fights are one thing. Killing a innocent man is something different.” Carmelo said.
“I’ve already killed a man, more than one.” Matteo reasoned.
“That was in defense of someone else, of yourself or Kathy. Not this. DeMarco is setting you up. You think he wants to help us? No. You won’t do it.” Carmelo sighed. “We have to take a different route.”
“What is that?” Matteo asked.
“Father. We want to be made men, then we go in and kneel before father. We don’t need DeMarco’s consent to do it our way.”
Matteo closed his eyes and remembered what Mama Stewart told him. He would have to be useful to the Mafia, to the Sicilians. Going through father would not pave the way. But he didn’t want to distress his brother with that dark truth.”
Yet, the truth was undeniable. DeMarco’s wealth, his influence, the way the soldati moved at his command—this wasn’t just a consigliere . This was a man who had already begun to wear the Don’s crown.
And if he ever suspected their real plan?
They were corpses.
Carmelo opened the glove compartment and removed the cigarettes. He lit a one, for the first time, his hands steady now. "We play the game. We get close. And when the time comes?—"
Matteo finished the thought. " We cut the neck. "
The engine roared to life.
The drove off into the night before the night swallowed them whole.