Chapter 4 #2
Fuck it. I know my brothers will be pissed, but I make a mental note to do it anyway. They’ll rant and rage, say Mom doesn’t like being treated like an invalid. That she can take care of herself just fine. And in a way, they’re right. On her good days, she can.
Still, it’s either a nurse or a bodyguard, and I know the bastard we have for a father would never allow soldiers to roam his house or touch his things. He’s particular like that. Possessive when it comes to material things, yet completely indifferent to his own flesh and blood.
So a nurse it is. He won’t be able to refuse me that. He’ll want to, sure. But he’ll have the good sense to keep his mouth shut.
Raffaele is already waiting for me outside the apartment, but I stop briefly in front of the two soldiers stationed at the door.
“Keep an eye on things,” I tell them quietly. “If my mother needs anything, I want to know immediately. If anything feels off, anything at all, call me.” They nod, accepting the order without question.
Raffaele and I ride the elevator down to the parking garage in complete silence. He has his earphones in, which tells me conversation is not on his agenda for the drive. He slides into the passenger seat while I take my place behind the wheel.
Before starting the car, I reach over and tap his shoulder. “Hey. How about you drive?”
He pulls one earphone out and looks at me carefully, as if waiting for a punchline, convinced I’m about to make a bad joke.
“I’m serious. The stronzo upstairs is right. You’re seventeen now. You should have a car of your own. Why did you even bother getting your license last year if you’re never going to use it?”
“This is New York. I don’t need a car, but I do need ID,” he says flatly. “You can drive. I’m good here.”
I frown because, apparently, nothing I do, no olive branch I extend, is ever good enough for Raffaele.
I start the car and pull out of the garage.
A few minutes into the drive, Raffaele reaches into his coat pocket for his phone. Whatever he reads makes him sport the first smile I’ve seen from him all morning.
I’m fairly certain I know who that text is from.
I’ve never told him that I know he’s been talking to Romano’s daughter for the better part of two years now.
Knowing Raffaele, he would lose his mind for invading his privacy.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what the two of them talk about so much.
Especially when it seems that Annamaria is the only person who ever puts that kind of smile on his face.
Unbeknownst to my kid brother, he only consorts with the girl because I allow it. Because I see potential there. For what, I haven’t made up my mind yet.
When another incoming text rings through, and he lets out a chuckle, my curiosity, above all else, has me nudging his shoulder to get his attention.
Annoyed, he pulls one earphone out. “What?”
“Who are you texting?”
“What’s it to you?” he asks, arching a brow.
“Can’t I be curious about who you spend all your time on the phone with?”
“Be curious all you want. Doesn’t mean I have to tell you jack shit.”
Always with the attitude. I swear.
I decide to change tactics.
“If you’re being this defensive, that means it’s a girl.”
Raffaele’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he schools his expression.
Good. No one should ever know exactly what a man is thinking, especially when he’s hiding something.
“It’s just a friend from school,” he lies, and it’s almost convincing.
“A friend,” I repeat.
“Yeah. A friend. Can we stop with the second-degree already? Geez.” He rolls his eyes.
“I was just trying to make conversation with you, Rafe. It’s been a minute since I last checked in with you.”
“You want to check on me now?” he blurts. The way his steel-blue eyes cloud with resentment catches me off guard.
“Someone needs to look after you,” I say, my tone harsher than I intend, matching his for reasons I don’t fully understand.
“Spare me, Matteo. I don’t need you suddenly acting like a concerned big brother,” he scoffs.
“Rafe—”
“I said no, Matteo,” he snaps. “The only brother who ever gave a shit about me is dead. And no matter how eager you are to fill his shoes everywhere else, it won’t work on me.”
This time, I don’t bother hiding my frown. His words sit heavy in my chest, and I loosen my tie for air.
This was a bad idea. No matter what I do to try to reach Raffaele, he always treats me like the enemy.
I take a slow breath and shift my focus to the early-morning traffic instead. Today, I have far more important things to deal with than worrying about how much my younger brother resents me over things I have no control over.
When we pull up to Pembroke High, I barely manage to park along the curb before Raffaele jumps out of the car.
“See ya,” he says, slamming the door shut behind him.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I count to ten, forcing myself not to get out of the car and slap some manners into the kid. I’ve let him run unchecked for too long. Let him live his life untouched by our world’s responsibilities longer than I should have.
Still, a part of me feels compelled to honor Carlo’s wishes a little while longer. He never wanted Raffaele anywhere near the Cosa Nostra. He wanted him spared from all of it. From the blood. The violence. The weight that comes with our last name.
Lately, though, I’m starting to think I’m doing Raffaele more harm than good. That in trying to honor a dead brother, I’m failing the living one.
I don’t have time to sit with that forlorn thought for long before my phone rings. When Niccolò’s name flashes across the dashboard screen, I answer on the second ring.
“Talk.”
Unlike Raffaele, Niccolò is used to my clipped tone. He knows not to be offended by it.
“I got us a meeting with Moretti.”
My frown disappears instantly, replaced by a slow smile. “And how did you manage that?”
“Saw Rocco at the gym this morning. He’s the one who brought it up.”
“You don’t say,” I smirk as the pads of my fingers begin to dance against the steering wheel.
“So it’s a go? I should set it up?”
“Yes, Nico. I’m very interested in what Alfonso Moretti would like to talk to me about.” Instead of a confirmation, the line goes quiet. “Is something wrong?” I ask when Niccolò doesn’t fill the silence.
“If we do this, the other families are going to find out about it. It’s only a question of time.”
“And that is precisely what we want, dear brother,” I reply, a genuine smile pulling at my lips.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Once we open this door, there’s no closing it.”
I hear the hesitation in his voice. It isn’t fear.
Niccolò isn’t afraid of anything. It’s concern.
He knows, just like I do, that this first meeting will surely set things in motion.
A chain reaction that won’t stop once it starts.
If things turn volatile or the wrong person gets wind of my plan, the Outfit is sure to hear about it.
And if they do, there will be no turning back. Only death.
“I’d say it’s about time we started to reclaim what is ours by birthright,” I answer calmly. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
That is all I needed to hear.
“Tell Rocco to set things up and then send me the details. I’ll be there.” The line goes dead.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrates with an incoming message. Moretti wants to have lunch on his side of town. Of course he does. He’s old school like that. If a capo is going to betray his Don, he might as well do it on his own turf, with all his men watching.
Niccolò is waiting for me at the entrance of one of Moretti’s most exclusive restaurants in Little Italy.
My brother looks out of place among the well-dressed clientele in his fitted black T-shirt and jeans.
The tattoos covering nearly every inch of his exposed skin don’t help him blend in either.
Everything about Niccolò signals that he’s a man who expects trouble to find him.
What people don’t realize is that he more than welcomes it.
Niccolò’s far more comfortable breaking bones and knocking teeth loose than sitting through mob meetings. He has always been a man of few words, so listening to others talk out of their asses ninety percent of the time grates on his nerves.
Punches don’t make excuses. Bullets never apologize.
Spilled blood never pretends to be something it isn’t.
There’s a certain honesty to violence. An integrity to it that some men don’t have.
Niccolò appreciates the brutal truth of it all, how pain has a way of stripping everything down to what’s real.
In contrast to my brother’s preferred attire, I’m wearing one of my best gray suits, tailored to remind anyone who looks at me that I’m not to be trifled with. The suit suggests I have the bank account to back it up, but it’s my unnerving glare and nefarious grin that warn people to steer clear.
“You’re late,” Niccolò says, scowling.
“Or our hosts are early,” I reply, offering him a measured smile.
“I thought the point of this meeting was to make friends.”
“And it is,” I say evenly. “But arriving on time would suggest I need Moretti more than he needs me. If I intend to be the boss, that imbalance won’t do.” Niccolò studies me for a moment, then nods when he sees the merit in it. “Any more questions?” I can’t help but tease.
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, strutting into the restaurant before me.
I swallow the small chuckle threatening to slip out and follow him toward the hostess stand. When she finally looks up from her tablet, her cheeks color at once, and her pupils dilate.
“Name, please,” she pants, as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. Her gaze bounces between the two of us like a ping-pong ball, as if trying to decide which one of us she wants to take home.
Irritation prickles under my skin as Niccolò replies, “Moretti.”
“Moretti,” she repeats, biting the corner of her lip, practically eye-fucking Niccolò.