Chapter 5 #2
I see it in his eyes that he wants to say something, something to soothe the ache in my chest, but he thinks better of it. He knows that if I’m to lead, I cannot appear weak in front of my men. And that means I am beyond needing to be comforted.
I don’t wait for his response. Instead, I offer my goodbyes and walk out, finding Niccolò already leaning against my car.
“Keys,” he says.
I toss him the set without a second thought, not questioning why he’s insisting on driving my car when his is parked right in front of mine.
Niccolò knows my mind is too chaotic right now to be trusted behind the wheel. I need to think. To put every bit of information Moretti gave me to good use. I can’t afford to be distracted by turn signals and traffic lights.
“Where to? Office or home?” he asks, the key already on the ignition.
I glance at the clock on the dashboard and see that it’s well past three. Raffaele should be home by now, but in case he went somewhere after school, it’s best I stop by and check on our mother. Even if that means I have to see my asshole of a father sooner than I would have wished.
Once we arrive at our apartment building, Niccolò parks the car in the garage, but he doesn’t move to get out.
“If we do this,” he says, staring straight ahead, “if we really do this… then he has to go.”
He. I don’t ask who he means. I know exactly who he is.
“And?”
Niccolò turns to look at me, and begins to stare deep into my eyes, and states, “It can’t be you.” My jaw ticks at that. “I’m serious, Matteo. It can never be you.” He then takes a deep breath and says, “I’ll do it.” I remain silent to his offer of killing our father. “I won’t mind it.”
“No?” I cock a brow. “You don’t care that you’ll never be anything more than an enforcer? The Cosa Nostra’s muscle and nothing more?”
“It’s what I’m good at,” he states plainly, like he’s more than accepted his fate.
This time, I’m the one staring at my brother.
In my eyes, Niccolò has the skills to be far more than just brutish force.
He doesn’t see it, but he has the qualities to be a great underboss if he ever wished to.
He’s calm, calculating, and possesses the same sharpness of mind that I do.
Keeping him as an enforcer feels like a waste of his potential.
Instead of replying, I open the car door and step out as Niccolò follows close behind.
We head for the elevator that will take us to the private penthouse, which occupies the top three floors of the building.
I lean casually against the rail while Niccolò stands guard in front of me, as if needing to demonstrate just how good he is at his job.
There’s no need to be on high alert. No one aside from a select few knows where we live. But then again, you can never be too careful.
However, my calm assurance is quickly turned on its head when the elevator doors swing open, and the soldiers I had on guard are not in their posts.
One glance at my brother and Niccolò’s hand is already on his gun as we step inside and find the house deathly quiet.
Ever since our mother moved in, the place has never been silent.
There is always music playing, or her soft singing drifting through the halls. Now, there is nothing.
“Could she have gone out?” Niccolò asks, his thoughts going exactly where mine already have.
I shake my head. Earlier in the day, she showed signs of not being herself. On days like that, I know my mother prefers to stay home, not trusting that the world outside won’t hurt her more than she’s already suffering.
Besides, with our father here, he would never allow it. He doesn’t want the world to find out that he married a woman who was not of sound mind, one who could never truly consent to such a marriage. His ego is too grand for others to look down on his choices.
The minute I hear something crash on the upper floor, I bolt up the stairs, Niccolò running right behind me.
When the sound of weeping erupts after the crash, blind rage surges within me like thunder.
I take the stairs two at a time and find Raffaele crumpled on the floor in the corridor.
His lip is split and bleeding, his left eye nearly swollen shut, while his right eye weeps freely.
“I tried to stop him,” he whispers when he sees us. “I really did try.”
“Get out of my way,” I snarl.
Niccolò moves instantly, hauling Raffaele to his feet as I kick my father’s bedroom door open with a single blow.
The sight inside turns my stomach. My mother is naked in the corner of the room, curled in on herself like a wounded animal.
Her face is just as mangled as Raffaele’s is.
She doesn’t even register our presence in the room.
Instead, she traces circles on the wall with her finger, mumbling incoherent nonsense under her breath.
I turn to seek out my father—the bastard who dared to touch her—and find him standing by the window. His shirt is unbuttoned, his fly still open. A glass of single malt rests in his hand as he takes in the city’s skyscrapers below.
Hate—pure and unrestrained—floods my veins.
I cross the room in seconds, grip his shoulder, and spin him around. I then slap the glass from his hand with enough force that it smashes against the wall and shatters into a thousand pieces.
“What did you do?!” I seethe.
My father looks at me with his ugly eyes—so similar to mine that it makes me sick—his smirk stretched in amusement.
“I didn’t do anything that wasn’t a husband’s right to do,” he says calmly.
My blood boils at the satisfaction in his tone, the hatred I feel for him radiating outward in waves, but it’s the sound of Raffaele’s soft sobs that scrape against my last nerve.
With my hands balled into fists, I turn all my anger solely on the cause of all my family’s pain. “You sealed your fate today, old man,” I say, my jaw tight. “You will never set foot in this house again. You have lost every privilege you ever had.”
He laughs.
He genuinely laughs at me.
That was his last mistake to make.
I pull my knife right at his throat before he can even blink, blood immediately welling at the edge. His eyes widen with a fear he never knew he possessed as I shove his back against the glass.
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
“What I should have done a long time ago,” I growl. “I’m putting you in your place, pezzo di merda.”
My father’s eyes stretch wider, as if they were about to burst from his skull. I wish I could take pleasure in his fear and savor it. But my mother’s scrambled murmurs from across the room and my little brother’s soft sobs keep me from doing so.
“You will never touch her again,” I threaten. “You won’t even so much as look at her. Your time tormenting her is over. Do you understand me?”
“She is my wife, and I can do with her as I please,” he has the gall to say.
“She is your pawn,” I snap. “Not your wife. You married her to legitimize us, but that is the last use you’ll ever have for her. She is done obeying your commands. Done enduring your touch. She is done.” My voice lowers to a menacing octave. “And so am I.”
“And who are you to order me?”
I press the blade harder into his skin and watch his blood flow down the blade, dripping onto the plush cream carpet below.
“Have you forgotten, Father?” I whisper. “I am your heir apparent.”
“Heirs can die,” he seethes.
“So can their progenitors.” I smile sinisterly.
“If I fall, then Niccolò and Raffaele must fall too. That would raise too many questions. Questions you won’t want to answer.
Besides, what would become of your legacy if we die?
You won’t have one. No one will remember the Donato name if that happens.
” I lean closer. “And that is something you don’t want, is it? ”
Power and greed are most men’s Achilles’ heel. However, my bastard of a father has always been ruled by his need for legacy. That’s his weakness. The name he wishes to leave behind for all to worship and adore.
“This is my home,” he snarls.
“Not anymore. I have a new home in mind for you. You will never set foot here again.” He reads the threat in my eyes and pales.
“People will talk. If they don’t see me—”
“Let them,” I cut him off. “Or would you prefer I kill you here and now?” My voice doesn’t waver. “Believe me when I say I’m more than ready to cut your life short right where you stand.”
“You can’t kill me,” he spits. “I am Capo dei Capi of the Cosa Nostra.”
“You’re trash,” I snarl. “Human filth.” My knife presses closer. “You lost the right to call yourself Capo dei Capi the moment you bent the knee to the Romanos.”
The reminder of the death of his firstborn has him staring at me in contempt.
“You should have been the one they killed,” he froths at the mouth. “All of you.” His eyes dart behind me, toward Niccolò and Raffaele. “You’re the ones who should have died that day.”
“The only one living on borrowed time is you, old man.”
My father reads the threat in my eyes again, loud and clear. He sees death waiting for him at my hands. No one but me will kill him. I don’t care what code I’ll end up breaking because of it. He will die by my hand and only my hand. But not today. Not yet.
I release him so abruptly that he stumbles forward, crashing to his knees.
“I’ll kill you for this,” he threatens, the words barely audible, like the coward he is.