Chapter 11 #2
“Oh, but we are,” I say, my voice tightening with years of pent-up fury brought on by the memory of another Don calling me boy.
Still I manage to collect myself and not use the Old Fox’s poor choice of words against him.
“The Cosa Nostra has lost all its footing in New York. We’ve been ridiculed, shamed, and neutered.
Everyone knows we’re nothing more than the Outfit’s lapdog.
” I curse out, bitter with how far we’ve fallen.
“Worse, actually. Dogs at least get let off the leash. The Outfit’s knee is always on our backs.
We can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t make a decision without notifying them first.” I meet the Old Fox square in the eyes.
“So tell me… which one of us got the worse deal from Chicago? You got their indifference. We got their wrath.”
“Your brother, Carlo, brought that down on you himself,” Don Vitale snaps. “We did nothing to provoke the Outfit.”
“And yet,” I say smoothly, “you still feel the effects of their ruthlessness.” I then lean back in the chair and pretend to flick imaginary lint off my sleeve.
“Tell me, Don Vitale, how long before they close their eyes again while the Irish finish what they started? How long before they push you into some forgotten corner of the world and leave you there to rot?”
“That will never happen.” He shakes his head.
“I’m sure you said the same thing about Philadelphia,” I reply.
“Look where that confidence got you. All you have left is this. New-fucking-Jersey.” I gesture vaguely around us.
“This is your legacy, Old Fox. Or at least what remains of it.” My voice drops.
“The real question you should be asking yourself is how long the Outfit continues to allow you to keep it. And how long the Irish are willing to respect that allowance.”
I watch his jaw lock as he begins to breathe heavily through his nose, fighting to keep his control.
“You didn’t come here just to reminisce,” he says finally. “You came with a proposition. So say it plainly. I’m not in the mood for games.”
I let out a nefarious smile and say, “I’m here to offer you something the Outfit has denied you.”
He scoffs. “And what would that be?”
“Friendship.”
He laughs outright this time.”Friendship? What use do I have for friends like you? Your father is Romano’s bitch. You said so yourself.”
I don’t flinch. “He’s not the one sitting in front of you,” I say evenly. “Is he?”
Don Vitale’s bushy gray eyebrows lift again. “No,” he says at last. “He is not.”
The corners of his mouth twitch upward as he begins to read the vengeance in my eyes.
I hold his gaze until he can see it clearly for himself—the hellfire that lives inside me, waiting to be unleashed on my enemies.
Once he acknowledges that my need for vengeance mirrors his own, he leans back in his chair, ready to talk business.
“It won’t happen overnight,” I begin to explain. “But I have a plan. One that will take down the illustrious Outfit and reclaim what was taken from us.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You almost had me, boy. No one will ever take down Vincent Romano.”
“I will,” I reply flatly.
The certainty in my voice makes his expression falter. His brows draw together, torn between disbelief and something a lot more dangerous—hope.
“How?”
“All I need is time,” I tell him. “Time and patience. If you’re willing to grant me that, then I’ll share my plan when the moment is right.
Today isn’t about details.” I lean forward again.
“I came here to make one thing abundantly clear. The Cosa Nostra of the past has its days numbered. A new order is coming—one that will awaken the true beast that is the Cosa Nostra. And when it does, I’ll need allies willing to stand beside me, not behind me.
” My voice hardens. “Unlike my father, I have no use for yes-men. I want soldiers. Generals. Men ready to fight for the cause.” I pause, letting the severity of my proposal sink in.
“So here is my question, Old Fox. Can I count on your friendship?”
Don Vitale exhales slowly, considering everything I just confided in him. When he finally speaks, his tone is measured.
“This isn’t something I can commit to on a whim, young Donato. What you’re suggesting is war. I’ll need to convene with the other Camorra families before anything is decided.”
“Of course,” I reply. I’d expected nothing less from him.
“It would help,” he adds, “if I knew your plan beforehand.”
I smile and say nothing, getting a quiet huff from him in return.
“I thought as much. Not today, then.”
“No,” I agree.
Don Vitale studies me once more, then glances over to Niccolò.
“For all his shortcomings, your father has been truly blessed. He was able to have four strong sons to carry on his name, while I only have my girls.”
“Do your daughters love you?” I ask, the question taking him aback somewhat.
“I believe so.” He smiles warmly as if picturing in his head all his daughters’ faces. “At least I’ve always tried to do right by them.”
“Then you’re the one who is blessed. Not my father.”
He studies me carefully and then nods in understanding. “Moretti was right. You do make one hell of an impression.”
“A good one, I hope.”
The corner of his lips lifts a smidge. “The best one, young Donato. The best one,” he repeats before nodding to his men, signaling them to return Niccolò’s small arsenal.
“We’ll speak again soon, Matteo.” And with that, Don Vitale turns to leave the restaurant with his men following him in silence. Only when he reaches the door does he turn to glance over at us again. “Tell me, Matteo, are you married?”
This time, I’m the one taken by surprise by such an unexpected question. Luckily, I manage to school my features in time before he notices it.
“I am not.”
“And how old are you?” My jaw ticks at the unnerving question, but I mask my irritation none the same.
“Twenty-four.” Don Vitale pauses, thinking long and hard before his attention moves to Niccolò.
“And your brother?”
“Twenty-two,” I reply, watching how Niccolò’s hands flex.
“Hmm. Maybe. I’ll have to give a long think about it first,” he mutters cryptically, looking awfully pleased all of a sudden.
Once he and his bodyguards leave, Niccolò pulls out the chair the Old Fox just vacated and sits across from me. He doesn’t say a word, but I know him well enough to read the tension in his jaw.
“You’re not happy with how that went,” I state evenly.
“Are you?”
I smile. “Yes.”
He frowns, rubbing at his chin. “You don’t look worried enough.”
“Because I’m not,” I reply. “Everything is falling into place.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I’m not offended that Niccolò still has his doubts. There are a lot of moving pieces with my plan, and if one of them deviates from course, it can all go terribly wrong.
However, if my plan is going to take root, the full weight of the Cosa Nostra following me blindly isn’t enough. I’ll need other powerful families to move with me.
The Outfit already has the Canadians, the Irish, the Firm, and even the Bratva. Which means if I don’t start making moves now, soon there won’t be anyone left.
The Camorra was a good choice. The Cosa Nostra has always maintained strong ties with our Neapolitan counterparts, and they, too, have suffered under the Outfit’s brand of justice in the past. That makes them not just a good fit, but the right one.
The Outfit may have strength in numbers, but hatred is an excellent motivator.
“Let’s go. We can talk better in the car,” I say, since I wouldn’t put it past the Old Fox to have bugs and cameras all around this restaurant just so he can eavesdrop on our conversation.
We walk out of the restaurant and into the car, settling in for the hour-long drive back to Manhattan. As we pull away, I can feel Niccolò’s tension from the passenger seat. He’s still uncertain about my plan, still spotting the kinks and fractures we might run into along the way.
Still, all I see is vengeance on the horizon, and it tastes so sweet I’m almost drunk on it. Everything will fall into place. It may take years, but vengeance will be mine. And more importantly, New York will belong to the Cosa Nostra again. Of that, I have no doubt.
“You’re thinking too hard, Nico. I can hear your thoughts from here,” I goad after a while.
“One of us needs to be thinking clearly,” he rebukes.
“And you think I’m not?”
Niccolò tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white as he frowns. “Carlo had a foolproof plan, too. Remember?”
My jaw ticks at the reminder. “I am not Carlo.”
“No, you’re not,” he says with a sullen frown. “Carlo had years to charm all the families into his pocket. He grew up knowing how to use them. How to bend them to his will. He never had reason to doubt their loyalty to him.”
“And you think they won’t be loyal to me.” It isn’t a question, it’s an affirmation.
I see it in my brother’s eyes—his fear that one of the families will betray me. That they’ll take my plan straight to the Outfit, hoping to earn favor while saving their own necks.
“The families will kneel to me,” I say calmly. “If not to me, then to the idea of me and what I represent.”
“Which is?”
“That I’ll give them everything Carlo once promised them. That New York will be ours again, without the influence of the Outfit or the Irish breathing down our necks at every turn.” I glance at him. “Tell me, brother… isn’t a life of freedom worth fighting for? Or is servitude our only option?”
Niccolò exhales again, this time more subdued. “You know what I think, Matteo. But don’t ask me not to worry. I can’t do that. I’ve already lost one brother. I don’t wish to lose another.”
“You won’t lose me.”
“Carlo thought the same thing,” Niccolò says quietly. “And we watched the life drain from his eyes, unable to do anything to stop it.”