Chapter 4 #3
A part of me understands her reaction. While we inherited our father’s dark hair and eyes, we were fortunate not to inherit anything else from him.
Any good looks we possess came from our mother.
And though she is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women in Manhattan, we made certain those traits never softened her sons—only hardened them into something solid, imposing, and unafraid to take up space.
Niccolò and I have deliberately honed those attributes, so when people look at us, they see power, strength, and a clear warning to keep their distance. Raffaele is the only one of us who still clings to his boyish looks.
In our world, appearances are not vanity—they are armor, and I chose long ago which battles were worth dressing for. I would rather earn the respect of every family head in this city than the fleeting attention of a woman who will never fully grasp the complexities of the life we live.
“Right this way,” she says, batting her eyelashes at Niccolò, apparently settling for him as her choice of man.
She’s shit out of luck. If I have no interest in anything she could offer, then Niccolò is even less likely to give her the time of day.
My brother isn’t exactly known for his success with the opposite sex.
Women tend to window-shop when he’s in their line of sight.
Still, his monotone replies and four-word sentences—if he manages that many—usually kill any initial infatuation.
When we reach the table, I see that Moretti has brought his son, Rocco, with him.
I’ve always liked Rocco. He doesn’t bullshit when it comes to business. He’s dependable, trustworthy, and, more importantly, he hates the Outfit just as much as we do. But like his father, he’s also ambitious.
Maybe I misread the intent behind this sit-down. Perhaps this isn’t about the future of the organization at all. Maybe Moretti wants to discuss Rocco’s future within the Cosa Nostra instead.
“I’m glad we could do this, gentlemen. Please, sit. We have much to discuss,” Moretti says, smiling warmly.
“The waiter will be with you shortly,” the hostess adds, throwing another smoldering glance at Niccolò before walking away.
I’d laugh if I didn’t think how pathetic the woman is when she nearly trips on her own feet on the way back to her station.
“You boys certainly make an impression,” Moretti says with a chuckle, picking up on why his hostess is suddenly so flustered.
“It’s a curse,” I reply.
He laughs at my remark. I hadn’t meant it as a joke, but I don’t correct him either.
“Most men would see women falling over themselves to get near them as a blessing,” Moretti says with an easy smile. “But I understand what you’re saying.”
Moretti has always smiled easily. Too easily.
I’ve never trusted a man who can bare his teeth without effort like that.
Still, he has always been honorable in his dealings.
Up until now, he has followed my father’s orders with unwavering loyalty.
That makes this meeting all the more curious.
Especially since most of the family heads trust his judgment implicitly.
“But I didn’t invite you here to talk about women,” he continues.
“I didn’t think you did,” I deadpan. “Though I am curious why you asked us here in the first place.”
Moretti’s eyes gleam, as if enjoying the way he’s keeping us waiting. As if dangling bait just out of reach amuses him.
“I suggest we eat first,” he says calmly. “Then we can talk business.”
My jaw tightens, but I have no choice but to accept his terms.
For the next hour, that’s exactly what we do. We eat while Moretti fills the air with meaningless conversation. Stories about his family, his summer, places he visited.
Niccolò and Rocco remain mostly silent, mirroring each other almost perfectly. They both know this meal is nothing more than a formality, a prelude to what actually matters.
Once dessert has been cleared, and espresso demitasse cups are set in front of us, Moretti’s demeanor shifts. The neighborly warmth vanishes, replaced by the presence of a man who knows exactly how much power he holds. Now I’m sitting in the presence of a capo worth his salt.
“I hear your father is back in the city.”
“You heard right,” I reply, noting how fast that piece of information reached him.
Either my father contacted him directly, or Moretti has eyes on his boss. I’m betting on the latter.
“And will he be resuming his duties as Don,” he asks, while studying me closely, “or will this finally be the year he steps aside?”
“You’ll have to ask him that.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Why the sudden interest, Moretti?” I counter aloofly. “Is my father no longer someone you wish to follow?”
“He was never the man I wanted to follow,” he says bluntly.
Moretti’s honesty catches me off guard. Yes, this was what I wanted to hear, but I never expected that he would have the balls to say it so plainly. Suddenly, my respect for the man doubles tenfold.
If he sees how his directness left me at a loss for words, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and instead leans forward, fingers interlaced on the table. “Did you know your father was never meant to lead the Cosa Nostra?”
I feel Niccolò tense beside me at the out-of-left-field question. Such a topic of conversation has been forbidden in our circles. But then again, I’m more than happy to dig in my father’s closet in search of any skeletons that may be of use to me.
“That story is… sensitive,” I tread carefully. “My father forbade anyone from speaking about it. He wants his origin story permanently erased from people’s memories. It’s his legacy that needs to live on.”
“That wasn’t my question,” Moretti says evenly. “Do you know how your father came to power or not?”
“I do,” I say with a nod.
A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Then tell me, Matteo. What have you heard?”
“It was his eldest brother, Alessandro Donato, who was Don before him,” I say. “He was the one truly in charge, before my father took the reins after his death. Before that, my father served as his underboss.”
“Oh, no,” Moretti tsks softly. “That’s where the lie starts.
Carlo Senior was never an underboss a day in his life.
Your grandfather made sure of it. Before he died, he instructed Alessandro to name Carlo as his consigliere.
And Alessandro did just that, making Carlo the voice in his ear, advising him on every major decision the Don ever made. ”
My brow furrows instantly.
How did I not know this?
I hate that I didn’t fucking know this!
I hate it even more the fact that Moretti knows, and he’s far too pleased to expose my ignorance.
“Don’t be upset, Matteo,” he says smoothly.
“Your father made sure that story never traveled far. Most of the family heads from that time either met their end at the muzzle of an Outfit gun or are too old to remember the facts clearly. But not me. I was there from the very beginning. And to your father’s displeasure, I remember how it all unfolded clearly in my mind as if I were living it today. ”
I take his words in and turn them over in my mind.
Alfonso Moretti must be in his mid-to-late forties. My father has been Don of the Cosa Nostra for well over two decades, which means Moretti would have still been finding his footing back then.
“I get the sense you want to tell me more,” I say. “So go ahead. Tell me everything.”
Moretti’s smile returns. “Does the name Ciro LaSpina mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does,” I answer, curbing the urge to spit at the sound of such a name being uttered.
Ciro LaSpina was the bastard son of Salvatore Romano, the Capo dei Capi of the Outfit, and the uncle and mentor of Vincent Romano. Though ot was never proven, rumor has it the last thing Big Sal ever saw was Ciro’s mad smile as he smothered him to death in his own bed.
Still, killing his father wasn’t enough to quench his thirst for revenge. Years of neglect and ridicule had consumed him, forcing Ciro to come to New York and seek an alliance with the Cosa Nostra to remove his cousin from the throne, one he believed should have always belonged to him by blood.
Bastard or not, the Cosa Nostra gave weight to his claim and offered their assistance, believing his lineage surpassed that of his cousin and that he had the right to wage war on the syndicate until they bent the knee to the rightful heir.
However, Ciro let his feelings for Vincent’s wife, Selene, cloud his judgment. He let emotion rule his vengeance, which ultimately led to his downfall.
Selene earned her nickname—The Red Queen—not only by killing her father, the Butcher, who aided Ciro in his coup, but by slitting Ciro’s throat for daring to steal the crown from the man she loved.
Yes, Ciro may have had a legitimate claim. But he let his heart rule when he should have crushed his enemies with an iron fist when he had the chance.
I will not make the same mistake. I do want the Outfit to bleed for killing my brother, but I won’t allow my hatred to control me. I will bide my time. I will plan carefully.
I don’t want to just hurt the Romanos. I want to cripple them so meticulously that they will never be able to raise a hand against us ever again.
“He’s the reason the Cosa Nostra and the Outfit have been at odds for decades,” I add when Moretti remains silent, as if waiting for me to give more context to my short reply.
“A polite way to phrase it,” Moretti mutters. “But correct. Your uncle plotted with Ciro LaSpina, and that betrayal shattered the alliance we had with the syndicate. What you don’t know is this.” He leans in slightly. “Your father was the one who brokered the deal with LaSpina, not Alessandro.”
It takes inhumane strength to keep my expression blank at Moretti’s words. Not that it matters. He knows he’s got a captive audience in me.
“And once Alessandro was executed by the syndicate for his treasonous act, your father played the fool, shouting from every rooftop that he had no part in the scheme and took Alessandro’s seat at the head of the table and never looked back,” Moretti continues.
“And if you haven’t noticed, Carlo has never appointed a consigliere of his own.
He, more than anyone, knows how dangerous bad advice can be to a Don,” Moretti states, unhiding his disgust. “No one will ever convince me that your father didn’t plan it all from the very beginning.
That he didn’t place his bets on both outcomes.
If Ciro succeeded, the Cosa Nostra alliance with the Outfit would be significantly strengthened, and Alessandro would make it known that Carlo was the mastermind behind it all, giving him his due.
And if Ciro failed, then your uncle would die for his betrayal, and your father would ascend to the throne. Either way, he won.”
I keep my expression carefully neutral, but it’s clear Moretti can see that this information has rattled me.
I always knew my father was a coward. A cheat. A traitorous man with no scruples whatsoever. I just never understood how deep his depravity ran until now, and how far he was willing to go to seize and keep his title as Don.
My father let Carlo die without lifting a finger in outrage. He betrayed his own brother and stole his birthright with just a few choice words. If he could do all that to blood he actually cared about, what’s stopping him from doing far worse to my brothers and me?