2. Valerio
VALERIO
Tito texts me at six-twelve.
A woman named Federica just used your name at the door. She’s sitting next to me at dinner. What do you want me to do?
I read it twice.
What is she doing here? I keep wondering, even as I walk through the entrance of the room.
I immediately see her at Tito’s left. Cocktail dress, a deep forest green, cinched at the waist, worn for a different audience than the one currently looking at her.
Hair pinned up off her neck. She has the careful, neutral expression I’ve noticed her use for clients she is trying not to throw a chair at.
The room does a half-second of recalibration when I enter. It always does. I’m Capo Greco, a man to be feared and revered, admired and dreaded.
I walk the length of the table and stop beside her chair. I do not touch her. I put my hand on the back of the chair and think of something, anything, to say.
I’ve missed you so fucking much. That is the first thought that came to mind but I quickly brush it aside.
Those words aren’t me. They will never be me.
A mafioso doesn’t express his feelings, and a capo doesn’t get to have them at all.
That’s the life I chose six months ago for myself, when Riccardo handed over Queens to me to go fight the cartel war on the West Coast. I’m here to hold down the fort and make sure we don’t lose our home territory while the dons are busy playing offense.
Federica will never know how I feel about her. She’s my best friend’s sister. Most of all, she deserves better than an ice king with bloodied hands. The words in my heart, she will never hear.
Because if my enemies learn how much she means to me, they will take her too. Just like they took my family six months ago.
“I’m glad you came,” I repeat, mostly for the benefit of the people watching. And because, despite it all, it’s the one truth I’m allowed to indulge in. A mild one with no risks attached.
Though the question of what she’s doing here remains.
“Of course,” she says, catching on. The performance is perfect. “Sorry I’m late.”
Tito doesn’t move. But I can feel him register the exchange.
I take the seat at her left and whisper, “Let me guess. Wrong turn?”
Surprise flashes across her face, then annoyance. “What do you think?”
“I think you’d never abandon an event halfway through. And that you wouldn’t be caught dead in your present company.”
She hesitates. She can’t tell if I mean me or the men surrounding us.
I suppose it doesn’t make a difference either way. Whatever they are, I am too.
“Right,” she says. “Guess not.”
The appetizers come. She takes advantage of the distraction to turn away from me.
I take the hint and leave her be.
I sip my wine, letting the men around me lead the conversation. They’re competing for my attention, each wanting something or other from me.
My lips part in a small smile, enough to let the people around me think I might give whatever it is they’re asking.
I enjoy the sight of these powerful giants twisting into knots at my feet.
I am, tonight, the version of myself that lets the room come to him.
Capo Greco. That’s who I am. The man I need to be, and the one Federica despises so much.
But God, if her presence doesn’t make me want to commit every sin under the sun. The heat radiating off her body is pure temptation. After six months of forced abstinence from her company, just having her here is enough to drive me crazy.
When dessert is being cleared, her hand brushes mine reaching for the wine.
She freezes for half a second and so do I. We both pull our hands back to our side of the table, without looking at each other. I know, without a doubt, that she doesn’t want to be anywhere around me, or have any part of her body brush against mine.
The thought makes my chest burn with sadness. My knuckles clench. Restraint is a cruel mistress. But it’s the only mistress I’m allowed to have.
Soon, Federica will only be a distant memory. I’m expected to marry within the year, and I intend doing that with a woman that doesn’t make my heart beat just by sitting in the same room as me.
Lorenzo, the Staten Island capo, is already married.
He was crowned before any of us, before the cartel war began shaking the foundations of New York City.
When the cartel first struck, killing a handful of minor mafia families and leaving their kids orphaned, the dons went to the West Coast to deal with it and crowned their right hands.
I’m one of those. Everyone who rose to power with me six months ago is beholden to the same rules: marry within the year.
Bruno tied the knot. The other are still holding out, just like I am.
But while their reasons for not wanting a wife are about protecting a stranger from getting involved in our dark world, mine are different.
The woman I want isn’t a stranger. She’s my best friend’s sister, the one girl I always knew I could never have.
Losing my parents and sister to the cartel only cemented that idea.
Federica must not be involved and for that reason, I could never make her mine.
I spend the rest of the hour, next to her, without a word.
As soon as the dinner is over, I rise before she does. “It’s done,” I whisper. “You’re free to go back to your event. Goodnight.”
I start walking away.
I hear her footsteps behind me before I hear her voice.
“Wait.”
I turn. She seems uncertain all of a sudden, like she didn’t think I’d really listen.
She’s wrong. I will always listen to her.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
She crosses her arms. The air around us has gone colder. We can both feel it.
“You look well,” I tell her. Another small truth I can still afford. Though the full truth would be that she looks fucking spectacular in that dress, and that she’d look even better without it.
She looks at me for a long second. “You look terrible.”
“Long week.” I try not to act like I’m enjoying any bit of this awkward conversation.
“Rio.” She exhales, walks closer. I hate the compassion that blooms on her face. It makes me want to break, and I can’t. “What’s going on with you?”
My parents and sister were taken six months ago. I have spent every day since looking for them.
Riccardo left me a message earlier, and I am increasingly certain that, this time tomorrow, I will be planning a funeral.
I never stopped thinking of you. I pushed you away to protect you. I knew the cost, and I will pay it a thousand more times if it means keeping you clear of what I am.
I want to say all of that, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “It doesn’t concern you.”
She shakes her head, lips parting in a smile I didn’t see coming. “It used to concern me.” She holds my eyes. “We used to care for each other.”
“Fede—”
“Goodnight, Rio.”
I watch her go. I want to run after her, but I can’t, so I keep my feet planted to a spot. Once she disappears out of my sight, I sigh painfully. Letting her leave was the right thing, even though it feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest.
Taking my phone out of my breast pocket, I dial a number, forcing my thoughts in another direction.
Riccardo picks up on the second ring.
“You’re done with dinner.”
“Yes. Now tell me. Are they dead?”
There’s a pause. “I’d better come in person after all,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
“Riccardo. Just tell me.”
“No.” His refusal is firm. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The line goes quiet for two second, then I hear the quiet sound that signifies that the call has come to an end. I put the phone back in my pocket, and stand there, in the quiet room, wondering just how much more have to lose.