Chapter 9
Matteo
Twenty-three years old
Raffaele took the omertà. Finally.
Though I doubt the ceremony we just attended, and everything it represents, will weigh on him or impose any real sense of responsibility or maturity.
At least he’s learned to collect himself better. Well, enough that no one in attendance has the slightest clue how much he despises me.
I often wonder what I could do to improve our relationship, but somehow, any attempts on my part are either met with contempt or only make matters worse.
I will never be able to slip into the role of older brother the way I wish I could. That place will always belong to Carlo in his mind. And no matter how hard I try, competing with the memory of a ghost is something I will never win.
Still, my gut tells me that it wasn’t forcing Raffaele into the Cosa Nostra that has put him in such a foul mood lately. Ever since he convinced me to let him go on his school’s ski trip last spring, he hasn’t been the same.
I know life at Pembroke High is a stark contrast to the life awaiting a young, aspiring capo. I know the problems of a high school senior don’t come close to those of the Cosa Nostra. But my instincts tell me something happened on that trip. Something that soured him.
For all his faults, my brother is usually a happy kid. One who smiles often, even if those smiles are never directed at me. Lately, he doesn’t smile at anyone.
However, Raffaele has taken up a hobby he probably believes is more appropriate for his age. And that’s fucking everything that moves. If I find another girl sneaking out of our house in the middle of the night, I’m going to lose my mind.
I don’t care that he’s acting out. I don’t care that he’s only now, at eighteen, figured out he has a working dick.
What I will not tolerate is him bringing girls into my house.
The house where our mother sleeps at night.
I’m used to his shows of disrespect, but by God, he will not disrespect our mother.
I’m convinced the little fucker does it just to push my buttons. ‘Look at me,’ he seems to say. ‘I’m getting laid. Maybe you should try it and lighten up.’ At least, that’s how he sounds in my head.
Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I was with a woman. Five months ago? Eight? A year? I haven’t the foggiest idea. I’m too preoccupied with setting us up for success to bother with such trivialities.
My plan is nearly coming to fruition. I’ve managed to obtain DNA samples from all the Romano children, except one—Jude. And that’s only because I haven’t yet found a way to place someone loyal in London.
Still, I have time. Jude visits his family every few months. The next time he sets foot in the city, my people will be ready. And if they aren’t, they’ll have more than ample opportunities, especially now that he’s become more family-oriented since his father was shot.
When I first received word that Marcello had been arrested by the FBI, followed by Vincent getting shot by a federal agent, I thought the Almighty himself was finally smiling down at me. Handing me gift after gift.
However, my happiness was short-lived. Vincent survived, and Marcello walked free, thanks to his girlfriend, the very agent who was supposed to build a case against him.
Some men have all the luck. The Romanos always seem to stumble into good fortune the way other men trip over their own feet. It’s like they have horseshoes and four-leaf clovers shoved up their asses, with the way life always turns out in their favor.
“You’re frowning, Matteo. Today is not the day to look so miserable,” Moretti says beside me, sipping on his twenty-year-old scotch.
I don’t smile. Instead, I drain the rest of my glass and set it down on the table behind me with more force than necessary.
“I suppose I’m not in a celebratory mood.”
Moretti smiles as if in tune with my inner thoughts. “Yes, I’ve heard Raffaele has been experiencing a few growing pains when it comes to his role in the famiglia. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’m sure he’ll outgrow whatever rebellion he’s indulging in.”
Of course Moretti would assume my thoughts are on my little brother, not on the Romanos. After all, we’re gathered here in his club in Little Italy to celebrate Raffaele’s induction into the family.
I don’t correct him in his assumption. Though I’ve come to trust him, Moretti doesn’t need to know every thought that crosses my mind.
“I was disappointed that your father didn’t make an appearance tonight,” Moretti says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Is he still unwell?”
This time, my frown deepens. It always does when my father’s name comes up.
“Though it pained my father greatly to miss Raffaele’s induction, I’m afraid he’s simply too frail to attend. It’s best that he remains bedridden.”
“I see,” Moretti replies, pretending to believe the lies I’m feeding him. “Have the doctors discovered what ails him, for him to miss such important festivities?”
“My father is sixty-seven-years old, Don Alfonso,” I say evenly. “At that age, it’s difficult to pinpoint the source of every ailment.”
“Must be the result of a hard life lived,” Moretti says almost sarcastically, only to lower his voice next. “Some heads of families have begun to wonder whether his absence is being… enforced.”
“Have they now?” I ask, smiling thinly.
“They have. Families that have not yet been converted.”
Moretti’s gaze flicks toward three family heads standing close together, murmuring conspiratorially under the deluded assumption that no one is paying attention to them.
But I am always paying attention.
Ferraro, Lombardi, and Marino. The last three families still loyal to my father.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Don Alfonso,” I retort. “By the looks of them, they’re around my father’s age. Things tend to happen to men who grow old and weak.”
“And their sons?” Moretti asks quietly. “The ones loyal to the old way of thinking?”
“Accidents happen every day,” I reply, with a sinister smile.
“Truer words have never been spoken,” he chuckles. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“I doubt you need the reminder, Don Alfonso.” His smile falters at my statement.
It isn’t a threat. I like Moretti. He’s been a useful ally and instrumental in bringing most of the families into my fold.
But if I’m to be the boss, there must always be an imbalance of power between us.
I won’t allow him to believe he handed me my throne, or that I owe him any kind of fealty just because he was standing at my side when I took what was rightfully mine to begin with.
There can only be one king in New York, and he’s looking at him.
“Now, my apologies, Don Alfonso,” I say smoothly. “I must take my leave. There are other matters to attend to.”
“You’re not staying?” he asks, surprised.
Moretti’s gaze drifts to Niccolò and Raffaele, who are laughing away with Rocco, their laughter likely provoked by something the younger Moretti said.
The sight warms my cold heart, even as it unsettles me. It should be me standing beside Raffaele as he smiles like that. It should be all three brothers together, not Rocco.
Still, I’m starting to accept that maybe that will never be in the cards for us. Not while Raffaele still blames me for stealing the future Carlo promised him.
“You all enjoy yourselves,” I say, offering a parting squeeze to Moretti’s shoulder. “It is a special day, after all.”
I leave the club without so much as a glance back. I don’t actually have anywhere else to be. But on days like this, when restlessness and bitter resentment coil too tightly beneath my skin, there’s only one place I want to go.
Over the last couple of years, I’ve moved my father from safe house to safe house, ensuring no one ever learns of his whereabouts. Tonight, he’s hidden away at the bomb shelter—one of my preferred places to keep him.
I don’t bother with greetings when the soldiers on guard open the door for me. They’re used to me stopping by every few days to visit the great Carlo Donato Senior. They’re also used to pretending they don’t hear every vile thing I do to the man.
That’s another reason why I love this bunker so much.
In other safehouses, I sometimes feel the need to temper the level of pain I want to inflict on my father. After all, for all intents and purposes, he’s still their boss, even if only on paper. It mustn’t sit right with them hearing their boss being so cruelly treated by his own flesh and blood.
But in this bunker, I can fully unleash all my hatred on the man, knowing no one will hear his pleas for mercy except for me.
As I descend the stairs and move deeper underground, surrounded by reinforced concrete, steel beams, masonry brick, and hardened cement floors, my excitement begins to fever my blood, my throat drying at all the possibilities of pain I might inflict on him tonight.
I turn the latch on the red door of his cell and step inside.
Rage blinds me when I find the bastard curled in the corner of the room, vomit splattered on the floor beside his mouth.
I rush to his side and verify that he’s completely unresponsive.
His heartbeat is so weak that it takes several tries to find it.
I grab his lapel, the fabric filthy from years of wear, nearly disintegrating beneath my grip.
“You don’t get to die yet,” I growl at him. “I’m the only one who decides when you die.”
I shove him back onto the filthy mattress and grab my phone.
Niccolò answers on the second ring.
“I need you to bring Doctor Gallo to the bunker. Now.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
I start pacing the floor, fury coiling tight in my chest, hot and blinding.
If he dies, I’ll kill him. Pezzo di merda!
It would be just like my father to die on me before my plans are ready. Right when they’re finally within my reach. He’d love nothing more than to drop dead as I stand inches away from everything I’ve worked nonstop for these last few years.
Figlio di puttana!