Chapter 2 #2
My father may be their Don, but by the looks of it, there is no love for him here.
I see it in the way their eyes narrow and their lips curve down every time he bellows out a laugh.
There’s no mistaking what lies behind their eyes as they look at him.
How they wished it had been the senior who died in Chicago six months ago instead of the junior.
Allies. That’s what I see. Men who, when the time comes, will back my claim to the throne and follow me as I restore the Cosa Nostra to its rightful place as rulers of the New York underworld.
This time, my smile isn’t an act. It’s one of genuine satisfaction.
These thoughts churn in my head as I continue scanning the ballroom, cataloging faces, weighing loyalties, searching for every man who might aid me when the time comes.
My mouth tightens, though, when I spot Raffaele slouched in a chair at an empty table, grinning down at the glowing screen of his phone.
Like any fifteen-year-old, the thing is practically glued to his hand.
But this isn’t the time or the place to act like a kid.
He knows that all eyes will be on all of us tonight.
And if he doesn’t, then I guess I’m the one who needs to remind him.
I stride toward him and snatch the phone from his grip before he even notices me.
“Hey! What the fuck, Matteo?” he snaps, oblivious to the people around.
“Sit. Down,” I order sternly, slipping the phone into my pocket.
Raffaele obeys, though his blue eyes, so much like our mother’s, shoot daggers up at me.
There’s a sharp pang in my chest whenever he looks at me this way. I’m not sure when it happened, but lately we butt heads more often than not.
I wanted to be the kind of older brother to him that Carlo was to me. In his eyes, however, it seems I’ve become more like our father—and I hate myself for it.
Still, if I have to be the villain in his story, so be it.
The boy needs discipline. He needs structure.
He needs guidance… because I need him. Aside from my mother and Niccolò, Raffaele is the only family I have left.
We have to protect each other. And if I don’t want him to end up dead at the hands of our enemies, he needs to grow up.
I should have been tougher on him sooner. Against my better judgment, I gave him too much leeway, especially because Carlo always insisted Raffaele be allowed to stay a child a little longer.
Now he’s spoiled and selfish, and too much like our father for my comfort. And every trait in him that mirrors that man is another reason I need to be harder on Raffaele than anyone else.
“Can I have my phone back?” he asks, venom still sharp in his voice.
“After you’ve made the rounds,” I reply, tracing a small circle in the air with my finger.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass,” he says, crossing his arms and slouching back in the chair.
This. This is the insolent attitude that needs to be demolished.
Once I’ve ensured no one is paying attention to us, I lean down until my face is all he sees, and state, “That wasn’t a suggestion, Rafe. It was an order.” He exhales through clenched teeth, seeing the threat in my eyes.
“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles before standing up. “Fine. Whose ass do you want me to kiss?”
Good. Progress.
I scan the room and spot the city’s mayor with a tight expression, barely concealing his frustration for having to attend my father’s wedding.
Mayor Robert Harrington might love the kickbacks the Cosa Nostra funnels his way, but he hates having his picture taken with us.
Having to pretend that my family is nothing more than average, respectable, law-abiding citizens, somehow takes too much effort on his part.
I’m not sure why it bothers him so much. Everyone knows we own him, along with most of the politicians in this state and half of the NYPD. The Cosa Nostra has always had this city’s most influential players in its pocket.
Still, by the looks of it, there seems to be growing dissatisfaction with how things are being run.
If tonight has shown me anything at all, it’s that more than a few people here had placed all their hopes on my brother. They wanted Carlo to succeed our father sooner rather than later. Not only did they believe in his vision, but they had grown tired of my father’s sleazy, self-serving ways.
They wanted a boss worth following. Carlo would have been that boss. My father, on the other hand… never was. Which makes the mayor another possible ally in my plan. And if I can get him to betray my father, I can get other reputable men like him to turn their backs on him, too.
My gaze drifts to the dark-haired brunette seated at his table, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else than here. The fact that she looks to be Raffaele’s age only makes me smile wider.
“Go over to the mayor’s table and ask if you can dance with his daughter.”
“You’re fucking with me, right?” Raffaele blurts, his eyes wide. “You’re pimping me out?!”
God, I hate teenagers. Even the simplest order is met with a side of sarcasm.
“Go,” I say flatly. “I won’t ask again.”
“Will you give me back my phone after?” he tries to negotiate.
I exhale slowly, pinching the bridge of my nose just to keep my composure. “Yes. Now go.”
“Fine. But you owe me one. Big time,” he mutters. “I go to school with Caroline Harrington, and she’s a spoiled bitch.”
“Takes one to know one.” My brows raise poignantly at him.
“You’re barrel of laughs today, Matteo,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Remember, you owe me.”
I step aside, my silent command unmistakable.
Raffaele lets out a disgruntled huff, drags a hand through his hair, and puts on his best toothpaste-ad smile.
I watch him cross the dance floor and strike up a conversation with the mayor.
Harrington practically lights up at the attention, clearly pleased that someone has taken an interest in his daughter.
The girl, however, looks far less thrilled. It’s obvious there’s bad blood between them. What my brother did to get on her bad side is anyone’s guess. Still, they’ll both have to get over it and learn to play their parts.
Once the pair begins dancing, I return to my original spot, only to feel Raffaele’s phone vibrate in my pocket.
My brow furrows. Who could possibly be texting him? For all his boyish good looks and swagger, Raffaele is something of a loner. He never talks about his friends or seems to have much of a social life. At least none that I know about.
Maybe outside the hellish walls our father built for us, Raffaele was able to have a semblance of the life Carlo always wanted for him—one where he’s just a kid with ordinary interests, untouched by our upbringing or circumstances.
I can’t help the flicker of envy that cuts through me. Niccolò and I were never afforded such a luxury.
Curious, I pull out his phone and read the incoming text.
Anna: I don’t know. I think maybe a snake and a mouse could be friends under different circumstances.
I mean, rivalry feels almost genetic, doesn’t it?
But if you remove the conditions that create it, and they no longer see themselves as predator and prey, I don’t see what would stop them from being friends.
The message is so strange that I scroll up the thread just to make sense of it all. Yes, I’m invading his privacy, but as his older brother, I think I’ve earned the right.
What I find only deepens my concern. Every one of his texts to this girl is filled with the ramblings of a wide-eyed, carefree child. All harmless. Completely unguarded. Too innocent. Too good. Too pure.
It’s just as I feared. Raffaele is still too soft, too vulnerable for the world that is waiting impatiently to devour him. How will he ever be ready to take the omertá in a few years if he continues to spend his time fantasizing about a world that he will never belong in?
Just as I’m about to switch the phone off, satisfied I’ve seen more than enough, a photo catches my eye. It’s of a young girl around Raffaele’s age, smiling straight at the camera, her free hand poised over piano keys.
It’s a pretty picture. One of youthful innocence.
And how I loathe it.
Ice floods my veins the second I recognize the girl in the photo.
I assumed Anna was a school friend of my brother, but I was wrong. This picture is proof that Anna is, in fact, Annamaria Romano, Vincent Romano’s youngest daughter. And how I remember her clearly.
When I first saw the young girl back in Chicago, I hated her on sight. She was the living embodiment of the lie Romano tells the world. That he is good. That he is righteous. That he is beyond reproach. He must be, to have such a child.
She looked as though God himself had plucked her from the stars and handpicked her as a gift for the Romanos. All that was missing was a halo above her head.
Still, in my eyes, she is a lie. A beautiful, grotesque lie. And no family should possess such a trophy to parade around. Least of all, Chicago.
Betrayal tastes like copper on my tongue as I scroll through the thread of my brother’s messages to her. More pictures. More smiles and private jokes. Over five months’ worth.
Here I am, plotting my family’s reclaiming of New York, while my brother is entangling himself with the enemy, one text at a time.
Blind fury nearly has me snapping the damn phone in half. But I don’t. Something stops me.
A plan sparks to life in my mind. It’s tentative at first, then steadily begins to take shape, sinking its roots deep inside me.
And as I look around the reception hall and keep seeing a few snickers thrown over to Niccolò, Raffaele, and my mother, the idea begins to expand in my mind until it’s all I can focus on.
Everyone here may ridicule my brothers and me for being bastards, but we are not the only ones. No. If I were to put ten made men in a lineup right this very minute, at least half of them would have a bastard or two hidden away somewhere.
Cheating husbands are not unheard of in our world. Sometimes it is almost expected, a sign of virility and dominance.
But a cheating wife? Now that is a humiliation beyond repair.
And even though Romano acts as if his house were a fortress, that his family is what every mafioso should strive to achieve, we’ve all heard the rumors about his Red Queen.
They say Selene Romano shares her bed not only with her husband, but also with his consigliere and enforcer.
I never gave much sway to such a rumor. With the way I was raised, I know all too well how envious men love to strip women of their power by calling them a whore, even if it’s not true.
Such words end up sticking to a woman, tarnishing their reputation.
I always assumed that was what people were doing to Selene, and therefore wanted no part in it.
Still, what if there’s a kernel of truth buried beneath the gossip?
What if I can prove that Vincent’s children aren’t his at all? What if his successor, Marcello, the very devil who snapped Carlo’s neck before my very eyes, is like me? What if he’s a bastard too? What if all of them are?
That would mean that Vincent’s bloodline would end with him. And if the truth of that was ever to come out, it would create such chaos within the Outfit, such mayhem, that the syndicate would be forced to look elsewhere for a new Capo Dei Capi.
And if that happened, then the Romanos would know the kind of shame and ridicule my brothers and I have endured our entire lives. Their very name would be as despised in Chicago as the Donato name currently is.
Perhaps this friendship between Raffaele and Annamaria will serve me well after all.
At least, it’s a start.