Chapter 19 Nicolò
Nicolò
Like holding a fucking firework in my hand. That’s how this feels.
I follow Lina up the steps, only just catching the door before she lets it close on me, bewildered at how the simple act of feeling her fingers brush against mine can alter my damn brain chemistry.
I’ve managed to keep away since I last broke into her room and read a large portion of her diary.
Buying a new place has made me feel marginally better, but I can’t guarantee this voyeuristic snooping will be nipped completely until I’m out of here for good.
I literally can’t control myself or my urges, and that pisses me off.
Knowing what she has written has made everything feel different.
When I look at her now, I don’t see an innocent teenager too na?ve to have touched her own clit.
I see an infuriatingly sexual woman who has thoughts and urges that need satisfying.
And I hate—hate—that she’ll probably find that satisfaction somewhere else.
I mean, she has to. She can’t find it with me. I’m her fucking stepbrother.
When she mentioned her eighteenth birthday, it triggered a dark reminder that it would have been Sofia’s eighteenth birthday soon too. It’s entirely wrong that I should be thinking about my angel girl turning eighteen in the same second I see Lina touching herself.
I squeeze a finger and thumb into my eyes to rid them of the visual. The sooner I get out of here, the better it will be for everyone.
I keep myself busy helping Mom sort through photographs until it’s time to go meet Alessio Bellucci.
Cristiano drives us there. Even though Jersey City sits snugly between Newark and Manhattan, we haven’t bothered to stake our claim on it, which has obviously left room for the Bellucci’s to quietly infiltrate.
Another reason why it’s probably a good idea to meet with them now.
It’s dark when we pull up to the rear of the building. Three men are standing to the side of a door, cigarette smoke swirling around them. They straighten when they see us getting out of the car. Cristiano walks slightly ahead and greets them.
“We’re looking for the basement,” he says, meaningfully.
The broader of the three men nods and opens the door. The entrance is lit by one single bulb but it throws enough light to illuminate a concrete staircase heading down into the foundations.
“No weapons,” the man grits out.
My heart beats a little faster. I can kill with my bare hands but it’s easier to get out quickly if you’ve got a gun. With some reluctance, I hand over my pistol and the man takes it along with Cristiano’s. Then he jerks his head toward the steps.
The door closes behind us with a metallic clunk, and that’s when I hear the music.
It’s dark, sensual and full of bass, getting louder the closer we get to the foot of the stairs.
Another door opens and two more men nod in greeting.
Then I look beyond them and swallow. We’re looking out over a large lounge, sectioned into small, partially private areas by voluminous chairs and sofas upholstered in leather and velvet.
Steel poles hang from the low ceiling offering bunched heavy curtains ready for, I assume, extra privacy when required.
The room is softly lit by lamps positioned artfully on antique tables and dressers, and a small bar stacked high with liquor sits in one corner.
It feels like an underground jazz club, or a gin lounge from the Prohibition era.
As we follow one of the men around the edge of the lounge, I can’t help but take in more of the scene.
In the low light, I can see that many of the chairs and sofas have been filled, but when I look more closely, the clientele are not what I would have expected.
For one thing, every person in this place, apart from me, Cristiano and the two men, is wearing a mask.
Heavily jeweled, exquisitely decorated masquerade-style masks.
And for another, some of them are making out to the point that if I were them, I’d be requesting a room.
The image of Lina wearing one of those masks and straddling my thighs in a private booth crosses my lids and I have to cough to get rid of it.
Cristiano thumps my back before we’re shown into a private meeting room.
I drag my gaze from the intriguing view and follow Cristiano into a more brightly lit space with a black lacquer table positioned in the center.
Seated around it are three men. An older man I would put at around late seventies; a younger, better looking version of him, perhaps early thirties; and the man I recognize from the car.
The door closes behind us again and the older man stands, extending his arm.
“Cristiano,” he greets, shaking my older cousin’s hand.
“Alessio,” Cristiano guesses.
I watch the two men, on edge. The hand-shake is a mere pleasantry.
Beneath this show of politeness runs decades of tension.
Uncle Gianni fought the man now pointing to two empty seats and inviting us to sit, out of Manhattan many years ago.
He’s presided over most of south and mid-New Jersey since then.
This place is further north than any of us expected.
A little too close to home if you ask me.
“You must be Nicolò,” the old man grunts, drifting his hand in my direction. I pause before shaking it, making sure my grip communicates my caliber.
I nod briefly and sit.
“This is my eldest, Fiero.” Alessio glances briefly at the young man to his right.
Fiero tips his chin up, his eyes glinting.
But I detect a frostiness between them. Fiero is sitting with his back slightly angled away from his father, the leg closest to him crossed in the other direction, and I notice that whenever Alessio speaks, Fiero’s jaw grinds.
“And this is my head of security, Franco. I believe you’ve met.”
My eyes narrow. “Briefly.”
Cristiano settles into his chair. “Interesting place you have here. Is it some sort of club?”
Alessio looks a little displeased at the question but answers anyway. “Yes, I suppose it is. It’s a brainchild of my sons’. Fiero here manages the day-to-day.”
Fiero lowers his leg and rests his forearms on the table, darting a sideways glance at his father. “If, by day to day, you mean curating a highly selective guest list and hosting exclusive and unique events not seen anywhere else in New York City, then yes, I suppose I do.”
“Technically, this isn’t New York City,” I say.
Fiero looks up and his eyes sparkle when he cocks a brow at me. “Try telling our clients that.”
It’s strange. This conversation should piss me off.
There’s no place like New York City—our city—and I hate anyone insinuating otherwise, but there’s something about Fiero…
I like him. And I like what he’s got going on here.
I still don’t know exactly what it is, but I’m enjoying the vibe.
And if I enjoy the vibe, I expect most other men and women my age will too. He could be onto something here.
I bite back a grin.
Cristiano draws the conversation back to why we’re here. “May we talk freely?”
Alessio nods. “Go ahead.”
“I believe Nicolò has explained the issues we’re having?
The Bratva have been closing in across New York.
They’ve been targeting shops in Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queens, and I doubt it will be long before they set their sights further afield.
We’ve already been undercut in several districts.
They’ve surprised us with how fast they’re moving.
But they’re discreet and nimble. We know they’re Morozov’s men but we don’t know who is leading them, only that they have many soldiers. Have you experienced the same?”
Alessio bends his elbows, steepling his fingers.
“Hmm, we’ve always had problems with Russians.
They took most of Atlantic City a few years ago and that seems to have appeased them, but every now and then, we lose a shop or a man, but nothing too impactful.
What is happening to you sounds calculated. They want to take you down.”
Cristiano nods in thought. “How many men do you have across the city?”
Alessio’s eyes darken. “Enough.”
“Would it be of interest to form an alliance for the purposes of defending New York against the Russians?” Cristiano, asks, getting straight to the point of our meeting.
Alessio taps his tented fingers against pale lips. “Potentially.”
Fiero releases a poorly disguised sigh and begins to inspect his fingernails in a move I’ve made many a time when bored or frustrated. It’s almost like looking in a mirror.
When Cristiano asks, “What would it take?” I realize how urgently we need a fix for this situation. He’s been shielding his true fears from us all, but in this moment, with that question, I see them clearly.
Alessio rests back in his chair with the look of someone who’s just recognized he holds all the power in the room. I decide I dislike him intensely.
“Manhattan,” he says, simply.
What the fuck?
“Give me Manhattan and we’ll fight with you.”
I flash a look at Fiero who has just faintly rolled his eyes.
Cristiano coughs. “You want Manhattan?”
Alessio’s lids are lowered slightly as though he’s experiencing a moment of bliss.
“You want to control Manhattan?” Cristiano repeats.
The old man simply nods as though we’re no longer worthy of his actual voice. I suddenly regret giving the guards my gun because, don or no don, I want to execute him right here, right now.
There’s a thread of venom in my cousin’s voice. “You have no idea what you’re asking for. That’s my father’s life’s work.”
“It was my father’s before yours,” Alessio clips.
Ah. The vision in front of me crystallizes until I can see right through it. So, this is revenge.
As if he can hear my accusation, Alessio continues.
“Look, this isn’t about settling old scores.
I simply want Manhattan. That’s all there is to it.
Look at us. We’re already in Jersey City.
It wouldn’t have been long before we took Manhattan from you.
This way, there’s no bloodshed and we can combine strengths to fight the Bratva, once and for all. ”
I swallow down the urge to laugh. He thinks because he’s got a club in Jersey City, he’s about ready to take the rest? Is this old man for real?
“I know what I’m asking,” he says. “And I know what it will take for you to agree. So, why don’t you take some time to think it over and give me your answer in a week.”
“Two weeks.”
My eyes pop at Cristiano’s reply. He’s actually considering this?
“The Russians can do a lot of damage in two weeks,” Alessio warns.
“I won’t take this decision lightly,” Cristiano replies. “If more of our businesses fall, so be it. I won’t be rushed into making this call.”
Alessio nods with some reluctance.
“I understand. My men will see you out. It’s been good speaking with you.”
I avert my eyes as we’re escorted back through the club, but fuck it if Bambalina doesn’t skitter across my lids again.
This is starting to piss me off. I have to stop thinking about her. I have to be able to stop thinking about her. It’s wrong on so many levels.
I’m the grown-up here—she’s the impressionable one. I need to be the adult and put a stop to this infatuation. I can’t speak to her about it, because she’ll know I’ve read her diary.
But there is one thing I can do. I can be a total dick.
Let’s see if she likes me then.