Luca
Two days. At least it’s not two hours, or even less. I wouldn’t have put it past the old Don, so at least my brother hasn’t gone mental yet. There’s still scope to negotiate, thank fuck.
I stare at Matteo, strategizing.
He stares back.
“No fucking way.”
“Luca.”
The tone in his voice, the look in his eyes…I know both. He is serious, and it would be madness to test him. This is the Don speaking.
Fuck. I don’t want this. I want out for fuck’s sakes, and now…this…this will be tying me down in two fucking crime rings.
I don’t deserve this, but who am I fooling?
It’s not about deserving. It’s the script you get handed and best you play your fucking part.
Matteo is doing exactly that, playing his role as head of Il Consiglio.
In many ways, I’ve lucked out. Second last in a string of six brothers, the Don growing older, his sons growing wiser, ever more protective over the younger ones so much so that Benedict and I have been spared the brunt of our psycho dad. Lucky Luca, indeed.
Matteo says nothing, only studying me as I keep my poker face glued on, refusing to give away any of the emotions rioting in my mind. Fuck. I was so damn close. Rebellion stirs in my gut, even if it’s pointless. Still—
“Just no fucking way,” I repeat, but now my mind is jumping to Gabriella. Our quiet sister, held hostage in some way. Why else would Matteo and Dominic let her go to Ivan Petrov’s house on Long Island, suffering who knows what?
And that is present tense. Who knows what she suffered before?
It’s the one topic us Scalera boys have been skirting around since we learned of her existence, too scared to speculate exactly what she went through from the moment she was born to when Dominic found her in the convent in Potenza.
Fuck knows, I can read between the lines.
I’m not on the dark web for nothing. Mother Lucia’s murder wasn’t a fluke.
It was planned. Tortured for information, followed by an execution.
I drag my fingers through my hair, dropping my gaze.
Matteo has already digested all of this.
Probably also had a discussion with Dominic about it.
They’re the top brass of Il Consiglio, after all.
The need-to-know basis we work on sometimes takes its time to funnel down to the lower echelons of our brotherly organizational chart.
“Why me and not Benedict?” The others are all already spoken for.
“Pecking order. You’re next in line.”
Fuuuuck. Just like that. Freedom nipped in the bud when I could finally smell it. A number drawn. A prop to position. Just another human becoming collateral damage.
There must be another out. There’s no fucking way I’m making ‘married’ my permanent status.
“For how long?”
Matteo shifts in his seat. “I believe the vow goes until death do us part.”
Fuck my life. Which will be short if I stick around the Mafia long enough. Never mind cavorting with the fucking Bratva. I fist my hand where my fingers are still buried in my hair. “Are you for real?”
“Yep. Here’s more news you’re not going to like.” He pauses, takes a sip of whiskey and sucks through his teeth as if he is steeling himself when he places the glass back down. “Gabi is getting married to Petrov on Friday too, so—”
I propel out of my chair and lean over the desk, ready to grab him by the throat, but he’s out of arm’s reach so I slam my hands down instead, making the whiskey tumblers jump.
“Are you fucking mad? How dare you allow this?” I hiss. “Jesus fucking Christ, using her like this.”
Matteo stands, controlled, in charge, the Don he’s prepared his whole life to be.
“I’m not fucking mad, but Il Consiglio fucked up.” His voice is chillingly soft. “You were there when Dominic killed Petrov’s cousin. You have as much a hand in it as him. This whole fuckup is coming full circle, and you get to go for the ride.”
A curse wants to let out, but I guess I’m all cursed out.
That fucking day we got to deal with two more Russians because the cell we have next door to this apartment was already brimming with the fuckers.
We were just following orders. If only I could reverse time, but I can’t.
Matteo is right. I was there, I played hangman.
I might not have killed Petrov’s cousin, but his friend swung around mere minutes later, this one at my hand.
And here we are. Facing the fucking consequences. And this is how Matteo chooses to deal with it, using Gabi.
We glare at each other, Italian tempers flaring. I count to ten, needing to get my rage in its cage. I’m used to this status quo, but Gabi…fuck, she doesn’t need to be a sacrificial lamb too. Us brothers is something, but her? No. No way.
“Why don’t you just admit that things are out of control, Matteo?” I bite out. “That you’re out of your depth, that this isn’t us reaching full circle, but more like us being stuck in an infinite loop.”
Every action has a reaction, and ever since he killed Randazzo, and then the Don—he might fool some, but he isn’t fooling me—things have been going from bad to worse.
Matteo blinks, purses his lips. Then he leans an inch closer. “Everything. Is. Under. Fucking. Control,” he spells out. “Respect your fucking elders. Respect your Don. You’ve never earned your fucking stripes, so what do you know about things being out of control?”
The room freezes over.
Cold fury washes over me like an ice bath.
A slap in the face would have been more welcome, less of a disguised insult. But there it is. I haven’t earned my stripes as he did, getting shot twice, Alex dying in his arms. Like Dominic did, scars on his body for life, or like Steph did, scars on the inside where nobody can see them.
I’m the first to drop my gaze. Our strength is in our brotherhood, this bond forged under our devil of a father, which is stronger than even he anticipated.
I might not have earned my stripes, but fuck knows, I can’t let my brothers down.
I can’t let Matteo down. Not when he asks me for a rather straight-forward sacrifice in the bigger scheme of things.
Between him, Dominic, and Alex, while he was still alive, they’ve taken hits for me for years, protective to the core.
We stand in a gridlock for a full thirty seconds as I digest this truth, until Matteo pulls away and falls back into his chair. That’s him conceding. On this standoff, not on the deal. I pick up my whiskey and drink deeply, meeting his gaze over the rim of the glass.
Fuck, this is just marriage, something on a lot of ‘normal’ people’s to-try list. We’re not normal, so love doesn’t factor into the equation. It’s a business deal. I make those all the fucking time.
He drinks too, and after I’ve downed the rest of mine, relishing the burn down my throat, I put the tumbler down with just enough force to tell him I’m still fucking pissed off. “What do we even know of this woman?”
“She’s younger than Petrov, by a good decade.”
“Meaning?” I haven’t even met Petrov. The man is as much an enigma to me as his sister.
Matteo shrugs. “I guess she’s in her mid to late twenties?”
Right. “And?”
“She plays the piano.”
“Like fucking chopsticks or what?”
“No. Like Rachmaninoff.”
“Rach…who?”
“Rachmaninoff.” He picks up his phone and starts swiping. “I’ll send you a link to listen to. And best you start working on your Russian.”
“Yeah. First phrase I’m learning is my older brother is a fucking cunt.” For this, I get a chuckle, and the tension deflates, making me sink back into my chair. “Really, Matty, what does she even look like?”
He makes a don’t-know gesture. “She’s Bratva, not an image to be found out there. In any case, looks aren’t exactly factored into this equation.”
Don’t I know it. She’s as much a pawn as me. Nobody cares if we get along or not. “Do you expect me to sleep with this woman?”
“Not my problem,” he says, not looking up from his phone. “Fucking random women has never been an issue for you, Luca. I don’t see you why you need to develop one in that department once one of them becomes your wife.”
Fuuuuck. That reputation… I’m never going to shed it. Lucky Luca, indeed. Fucking around like I was nothing but a walking erection since fifteen. No wonder I’m having an early midlife crisis—I’ve got the sex-miles of a retired fucking porn star on me, and that at my age.
My phone pings, and I pull it from my pocket. An iTunes link to an album with a random photo of a grand piano on it. Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor, Opus 18. Milana Petrova and the St. Petersburg Symphony Orchestra.
Great. I literally understand like five words there but two are like neon lights on the cover: Milana Petrova. Now I feel like an uneducated swine.
I tap to play, but Matteo shoots his hand up, something like a screech escaping his lips. “Don’t. Save it for later. For the privacy of your apartment.”
I cock a brow. “Bad?”
“Should have gone to the opera more.”
“Right.” That type of education wasn’t exactly on the Don’s radar.
I stand with a sigh, relieved that the tension between me and Matty has eased.
I’m not quite ready for my fate yet, but I’ve conceded.
I have two days. I head for the door but turn back to face him.
I might be taking this hit for our brotherhood, for Il Consiglio, but to be honest, because of Mom, I’ll always put women first. “Understand this, Matteo. I’m doing this for Gabi.
To secure her safety. As soon as she’s done, so am I. ”
“Sure. Just don’t fuck it up in the interim.”
I scoff. “When have I ever fucked up?” Props always play their role to perfection. Inanimate objects with no lines, no life.
“There’s time,” he says as he stands.
Yeah. And I didn’t plan to be here for it in my mafioso capacity. I planned to be on the road, and then on my yacht, away from all this shit. “No need to walk me out. I know my way.”