Chapter 11
Matteo
Twenty-four years old
The restaurant is small and suffocating, the kind of place that never sees daylight even at noon.
Yellow bulbs buzz faintly overhead, casting long shadows across cracked tile floors and peeling wallpaper worn thin by decades of use.
The air is thick with oil, garlic, and old Naples history baked into the walls.
Soldiers line the room like furniture. They don’t speak.
They don’t sit. They simply lean against the walls, arms folded, jackets hanging open just enough to remind anyone paying attention that they’re armed.
Their focus never wavers from us, or from the only man seated in the entire establishment—The Old Fox, as he is known among those who serve him.
But to us, he is Don Aldo Vitale—the boss of the Camorra.
A plate of food rests before him, still warm, steam curling lazily into the dim light as he eats at his own unhurried pace.
He hasn’t looked up once since Niccolò, and I stepped into this hole-in-the-wall restaurant.
Until he acknowledges our presence, we have to remain rooted to our spot at the entrance.
I don’t like being kept waiting, but I bite my tongue and endure it. Those are the drawbacks of not being the boss. Your time is never as important as theirs.
It is all about hierarchy. He’s a boss. I’m nothing… yet.
The urge to crack my neck from side to side is strong with each second he makes us wait, but I won’t give the Old Fox the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting under my skin.
If this is the only power play he has left to remind me that he still outranks me, I say let him have it.
We both know that imbalance won’t last forever.
As if in tune with my inner thoughts, he finally lifts one hand, gesturing toward the empty chair across him without ever lifting his eyes from his plate. But before I even move in his direction, one of his soldiers places a hand on my chest, halting my steps.
“Not so fast,” he sneers, eyeing me up and down, his not-so-subtle way of telling me he has to search me for weapons first before I get to talk with his boss.
I extend my arms to the sides, palms open, and let him pat me down. The goon is thorough if a little slow for my liking. When he moves onto Niccolò, though, his hands pause almost immediately. Vitale’s soldier pulls back with a scowl, holding up the evidence he found on his first pat. Two guns.
“No weapons,” he snaps, like Niccolò should’ve known better than to bring them to a sit-down on Camorra turf.
“Whoops.” I shrug with an unapologetic grin.
Niccolò, however, doesn’t find any humor in the situation we find ourselves in.
His glare could kill the man where he stands as the Old Fox’s bodyguard continues to retrieve a few other fun little prizes my brother likes to keep on his person at all times.
Some daggers, a boot knife, a couple of throwing daggers, garrote wire for when Niccolò likes to get up and personal, brass knuckles, and look at that, another gun.
Say what you will about my brother, but he does love his toys.
“I’m going to need those back,” Niccolò growls, unimpressed by the entire situation.
“You’ll get them after. Sit down,” Don Vitale’s voice cuts through the room, calm and controlled.
Niccolò shoulder-checks the goon on his way and follows me to the small center table.
I pull out a chair and sit across from the aging Don, while Niccolò remains standing behind me, keeping guard.
He might be unarmed, but he is still very much a threat.
If this conversation goes sideways, then I have complete faith my brother will tear through Vitale’s men like drywall under a sledgehammer.
“You’ve grown,” Don Vitale says between bites.
“Was I not supposed to?” I smirk, masking my impatience with sarcasm, as he continues eating his meal, refusing to meet my eyes.
“To be honest,” he continues, “I never gave much thought to what would become of you or your brothers. Didn’t waste much time thinking about you at all.”
“Things change,” I reply evenly.
“Yes,” he says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin before tossing it onto his empty plate. He leans forward, his gaze now on mine. “The better question is how much change we’re willing to accept.”
“Isn’t change a good thing?” I counter. “Adapt or die. Isn’t that the proverb?”
He studies me, amused. “You’re talking to the wrong man, young Donato. Change doesn’t come easily to made men from my generation. We’re born into the chains of tradition. You know as well as anyone that some things aren’t meant to be broken.”
I lean forward slightly, never breaking eye contact with him. “Some traditions become obsolete with the turning tide. Especially if they no longer protect the people they were built for.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.
“Yes. Quite right,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side while his gaze rakes over me, ever so calculatingly. “Your father, for example… he seems like a man open to change.”
“He’s not.”
“No?” Don Vitale arches a brow. “Hasn’t he altered tradition to name you his heir? Quite a few rules were bent to make that happen. Starting with marrying his mistress.”
I’ll give it to the Old Fox. He sure knows exactly where to stab.
“Don’t assume my father does anything for his sons,” I reply coldly. “If he married my mother, it was for his own selfish reasons. An heir is a symbol of strength. If he could’ve named anyone else as his progeny and direct descendants instead of me or my brothers, he would have.”
Don Vitale chews on my words carefully before following with another question. “And how is your father these days? I heard he suffered a heart attack last year. Has his health improved? I’ve noticed he hasn’t made a public appearance in a while.”
“He’s not dead yet, if that answers your question.”
Don Vitale studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I never did like your father much,” he says bluntly.
“You and I have that in common then.”
That earns a low chuckle from the Camorra boss. “Is that so?” he asks. “Tell me, young Donato, what else do we have in common?” He enunciates the word we with mockery, a reminder that I’m still beneath him.
“Aside from our shared dislike of my father?” I say lightly. “We hate something else even more.”
“And what would that be?” He chuckles.
“The Outfit.”
That does it. Don Vitale’s posture instantly shifts. Not by much, but enough for me to clock the way his blood must have heated with the mere mention of such a syndicate.
His eyes narrow as he leans into the table, his voice dropping to a lower octave. “I have never claimed to hate the Outfit. You are mistaken,” he says, as if even speaking the name too loudly would summon them to his door.
“Come now, Old Fox. You can be honest with me.”
“Can I? The Donatos haven’t exactly had the best track record when it comes to being trustworthy,” he shoots back, every word dripping with cynicism.
“I’m not my father, Don Vitale,” I state firmly.
“You can trust me. After all, isn’t that why I was summoned here today?
Because Don Moretti whispered in your ear that I’m a man who deserves your trust. That I’m a man set on change?
” I let the silence stretch before continuing.
“The winds are turning, Old Fox, and it would be in your best interest to follow where they lead.”
“Is that so?” he mutters, still not convinced, forcing me to try a more compelling tactic.
If Don Vitale is all too glad to drag up the past to make his point, then I’m more than happy to do the same to prove mine.
“I know what it cost you to ask Romano for help all those years ago,” I start calmly, “when the Irish started carving into your territory in Philadelphia. At any other time, the Cosa Nostra would have been your first choice for aid, but the Outfit already had its boot on our necks by then. They were the only ones you could turn to for reinforcements.” I let that sit before continuing.
“I know how it must’ve felt when Romano refused to lift a finger.
When he stood by and left you to deal with them on your own.
” My gaze never leaves his. “And I can imagine the betrayal cut even deeper when you watched those same Irish move into New York territory afterward. With the Outfit’s blessing, no less.
” His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop. “Romano told you he wouldn’t pick sides.
But in the end, he did, didn’t he?” I tilt my head.
“And it wasn’t the Camorra’s, now was it? ”
“Careful, young Donato,” he warns, his tone suddenly razor sharp. “I invited you here because a man I admire and trust told me that you are worth having a conversation with. Don’t make today one where you gain another enemy.”
“That was never my goal.”
“Then I’d advise you not to pour salt into a wound that hasn’t fully healed.”
“We all carry battle scars,” I reply steadfastly. “And we’ve all been betrayed by Romano in one form or another. He didn’t back your claim to Philadelphia, and he’s stolen New York right out from under us.”
“Stolen?” he laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “As far as I’m aware, New York is still yours. You can still do business there. The Camorra can’t even step foot in Philly anymore. You and I are not the same, boy.”