Chapter 7
Matteo
Twenty-two years old
Christmas came early this year in the form of a kidnapping. Two of Vincent Romano’s offspring, Luciano and Stella, were stolen from their home and shipped off to Russia, no less. Word of Vincent’s children being taken by the Bratva could not have reached more appreciative ears.
It seems the alliance between the Outfit and the Bratva is not nearly as solid as Romano has led everyone to believe. There is a certain poetic justice in the fact that the two organizations that once plotted to kill my brother now find themselves at odds with each other.
I’ve been riding a high ever since I heard the news. And it clearly shows.
“You look awfully happy this morning,” my mother says as she slides another pancake onto my plate.
“Something about the Christmas season this year has put me in a good mood,” I reply, glancing at my brother, Niccolò, who looks just as pleased as I do, even if he is far less vocal about it.
“Well, that’s nice to hear,” my mother giggles.
She reaches out, runs her hand through my hair, and places a few more pancakes onto Niccolò’s plate before humming a soft tune under her breath. My cold heart swells at the sound.
Ever since my father attacked her last summer, it took a long time for her mind to truly return to us.
Maybe it’s the Christmas lights, or the decorated trees we have scattered throughout the house, but she has had a solid three good days in a row.
I know it is only a matter of time before her mind slips away again, but for now, I let myself enjoy this moment while it lasts.
The only one sitting at the table who doesn’t seem happy with all the good fortune we’ve been receiving is Raffaele.
Ever since he started working for me, he’s been even more antagonistic to be around, if that’s even possible.
He’s always shooting me scathing looks when he thinks no one is watching, though he never bothers to hide them when I catch him in the act.
I’ve been patient. More than patient, knowing Raffaele would need time to adjust to this new reality.
But every scowl he throws my way, every clipped response or muttered remark under his breath, is starting to grate on my nerves.
He may not like me right now, but he does have to respect me, and he has to show it.
If I can’t keep my own brother in line, my authority means nothing to anyone else.
True leadership begins at home, and any weakness here will be noticed by every capo in the Cosa Nostra. And I can’t afford that.
I also don’t miss the fact that Raffaele’s been even more uptight lately, ever since his little friend’s brother and sister were kidnapped. I see his concern in the way he’s constantly checking his phone, in the frantic texts he sends when he thinks no one is paying attention.
But I’m always paying attention.
I don’t know what irritates me more. Raffaele thinking he’s outsmarting me—honestly believing he’s pulling the wool over my eyes and that I’m too dumb to notice—or the betrayal of maintaining a friendship with a girl whose family is our enemy.
The kid deserves one hell of a wake-up call. And if he keeps pushing my buttons, he might just get one sooner rather than later.
It’s only the sound of my mother’s singing, floating throughout the kitchen, that gently eases me out of my darker thoughts.
“I was thinking,” I say, my eyes still on my mother. “How about we all go see The Nutcracker tomorrow afternoon? I’m sure I can get tickets for the matinee.”
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Raffaele cuts in with a scoff, as if I should know better than to suggest something like that.
“I’m very aware,” I reply coolly. “That’s exactly why I suggested it. We could make it a new family tradition. We don’t have many of those.”
Raffaele rolls his eyes and goes back to texting his little friend. My fists clench beneath the table as I fight the urge to slap the damn thing out of his hands. The only thing preventing me is the look of my mother’s joy, watching me with a sparkle in her eyes.
“A family tradition,” she repeats, chewing on the words as if savoring them. “I would like that very much,” she adds, her loving gaze moving from me to my brothers, even the one with his head down and his eyes glued to his phone.
“Then it’s settled.”
“How wonderful!” she sings, spinning around like a ballerina.
Niccolò smiles widely at our mother, then shoots me a concerned look.
I know exactly what he’s thinking. I shouldn’t make promises, much less future plans.
If tomorrow turns out to be one of her bad days, the Lincoln Center, filled to the brim with strangers, will be the last place she would want to be.
Still, I let myself hope that another small miracle might fall into our laps. We deserve a little joy. We’ve fucking earned it for all the Christmases we had to spend without her.
“Thank bloody Christ,” Raffaele blurts out suddenly, sounding far too relieved for my liking.
“Is all that excitement for the ballet?” I goad.
“What?” he says, startled. “Oh. That. Yeah, whatever. I might have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“Plans that don’t concern you,” he snaps, his tone sharp enough to make my mother flinch.
That does it. That fucking does it.
“Rafe, a word,” I say calmly before pushing back from my seat.
His only protest is a pointed sigh before he sets his phone on the table and follows me into the other room.
“What?” he says, like he’s talking to his buddies from school.
He’s not. And it’s time I remind him who the fuck he’s actually talking to.
Once I’m sure we’re out of earshot of the kitchen, I shove him back against the wall and pin him there, my forearm pressing beneath his chin. His eyes widen in shock.
“I’ve been patient with you,” I say calmly. “More patient than you deserve, brother. But I’m done tolerating your mouth. You will show me respect, because unlike you, I’ve earned it in this family.”
The tips of his ears turn pink as his steel-blue eyes darken to a dangerous shade of gray. “You haven’t earned jack shit from me, Matteo.”
“Is that so?” I taunt. “Tell me, have you not enjoyed every luxury afforded to you by this family? Have you not lived an easy life under this roof because of how I’ve protected you?”
“You never protected me,” he dares to spit back. “That was all Carlo.”
I press my arm on his throat a little harder and state coldly, “My body carries more scars from lashes meant for you than you will ever know, Rafe. Carlo may have looked out for you when it came to the Cosa Nostra, but do not delude yourself, baby brother. You remain unmarked because of me.” His breath stutters.
“If Ginevra had gotten her way, you would have been set on fire in the very crib you slept in as a baby. So don’t you dare look down on me when you’re standing on my shoulders. ”
“You’re lying,” he mutters, his fingers digging into my forearm.
I loosen my hold on his throat just enough to let him breathe and continue, “Believe what you want. I no longer care.” My voice hardens.
“What I do care about is that you do not raise your voice when our mother is in the room. I will not have her triggered or further traumatized because you have a chip on your shoulder and a bone to pick with me. Give me your disdain all you want, but from here on out, you will conceal it better.” I lean in, making sure he hears every word.
“I don’t want to see it in your eyes. I don’t want to hear it in your voice.
I’ve had enough of your arrogance. I will no longer tolerate it.
Is that understood?” Raffaele’s nostrils flare with contempt, but he nods all the same.
“Good,” I say, releasing him. “Now go get ready. Nico is taking you on a job this morning.”
“And what will you be doing?” he asks, unable to mask the venom in his voice.
“That is none of your concern. Get ready, then come downstairs and apologize to our mother. And Rafe, you are free tomorrow afternoon, and you will come to the ballet. Is that clear?”
This time, he restrains whatever snarky remark is on the tip of his tongue and storms upstairs to gather his things.
When I return to the kitchen, my mother is once again humming softly as she washes the breakfast dishes. Niccolò is nowhere to be seen, which means he’s likely in his room getting ready as well.
I’m about to also head out when my attention is drawn to Raffaele’s phone, abandoned on the kitchen table. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I pick it up and see a text from Annamaria waiting on the screen.
Anna: I know. I was terrified, but it’s okay now. Everyone’s back, and Stella’s injury isn’t as serious as we thought.
Damn it. So much for my holiday cheer.
The word injury has me scrolling through the thread, and I quickly find out that Stella Romano was shot during her abduction.
Interesting. For the Outfit not to retaliate over something like that means there’s more happening behind the scenes than I’m aware of.
I continue to scroll through the text thread and notice how it was my brother who first brought up Annamaria’s siblings being kidnapped.
Up until that point, she hadn’t mentioned it at all, which tells me everything I need to know.
Whatever kind of bond she and Raffaele share, her true loyalties lie with her family.
My jaw clenches when I realize I can’t say the same about my brother.
I keep scrolling, searching for anything Raffaele might have said that could cause problems for our family, when I come to an abrupt halt at a message that makes my blood run cold.
Annamaria was assaulted at her school before Thanksgiving break.
I read how my brother offers himself as a shoulder for her to lean on, and I find myself begrudgingly impressed by the girl’s composure. Her messages remain measured and eloquent, revealing very little of what the experience must have cost her. If the assault traumatized her, she does not say so.
When I reach a message explaining that her brother Marcello and Stella killed the ones who dared touch her without consent, a part of me is satisfied that she received that kind of justice.
Even though I despise the Romanos, it brings me no satisfaction to hear that a woman was attacked like that.
Especially a young girl like Annamaria. I may hate everything that she represents, but she’s still an innocent in all of this.
My gaze drifts away from the screen to the woman humming “Jingle Bells” as she washes dishes at the sink. No woman deserves to be touched like that. No innocent should ever be tainted by such cruel and malicious hands.
My mood sours instantly at the thought. I place the phone back on the table and quickly say my goodbyes to my mother.
“Aren’t you going to wait for Nico and Rafe?” she asks.
“No. I have other business to attend to.” I force a smile. “Ti voglio bene, mamma.”
“Ti voglio tanto bene, figlio mio.”
She offers me a kind smile, and I press a gentle kiss to her cheek before heading out the door, needing to put this restless energy to good use. And I know exactly where to go.
Thirty minutes later, I arrive at a safe house, one of several that I keep under constant rotation. Four of my most loyal men are on watch this morning, along with Alfonso Moretti’s heir, Rocco. He stands at the entrance, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.
“Morning, boss,” he says with an easy grin.
“How is he today?” I ask in lieu of a greeting.
“The same,” Rocco replies with a shrug. “Babbling nonsense for anyone who’ll listen.”
“And is anyone listening?” I cock a brow.
“Not our guys,” he says with a smirk. “Gotta say, boss. I wasn’t expecting you to make another visit so soon.”
“What can I say? I couldn’t wait.” He nods and steps aside.
I move past Rocco and descend into the building’s lower levels, past reinforced doors and concrete corridors that date back decades.
The shelter was built during the Cold War, buried beneath what was once a city-owned facility, meant to house officials if the world above went up in flames.
With thick concrete walls, narrow halls, no windows, and no signal, it’s a place designed to be forgotten—the perfect place to keep my prisoner.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy red steel door awaits, chipped and scarred with age. Beyond it lies the deepest level of the bunker. Down here, no matter how loud someone screams, no sound reaches the surface. No one hears anything.
I push the door open and almost smile when I see my father still chained to the wall, wrists and ankles bound, his arms spread wide. Blood stains his dirty shirt from our encounter last night, dark and drying against the worn fabric.
Normally, I would give him a day or two to recover.
Let him regain his strength. Let the fear settle in properly.
But after reading that text about Annamaria’s assault…
After seeing the way my mother flinched when Raffaele raised his voice just a little too high…
After remembering everything I had to endure to protect my baby brother…
No. I couldn’t wait another hour, much less a couple of days.
When my father hears the familiar sound of my shoes tapping against the cement floor and lifts his head just enough to look at me, the fear in his eyes nearly—just nearly—cools the rage bubbling in my veins.
Only his wails, raw and broken, will quiet what’s burning inside me.
My father’s screams will be the music that fills this bunker, each one drawn out until they rise and fall exactly the way I decide.
Like an orchestra conductor, I will pull every ounce of misery and pain from him, shaping it into a song I am finally content with.
I won’t leave until every sound he makes belongs to me.
In all my years, the asshole has never given me a Christmas present. But today, he will give me the best one of all—his suffering.