Chapter 33
Matteo
It’s been ten days since my wedding day, and already the heads of the families are growing restless. They were promised a war, and yet Romano has been slow to deliver one.
When I sent Vincent my wedding video, along with a few society pages announcing my marriage to his daughter, instead of retaliating, he flew back to Chicago to regroup.
My spies tell me the only ones who didn’t board the plane back with him were Stella and Marcello, which is troubling.
I’d sleep better if I knew where those two were hiding.
Nevertheless, two uninvited Romanos in my city isn’t exactly the war that was promised. And by the looks on the faces of every man sitting at my table, they are more than displeased with how things are progressing. They want a war, not a honeymoon period.
“Enough with the runarounds, young Donato. My men grow restless. And frankly, so do I. If Chicago doesn’t come to us, then I say we go to them,” Don Vitale utters, drawing murmurs of agreement around the table.
“If we leave New York, we will lose our home advantage,” I remind them. “Patience is a virtue for a reason, gentlemen. I’ve been patient for years. I’m sure you can wait a month or two.”
“A month?!” Don Rinaldi spits out in disbelief. “They’ll have an army if we give them that much time to prepare.”
“What army?” I chide. “Have we forgotten why I made Romano’s daughter my wife in the first place?
No organization will follow them. The Outfit is on its own.
And if they want to keep thriving while going to war with us, they’ll have to split their forces, half to fight us here, half to keep Chicago from falling apart. We don’t. I like those odds.”
“Are you sure about that?” Don Cavaliere interjects. “Your wife’s sister is married to a Petrov. The Bratva might overlook tradition and fight with Romano anyway.”
“The Bratva have their own wars,” Don Moretti interjects on my behalf.
“Let’s not forget that even if Kirill Petrov did marry into the Romano family, his own family is still feuding with the London Firm, uncaring that its boss is his sister-in-law.
Breathe easy, friends. The Pakhan will stay out of this fight.
Business is business. Romano is not blood to him.
Therefore, he won’t waste his men, and more importantly, his money, on such a war.
Mikhail’s younger brother might fight for Romano, but he’ll be the only Bratva who does. ”
My shoulders ease somewhat that Moretti came to my defense, but it still irks me that he refuses to meet my eyes. It’s a bad omen, if I ever saw one.
“Very well,” Don Vitale nods. “Even if the Outfit is all on their own, we can still make sure they don’t come to us at full force. Why haven’t you outed Vincent yet about his bastardi?” the Old Fox asks with an accusing tone.
Yes, why haven’t I? I can’t tell them I haven’t pulled the trigger on that nuclear bomb because ever since my wife found out I was the one she’d been texting for almost eighteen months, she refuses to talk to me.
My Anna already feels betrayed. Her mind and heart are currently at war with each other, and I don’t want to give them any more reason to hate me.
No. I can’t tell the world that Romano is in a polyamorous relationship. That would hurt my wife too much, and I’ve hurt her enough.
“Patience, Don Vitale. Let us not be quick with our attacks when the Outfit has yet to throw the first stone.”
“I’ll wait, young Donato. I’ll wait. As long as you remember we’re not doing this just to satisfy your blood-for-blood vengeance,” he says defiantly, insinuating that my marriage to Anna could somehow make right what the Outfit did to my brother, Carlo, while he has to wait his turn to make them bleed.
“They buried our future. I buried their peace. Blood for blood? Hardly. This isn’t revenge. It’s only the down payment on a long-overdue debt. You will get your war, Old Fox. And I’ll be right in the trenches with you.”
Don Vitale doesn’t look happy with my reply, but he presses his lips together, refusing to add anything else.
I promised him revenge on the Outfit and the Irish, and I delivered on the latter.
Vitale pushed the Irish out of our city and slaughtered as many as he could.
His hands are still wet with their blood, and still the Camorra boss wants more.
And the worst of it is that his bloodthirst is spreading to every head of family at my table.
“I think we’re done here for today, gentlemen. When I have more news for you, I’ll make sure to keep you all informed.”
Disgruntled murmurs rise as they push back from their chairs and leave my office. However, it’s the man who walks out the door first that troubles me most. Cazzo.
Moretti still hasn’t come to me with his grievances. He hasn’t so much as said a single word to me since I became Don. Or more importantly, since my father died. I always knew Moretti was old school, which has never been a problem before, but I can’t say the same thing now.
Our relationship has been severely impacted by me killing my father.
In his eyes, my leadership is tainted. But that isn’t even the worst part.
As far as Moretti is concerned, the trust is gone now.
If I give him any more reason to believe I’m unworthy of my role, I have no doubt he’ll turn the other Dons against me, just like he helped me do to my father. Merda.
I just have to prove to him that I’m the same person he championed throughout all these years. I just wish he would come to me.
Or is he waiting for me to go to him?
That’s not happening. That would put his importance above my own, and I won’t allow that. That’s not how this hierarchy works. Moretti needs to fall in line and follow me, not the other way around.
I let out a long exhale as I rest my palms flat on the table, my head hanging low.
Problems. Problems. Problems.
All I see are more problems to be dealt with, both at work and at home, and right now I feel like I’m failing at both.
“You look tired,” Niccolò says with a clipped tone.
“Is that your polite way of saying I look like shit?” I half-joke, half-mock.
“I’m saying that tired Dons make for shitty bosses.”
The bite in his words has me raising my head to meet him head-on.
“Is there something you want to say to me, brother?”
Niccolò’s jaw twitches, all the words he wants to throw at me right there behind his eyes.
“No, boss.”
“Good,” I retort, shaking off the tension in the room as I walk toward the door. “I’ll see you back home, then.”
Niccolò nods, but he doesn’t say anything else.
Shit. He’s never stayed mad at me this long.
We’ve fought before, plenty of times, like most siblings do, but we always found our way back quickly.
It troubles me that he’s holding onto this grudge.
But then again, I did lie to him. And lies were never part of our relationship. Not between Nico and me.
That motherfucker has been dead for weeks, and he’s still causing me problems. If I could kill my father twice, I would. Though by doing it, I’d only piss off the people who are supposed to have my back even more.
Porca miseria, I wish Niccolò would just let this go already. But then again, if the roles were reversed, wouldn’t I be just as angry with him?
On the night of the conferenza, I gave Niccolò my word that I wouldn’t kill our father.
All he had to do was bring him to me, place him on his knees before me, just to scare the bastard and prove a point to the Outfit that I was the one in control now.
Niccolò had no idea that Carlo Senior would never make it out of that abandoned warehouse alive.
As far as he was concerned, our father was just a prop we brought to the parley.
Still, his death had to come by my hand. There was no other choice, not in my eyes. After everything our father had done to us, after the hell he put my brothers and me through, my wrath could only be satisfied by his final breath. To believe otherwise would have been a lie.
I shake the thoughts away, not wanting to dwell on my bastard of a father or the growing impatience of the Dons before I head home. I have another battle waiting for me there anyway—my wife.
Of course, by the time I arrive, Anna has already called it a night.
Thankfully, she’s abandoned her hermit life of staying in the bedroom all day and now wanders around the house while I’m not here, keeping my mother company.
But before the sun even sets, she retreats back to her hiding place before my return.
Not that it does her any good. She still has to share a bed with me.
“Buona sera, figlio mio,” my mother greets from the couch.
“Buona sera, Mom,” I reply, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “How was your day?”
“Ask me what you really want to ask, Matteo.” She smiles sadly. “I doubt you’re interested in my day. You’d rather hear news about your wife.”
“And?”
“She’s settling in, if that reassures you.” It doesn’t. “She apologized again for the… incident,” my mother adds, referring to the day everything went to shit in this house.
“Again?” I frown.
My mother nods. “I think I… frightened her a little.”
I don’t add anything to her statement. Ever since the phone incident, my mother has been off. I was sure she was on the verge of an episode, but today she seems more like herself. Maybe Anna had something to do with that.
“Anyway,” she shrugs off. “Have you eaten? I could heat something for you.”
“That’s okay. I’m not hungry.”
She studies my face, then cups my cheek gently. “You look tired, figlio.”
“Funny. Nico said the same thing.”
“Have you not been sleeping well?”
How can I, when the woman I love lies beside me, thinking of all the ways I betrayed her, even as she searches for ways to leave me?
“I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“A mother never stops worrying about her children.” She gives me a soft smile. “But go. Go rest. You deserve it.”