Chapter 4
Matteo
Twenty-two years old
I adjust my cufflinks as I descend the stairs, my mind already turning over the day ahead. I have a few meetings downtown in the Financial District, and later I’ll meet up with Niccolò so he can update me on enforcement matters and anything else that requires my attention.
Halfway down, a familiar clearing of the throat reaches my ears, coaxing my spine to stiffen in a knee-jerk reaction.
Cazzo.
I crack my neck from left to right before continuing toward the sound.
The moment the kitchen comes into view, my gaze locks on the bane of my very existence—my father.
He’s sitting comfortably at the table with a newspaper spread wide before him, while my mother stands off to the side at the counter, preparing his morning coffee in silence, her movements small and mechanical.
Something sharp coils in my chest at the sight of them together. My father isn’t supposed to be here. Not yet. And he sure as shit isn’t supposed to be left alone with my mother.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, not making the slightest effort to hide my animosity.
“This is still my house, Matteo. Or have you forgotten while I was away?” he replies, a smug smile firmly in place, not even bothering to lift his gaze from the newspaper.
“I thought you were going to spend the entire summer in the Hamptons,” I retort accusingly.
“It’s well past Labor Day, son. Nothing exciting ever happens in the Hamptons after Labor Day,” he explains, sounding bored. “Summer is officially over, I’m afraid.”
Merda.
I’ve been so busy that I must have completely lost track of the month, let alone the day. Still, what irritates me most is the casual way he talks about Labor Day and how it always marks the end of his stay at the Hamptons. As if it should be common knowledge to me.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve never set foot in his summer home in the Hamptons.
Like clockwork, a week before the Fourth of July, he would take Carlo Jr. and his wife, Ginevra, away for an extended stay, while Niccolò, Raffaele, and I were forbidden to join them.
We were always left behind, while they mingled with the one percenters and enjoyed the fruits of other people’s labor.
Not that I minded much. I might have felt Carlo’s absence during those months, but not having our father and his wicked witch of a wife around were the only months any of us ever got a taste of freedom.
It was also the only occasion that we were allowed to spend quality time with our mother.
Our father would always pull her out of his brothel during the summer so she could look after us.
He would laugh and say, ‘Why should I pay a nanny to look after you when you have a mother who can do the job for free?’
My father knew damn well that if anyone needed looking after, it was us taking care of our mother, not the other way around. Not that we minded. In fact, we preferred it.
Those months with her had to last us the rest of the year.
Because soon our father and Ginevra would return to torment our lives, while our mother would once again have to suffer the injustice of us being ripped away from her hands, only to be thrown back into a life where men like him would abuse her body and fracture her mind even more.
My nostrils flare in disgust as I watch him tap his empty mug, silently ordering my mother to refill it. With her head bowed, she follows his command to a T and then quickly turns around to clean the dishes she used to make the fucker breakfast.
I hate seeing him this close to her. I hate that he even breathes the same air she does. But like he loves to remind me, this is still his house, and I have to pretend that actually means something.
I don’t utter another word to him as I walk over to my mother and press a kiss on her cheek.
“Morning, Mom.”
When I look into her eyes and see the blank expression staring back at me, I realize she isn’t in the room with us today. Not really. Her body may be present, but her mind is nowhere in sight.
Still, I offer her a warm smile and fix myself an espresso. The French toast she made will remain untouched. Seeing my father so early in the morning has stolen whatever appetite I had.
With the coffee warm in my hand, I lean against the counter and stare at the stronzo, wondering what fresh hell he’s up to now.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day, son, or are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to all summer?” my father asks, his eyes never leaving the newspaper.
I’ve been plotting your demise, old man. That’s what I’ve been doing.
“I’ve been dealing with business, like I always do in your absence,” I say instead.
“And how is business?” he asks.
“The same.”
“Hm,” he mumbles disapprovingly.
If he wants more feedback on how the Cosa Nostra business is doing these days, then he should take a more invested role in our dealings.
But he won’t. At sixty-five, my father is already thinking about retirement.
The only reason he hasn’t stepped down is because he loves the adoration from the other families too much to give it up yet.
He thrives on the power. He eats it up, savoring how good it tastes to be the Boss of the Cosa Nostra, as if that even means anything anymore. He lives in delusion, the grand illusion that he still strikes fear into anyone.
He doesn’t. He’s a joke. A joke everyone laughs at. He’s an embarrassment, and I hate that I bear his last name.
However, it is that very name, the Donato name, that will ensure my claim to his throne. And his end.
“Shit,” I hear Raffaele mutter as he spots us, before striding into the kitchen.
“Good morning to you, too,” I greet him.
He gives me a brief nod and bypasses our father without offering so much as a greeting. Father doesn’t comment on the lack of courtesy, and frankly, neither do I. As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve even a good morning from Raffaele.
“Morning, Mom,” Raffaele says, his voice noticeably lighter as he presses a kiss on her cheek.
His blue eyes sadden when she doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed on some empty space in the sink. My chest aches as he lowers his head and turns toward the fridge, grabbing a carton of orange juice to pour into a tall glass.
I wish I could say days like this were few and far between. They aren’t. And those good days… those good days make days like this hurt even more.
When our mother has all her faculties intact, she fills our lives with such excitement and joy that it almost feels like we’re trapped in a beautiful dream.
It’s the little things I miss most when she’s like this.
The way she hums while she cooks. How we catch her dancing and singing along to the radio whenever she’s preparing a new dish that she thinks we might like.
The way she laughs at things that are barely funny.
How her eyes look at us like we are the very light in her life.
How she manages to make even this cold house feel warmer.
Those are the days she looks more like herself, like the woman she was meant to be before this life hollowed her out.
Then there are days like today. Days when her mind drifts somewhere we cannot reach. All that remains is a body moving on instinct. She eats because she has to. Dresses because it is expected. Bathes, cleans, and cooks because routine dictates. Everything happens on autopilot.
There is no spark behind her eyes. No emotion. No real awareness. Just the most basic form of survival, carrying her through the hours. And no matter how many times we’ve seen it, it never gets easier to watch.
When I catch Raffaele staring at her back, his hand lifting as if he wants to touch her, then dropping again because he knows better, my chest tightens even further.
On days like this, even gentle contact can send our mother into a panic.
Sometimes she screams until her voice gives out.
Other times, she curls into herself, rocking back and forth until she’s calm enough to stop.
“Do you want me to drive you to school this morning?” I ask, suddenly feeling extremely protective of my younger brother.
Raffaele stops short and stares at me. “You never drive me to school.”
It sounds more like an accusation than a statement, and he isn’t wrong. Carlo used to be the one who took Raffaele to school every morning. After Carlo died, I never felt it was my place to step into that role. Raffaele never asked me to, either, so I left it alone.
“Is that a no?”
I wouldn’t be offended if he declined my offer. He’s seventeen now, just starting his junior year at Pembroke High. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with his older brother hovering over him.
“I don’t care. You can take me,” he says with a shrug. “A chauffeur is a chauffeur.”
Thanks for the enthusiasm, I almost say, but instead I bite down on the inside of my cheek and take the win.
“The boy is old enough to drive himself. He doesn’t need anyone coddling him,” my father says bitterly without looking up from his newspaper.
“The boy can answer for himself,” Raffaele mutters as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Come on. I don’t want to be late.”
Raffaele leaves the kitchen without grabbing anything to eat. Apparently, my father’s presence has the same effect on his appetite as it does on mine.
I follow him toward the door, but before I step further away, I pause and glance back. My father remains seated at the table, coffee in hand, while my mother still stands at the sink with her back to us. I don’t like leaving her alone with him, especially on days like this.
I know both Niccolò and Raffaele are opposed to it, but I should hire a nurse. Someone who can be here around the clock. I don’t like leaving her alone when she’s incapable of fending for herself, especially when he’s here.