Chapter 13 #2
“Carlo really did a fucking number on you, son, for you not to be able to take a compliment at face value.” Moretti frowns.
I clear my throat and say my goodbyes to Don Vitale instead of discussing all the ways my father has ruined me with Moretti. If I start listing them all to him, we’ll be here all night.
When I walk out of the swanky Tribeca building, I spot Rocco across the street, still laughing his ass off at Niccolò. I jaywalk to the other side and find Rocco in tears while Niccolò looks like he’s about to murder him.
“I hope that meeting was worth it,” Niccolò groans through bared teeth.
“Oh, God, you should have seen your face!” Rocco continues to laugh as he wipes tears from his eyes. “You looked like you were about to keel over and die when the Old Fox suggested you marry one of his daughters.”
“You wouldn’t be laughing so much if he looked at you as a good candidate for a son-in-law,” I say, trying to come to Niccolò’s defense.
“Hey, I don’t need Don Vitale’s daughters when I’ve got a real woman at home.”
I smirk at his statement, since I’m pretty sure I know who he is referring to.
“Does Pietra know you’re calling her your woman?
” Rocco instantly pales, his laughter falling victim to sudden death on his lips.
“I didn’t think so,” I say, smirking. “Pietra isn’t the kind of woman to fall head over heels for just a pretty face, Rocco.
You might convince her to your bed, but marriage is a whole different story. ”
“Who said anything about marriage?” He chokes out the word.
“Those fuckers right there!” Niccolò blurts out, pointing back at the apartment building we just left. “Can we go, please? I need to hit something.”
“Hit him,” I tilt my head toward Rocco. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Har har. Fucking har,” Rocco mutters. “So glad you’re back to your old self, Matteo.
I missed you. Not.” He grumbles as he eyes the street before crossing back toward his father’s penthouse apartment.
Niccolò and I are about to get into the car when we hear Rocco shout after us.
“If it helps, I hear the Vitale girls are hot! Just saying,” he calls, with a goading shrug.
“Remind me why we’re friends with him again?” I ask, but Niccolò doesn’t see the humor in it.
“Let’s just go,” he says, cursing under his breath and slamming the car door behind him. Knowing Niccolò needs a minute to himself, I don’t say anything to add to his already volatile state. “He’s right, you know,” he utters halfway through our ride home.
“Who is? And about what, exactly?”
“Rocco. An arranged marriage to one of Vitale’s daughters could be beneficial to us.”
“How so? I don’t see it,” I retort, bored, pretending to fix my cufflinks.
Niccolò arches a brow at me, calling me on my shit.
“The famiglias are more inclined to follow a married Don. You and I both know that.” My frown is immediate.
Niccolò is not wrong, but I have more pressing concerns than finding a wife.
If push comes to shove, I’ll let Vitale make the match.
I have no real use for a wife, but if it helps me get what I want, then so be it.
Sacrifices have to be made, and I’ve made more than my share already.
But then again, what’s one more to add to the list?
“I’ll give it some thought.”
Niccolò nods and doesn’t bring the topic up again.
As I recall what we discussed in the meeting, my mind begins to drift from one brother to the other.
“Where is Rafe tonight?”
“At the safe house.”
This time, my frown turns into a scowl.
“And who put him there?”
“I did,” Niccolò says flatly.
“Can I ask why?”
“Because…” Niccolò pauses as he turns left onto our street. “Rafe needs to learn who the real villain in this family is.”
“If he doesn’t know by now, then I doubt he ever will,” I grumble.
“Give him time, Matteo. He’ll come around eventually.”
I doubt it. Since I stripped him of his toys and left him with nothing but work, Raffaele has barely spoken to me for almost half a year.
Still, I don’t think it’s the grunt work, the long hours, or even the privileges I took away from him that made him hate me more.
It was taking Romano’s daughter away that really broke the camel’s back.
No matter how much Niccolò tried to explain that what he did was reckless, Raffaele still refused to see reason.
He should know better than to go to Chicago behind our backs.
Not only was it a betrayal, but he also put his life at risk.
To him, I will always be the villain of his story. In his eyes, my father will never compare.
When Niccolò parks the car at the curb of our building instead of pulling into the garage, my brow lifts in question.
“Can’t go home yet,” he says, as if his statement would explain everything.
Then I realize that he wasn’t joking when he said he needed to hit something.
“Anywhere but the Cage, okay?” I warn.
Niccolò exhales through his nose, then gives a reluctant nod.
The Cage is an underground fight club in New York. Everyone who is anyone in our world goes there to bet on blood. When you enter the Cage, only one man walks out on his own two feet. The other leaves in a body bag.
I know those kinds of high stakes give Niccolò a certain thrill, but I don’t like that he puts himself in that kind of danger when it isn’t necessary. If I lost him to a fucking Cage fight… I don’t even want to think about it.
I get out of the car and watch Niccolò drive away, hoping he didn’t just lie to my face.
He always keeps things close to the vest, but I know the whole talk about arranged marriages spooked him a little.
I don’t dare tell him that it isn’t the worst idea for him.
With his inability to talk to a woman, much less connect with them on an emotional level, maybe an arranged marriage is the way to go.
But I know my brother. I’ll need him to get comfortable with the idea before I broach the subject again.
With my thoughts still on my brother, I take the elevator up to the penthouse and nod to the two soldiers standing guard at the door.
“Evening, boss,” they say simultaneously.
I don’t correct them since most of my father’s men have grown accustomed to calling me that. Though I appreciate the respect behind it, I’m not the boss yet. My father still lives, and as long as air fills his lungs, I have yet to inherit the title, even if I am the one doing the work.
“Buonasera, figlio mio. You’re home early tonight,” my mother sings when she hears me walk through the door, coming out of the kitchen with a dishcloth in her hands. “What brought on this surprise?”
My heart expands at the sight of her cheerful mood.
The light in her eyes is evidence of her having a good day.
Days like these have been more frequent lately.
Ever since I kicked that motherfucker out of this house, she’s been more herself.
Because of it, I never got around to hiring a nurse.
I know it might be wishful thinking, but what if all she ever needed was to live in a place where she felt safe?
Then memories of the summers she used to spend with us in this very house come back to me. There were days she wouldn’t even get out of bed, or was so out of it that she seemed completely catatonic. No. She might be on a good streak, but her broken mind is far from repaired.
“Maybe I wanted to spend some quality time with my mom.” I offer her a genuine smile. “Have you had dinner yet?” Her blue eyes shine with glee.
“I just took a tray of cannoli out of the oven not two minutes ago.”
“Perfect,” I say, taking off my coat, draping it over the couch, and rolling up my sleeves. “I’ll make us a salad. Shall we?” I ask, offering her my arm.
My mother hums in delight as she hooks her arm through mine, and I lead us back to the kitchen.
After we finish our meal, we sit on the couch and watch one of the romantic comedies she likes.
It’s not how I usually spend a Friday night, but it’s not unpleasant either.
A quiet night at home might be good for me.
I’ve been so tense lately, so on edge, that switching off my brain, even if only for a few hours, might be exactly what the doctor ordered.
And watching a chick flick with my mom is the very definition of that.
When the movie credits begin to roll, I glance over at my mother and find her fast asleep. Without making a sound, I cover her with a blanket and turn off the television.
Rather than going to bed myself, I head upstairs to my office to get some work done. But instead of logging onto my computer, I sit in my chair, spin it around, and stare out at the New York skyline.
I fucking love this city. Everything I do is to make sure it’s allowed to flourish and thrive. Something it cannot do if it continues chained to Chicago.
Moretti and Vitale were right. It’s time to move past what could have been and start focusing on what can be. A plan will form. One that will hurt Romano in a way he never sees coming. The same way he hurt us when he killed Carlo.
I just need to think. Time is still on my side, even if I’ve grown as impatient as the Old Fox. I’ll come up with something eventually. I always do.
As if Karma herself heard my thoughts, when I turn my chair back toward the desk, for reasons I can’t explain, my gaze lands on the locked drawer containing Raffaele’s confiscated phone.
I’m not sure why I do what I do next. Call it destiny or fate.
Call it an epiphany, dying to be born. Call it divine fucking intervention.
Whatever force is behind my actions, I find myself leaning forward and picking up the one photograph I have of my brothers on my desk.
Carlo, Niccolò, Raffaele, and I, frozen in time during one of the few moments of joy we shared together at Coney Island when we were young.
I flip open the backing and take out the key I hid there six months ago.
I then use it to open the drawer and pluck the phone from inside.
The moment I switch it on, I’m bombarded with message after message. There are even a few handfuls of voice messages mixed in with the slew of text messages. All of them from Annamaria Romano.
A part of me wants to ignore them all, while another part—the one that is starting to see an opportunity arise—wants to listen and read every message.
I spend the rest of the night gaining a better insight into Annamaria’s mind as she shares her innermost thoughts.
At some point, I even grab my charger just so I don’t have to stop midway.
Rays of sunlight from the early dawn begin to streak through the window when I finally reach the end of a month’s worth of messages, intended for absolutely no one.
At first, I thought the messages would be the ramblings from a disgruntled teenager, angry that the boy she had been talking to for the better part of five years no longer wanted anything to do with her.
However, that was not the case.
What I read and heard were the deep, dark and troubling thoughts that loneliness evokes.
The words of a young woman’s struggle to find connection to her own life.
The most raw and vulnerable expression of the human experience in a world as cruel as ours.
I heard a soul cry.
Somewhere halfway through, I had to remind myself that she is the enemy. That she is the beautiful, perfect lie her father flaunts as a prize. But after hearing such sincerity in her voice, such raw pain and anguish, even I can’t believe that’s true anymore.
Annamaria’s words were never meant to be heard by anyone else but her. And that is what makes them so honest. That’s what makes her real in my mind. And I really wish they didn’t.
As I lean back in my chair, my head resting against the headrest, I close my eyes as something begins to take form.
Opportunity does not vanish. It only changes shape.
You only need to look a little harder to see it for what it is.
Marriage is an effective way to ensure loyalty and bind rival organizations together for generations.
We need to strike at his heart. That’s the only way we will weaken him.
I almost feel guilty for using Annamaria’s tearful confessions to my advantage. But as I was reminded last night, marriages have always been useful tools in our world.
If I’m going to strike at the heart of the Romano clan, then I know exactly where to aim.
Poor Annamaria. I almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.