Chapter 11 #3
The image of Carlo’s last seconds on this earth sets me on edge, as it always does. Carlo was our champion, and we loved him for it. Respected him. Looked up to him even.
But I know the love Niccolò bears for me is different than the one he had for Carlo. Niccolò and I share more than the same blood running through our veins. We suffered the same horrors in the house we grew up in. Our past holds the same exact trauma.
The same cannot be said for Carlo. He didn’t have to endure his mother’s wrath the way we did. He didn’t have to live under the same disapproval and detachment our father subjected us to. No. His parents idolized him and treated him like the second coming.
Niccolò, Raffaele, and I never had that, even though we all lived under the same roof.
“I know you have your misgivings,” I say quietly, “but I will not fail you. Or Rafe. Never.”
Niccolò turns to me, seeing the resolve in my eyes. His shoulders relax, even if only slightly. He knows I am a man of my word. That I would go to the ends of the earth, if need be, to make it so.
Yes, my plan still has its hiccups. But I’ll flesh them out in time. I won’t take a single step until I know there’s solid ground beneath my feet. I will not put my brothers’ lives in jeopardy.
Mine, I may not care about. But theirs? Theirs, I do. Because, unlike the monsters I grew up with, family actually means something to me.
I’m seated at the desk of my home office, the glow of my screen the only light in the room. Behind me, the windows frame the city in glass and steel. New York stretches on outside, awake and glittering, its skyline lit like a constellation against the dark.
It’s been exactly thirty-six hours since I received a text from my people in Chicago, confirming they’d managed to obtain Jude Romano’s DNA.
I knew it was only a matter of time. He spent more time stateside this past summer than at Mina Crane’s ancestral home in Kent.
All because the Romanos have had an abundance of weddings lately.
It began with the heir to the Outfit himself, Marcello Romano. Yes, it seems the devil finally found a woman brave enough to share his bed. I doubt any woman envies Marcello’s bride. If I’m known for being heartless, then Marcello is known for not having a soul.
I saw it plain as day when he killed Carlo all those years ago. His eyes were vacant of emotion. There was nothing there. Just empty space where a soul should reside.
According to my sources, the next one to tie the knot is Luciano. He’s barely out of high school and already eager to run down the aisle to marry his high school sweetheart, Frances O’Malley. The same girl who, inexplicably, seems to have some kind of hold over the Petrov clan.
I haven’t been able to determine exactly what that hold is, but my sources tell me that Mikhail Petrov himself bought a luxury apartment in downtown Chicago for the girl and her adoptive brother. The millions sitting in her bank account are also funneled through the Bratva.
At first, I assumed she must have something on the Petrovs. Dirt. Leverage. Insurance. But that theory falls apart under the slightest scrutiny. If she had anything worth using against them, they would have killed her without hesitation.
Instead, they haven’t touched her. In fact, my spies report that both Kirill and Konstantin Petrov spend an alarming amount of time at Frances’s apartment, where she apparently feeds them home-cooked meals and showers them with affection.
It’s baffling, especially considering that before she entered Luciano’s life, she was heading toward a very different altar—one that would have had her pledging her life to God. What a woman like that has to do with the Bratva is the million-dollar question.
Not too long ago, I was practically bursting with anticipation, convinced the Outfit and the Bratva would finally turn on each other and bleed themselves dry after the Romano children were kidnapped.
It would have been an ideal outcome for the two organizations to come to blows and do my dirty work for me.
But alas, their alliance is tighter than ever, and it will only grow stronger once Stella Romano marries Kirill Petrov.
Vincent Romano is either the luckiest bastard to ever walk this earth, or he’s one calculating, self-serving son of a bitch, perfectly willing to use his own children to fortify his alliances.
First, the Firm in London, binding Jude to Mina Crane. Now Stella and Luciano, securing ties with the Bratva. Even Marcello married an ex-FBI agent, polishing his public image until it’s nearly spotless. A stroke of obscene luck, if you ask me.
I never believed in such a thing, though. Luck is what we make for ourselves.
My thoughts are momentarily pulled away by the arrival of an email I’ve been anxiously waiting for.
No dramatic subject line, no warning. Just a quiet notification blinking on my screen, demanding my attention.
Knowing exactly what it contains, I open it without hesitation, ready to read the words I’ve been yearning for.
The report is clinical. Cold. Charts, percentages, spreadsheets of data laid out with merciless precision.
Vincent Romano, Giovanni DeLuca, Dominic Mancini, Jude Romano, Marcello Romano.
On and on it goes, each name reduced to numbers and probabilities.
I scan it once. Then again. Then slower. My jaw instantly clenches as the information becomes clear—Vincent Romano has heirs. The figlio di puttana has heirs. Jude and Marcello are his by blood. Here lies the proof that Vincent Romano has ensured his bloodline after all.
The room suddenly feels smaller, the air denser, as if the walls themselves were pressing in on me.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
I was going to strip Romano of his crown and kingdom.
Expose him for the fraud he is. A boss so impotent that his wife had to submit herself to his consigliere and his enforcer just to give Romano children.
I was going to tear apart the illusion he created of being untouchable and let the Outfit devour itself. But that plan dies right here.
Yes, his other four children aren’t his. The report confirms that much. But their illegitimacy means nothing to me. Not in the way I need it to.
It was always Jude and Marcello I needed to delegitimize.
Without them, Vincent Romano would have been finished.
A Capo dei Capi with no true bloodline means that the throne is left without a rightful successor, plunging the Outfit into utter chaos.
The scandal alone would have forced the syndicate to strip Romano of his title and turn inward, scrambling for stability, tearing itself apart in the process.
And I would have been right there to pour gasoline on the fire, reclaiming New York while they were too busy devouring themselves to stop me.
But now? Now I have nothing. Jude and Marcello Romano still stand. Both are still viable options as Vincent’s successors.
Porca miseria!
I slam my clenched fist onto the desk, staring at the screen as something dark coils tighter in my chest. Rage overpowering the urgent need for recalculation. The cold understanding that this can’t be the end. It can only be a setback. A huge fucking setback.
The truth would still humiliate Romano. Ruin his wife’s reputation as well as his.
It would poison his legacy with whispers and rumors.
Though by comparison to my original plan, it feels tame.
Embarrassment isn’t enough. Scandal doesn’t topple empires.
True power always survives such things. And Vincent Romano’s power, it seems, has deeper roots than I would have liked.
I get up and begin to pace the room, the rage inside me starting to take over rational thought. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to cool my temper, enough for me to think clearly.
Plans don’t die. They evolve. And if Romano’s children are the pillar holding his empire upright, then sooner or later, I’ll make sure that pillar cracks. I’ll find a way. I will find a way to ruin him, once and for all. To ruin all of them.
Knowing I won’t have the answer tonight, I leave the office without shutting the laptop. I can’t stand looking at that email for a second longer. I need to move, burn off this anger before it drives me insane.
I walk down the stairs and head toward the kitchen to fix myself a stiff drink.
I grab a bottle of vodka from the fridge and fill a rock glass with ice.
I pour the clear liquid, fill the glass halfway, and down it all in one go.
I pour another, the clink of ice against crystal too loud in the quiet of my house.
And then I see it—Raffaele’s phone, abandoned on the counter.
The screen lights up before I can turn away, an incoming text from none other than Annamaria Romano.
My jaw clenches so hard I’m half-convinced my back molars might crack.
Of all the times Romano’s daughter could choose to text my brother, it had to be now.
Right when I’m on the brink. No. That’s not right.
She isn’t Vincent Romano’s daughter. She’s Dominic Mancini’s, his head enforcer.
Though why that distinction matters right now is of little solace.
Still simmering from the report upstairs, I pick up the phone and begin to scroll. The few texts I see from my brother make my nostrils flare in disgust. Raffaele sounds like a lovesick fool. However, disgust soon gives way to something uglier as I keep reading.
He went to Chicago. Raffaele went to Chicago. Not once, but twice. Behind my back.
The realization hits like a blade sliding between my ribs.
He crossed state lines to enter enemy territory willingly.
Walked straight into Outfit ground, knowing damn well that death would’ve been the only merciful outcome he could have hoped for if he’d been caught.
But death wouldn’t come to him so easily.
Not before torture. Not before every scrap of information he knows was pulled from him, piece by piece.
Idiota.
My grip tightens around the phone until my knuckles crack. This isn’t just disobedience. It’s betrayal. Careless, reckless betrayal that puts all of us at risk.
A part of me wants to storm upstairs, kick his bedroom door in, and give him a piece of my mind. But I stop myself from moving a muscle. If Raffaele left his precious phone sitting unattended on the kitchen counter, that can only mean one thing—he brought someone home with him tonight.
For all his apologies to Annamaria, for all his carefully chosen words and wounded sincerity, whatever he claims to feel for the girl can’t run that deep if he’s still willing to fuck anything with legs.
One thing is clear—Raffaele needs to know that his actions have consequences.
With the drink in one hand and Raffaele’s phone in the other, I head back upstairs and sit down at my desk.
Raffaele no longer has the privilege of privacy.
He cannot be trusted with it. Tomorrow, I will make it clear that every privilege he had before tonight is now moot, starting with his preferred way of communication.
He will no longer have access to a phone, save for the one I’ll issue him for business purposes only.
Even that will be monitored daily to ensure there is no further contact with the Romano girl.
Whatever softness my brother thinks he’s entitled to, whatever fantasy he’s been indulging in, it ends tonight.
Some lines exist for a reason. And Raffaele has just crossed one.
I admit there was a time where I believed that this friendship of theirs could be useful to me, but now I see the error in my judgement. If I continue to turn a blind eye to this, Raffaele will end up dead.
As for the Romano girl, a single text should be enough to end this blasphemous friendship.
From the few messages I’ve read, it’s clear Raffaele screwed up during his last visit. Whatever happened between them left a mark. That’s all the information I need.
I take another swig of my drink and begin to type, choosing my words carefully. I shape the message to sound like my brother. Immature, shallow, and inconsiderate. Something she’ll believe came from him, that will silence her for good.
Me: You overanalyze everything, and honestly, it’s kind of sad.
Me: Not everything needs to be talked to death. It’s not that deep.
Me: I’ve got enough going on without playing therapist.
Me: Besides… you’re not that special. You were just there.
Me: You’re nice and all, Anna, but you’re painfully boring.
Me: Talking to you feels like a chore. I’m done pretending otherwise.
Sent. There. It’s done.
I finish my drink, then switch off Raffaele’s phone, uninterested in whatever reply might come next. I lock it away in my desk drawer and pocket the key, sealing it out of his reach.
One problem solved. Now it’s the other ninety-nine that I have to worry about.