Chapter 6 – Nico
Don Francesco Grimaldi was nothing if not ostentatious. The blazing fire in the hearth, which was too hot for summer, was a visible testament to that. He held his liver-spotted hands to the flame, posture relaxed, a cigar puffing between his gummy lips.
“Where are your bags, ragazzo?” he pushed.
I’d avoided the topic the entire night. Diverting my living situation had been easy. The immediate family members had been too eager to discuss their obnoxious lives to truly care about anyone else’s situation.
But when Nonno Franco asked, he expected an answer.
“They’re unpacked.” I folded my arms over my chest, leaning back into the stiff leather of the couch in his study.
The don plucked the fat smoke from his lips. “Unpacked?”
I nodded. “In my loft.”
“Dominico,” my grandfather warned.
A sigh vibrated through my lips. “Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but no man wants to live with his grandparents. It’s the twenty-first century.”
Spit flew from his mouth as he blustered. “What? What’s this? The twenty-first century? No, that means nothing. We’re your family, Dominico. You stay here. This is your home. The famiglia is your legacy. We’re where you belong.”
Before tonight, I felt both mentally and physically prepared for the attack. But after a tedious evening and a tiresome dinner, I was done.
“I’m living close by. I can still be here whenever you require,” I argued.
“That’s not good enough!” The don pulled himself up to his full height. For a full-blooded Italian, he stood erect and proud. “It’s already a disgrace that your mother and sister don’t reside with us. You are a Grimaldi, first-born son to my first-born son. You belong here.”
He dared to bring my mother into this. I ground my molars. But they were safe, living in New York with my mother’s family. This was only Don Grimaldi’s way to rub salt in the wounds.
“I need my space.” I braced an ankle over my opposite knee. “I won’t come back…here.”
Not after being chased away. Not after the years of minimum contact.
“No. No!” The don cut his hand through the air. “You will move back home. You will assume the role of my heir, preparing for the day you eventually take over. And you will pay special attention to Arabella.”
Both feet fell flat on the floor, and I sat up straight. “Absolutely not.”
My grandfather sneered down at me. “She’s your fiancée, ragazzo. It’s only a matter of time—”
“She’s a fucking child!” I snapped.
And that was exactly why my sister was safer away from the don’s schemes. He didn’t care even a little bit about using a female as a bargaining chip.
If only Arabella was with them….
Franco lifted a shoulder as if to say what of it.
“You will escort Arabella when she turns eighteen next month. By Saint Valentino’s Day you will propose.
I have your great-grandmother’s ring reset and ready.
Make it a spectacle. The poor girl deserves some semblance of romance.
And by next Christmas, you will marry her. ”
He had it all planned out. Every fucking detail. I fit into this picture with no say as to my wants, desires, or feelings. It was worse than I expected.
“I don’t want her,” I growled.
“Want has nothing to do with it. She’s our ward.
Whoever marries her is seen as my heir.” Franco puffed on the cigar.
Fat smoke rings popped in the air. It was different when his own son was alive.
My father would have taken over. But now with so many grandsons, nephews, and distant cousins, the spot for leadership was open to a healthy debate.
As the oldest grandson, I had a better shot than most to secure the vote from the leading families.
Marrying the don’s ward would only increase the odds.
“It makes sense for you to marry her now,” my grandfather continued. “Secure the line with a few brats while you wait to assume the throne. What more could you want?”
It was a rhetorical question, but my brain shouted anything. Absolutely anything but that prescribed future.
Did I want to be the boss of a crime syndicate? Probably. It was something I was suited for, after all. Unlike the boys at school, between literature and higher mathematics, I was breaking bones, running drugs, and learning the ins and outs of being a criminal.
My father saw to that.
He was the true heir.
His philosophy was that a leader should know every facet of the business. He had his son start at the bottom and work his way through the ropes. My capability wasn’t the question.
But these last few years in exile? Sheer bliss. Complete freedom.
I saw the world with a different light.
When the summons came to return, after the unfortunate incident that sent me into exile had been resolved, I avoided the call of duty for as long as possible.
The Sicilian broker, who wanted me dead for putting his nephew in a coma from which he never recovered, had finally died from too much cocaine, which eliminated the immediate threat to my return.
But I spent the last six weeks dodging calls, avoiding the goons dear old grandfather sent, and contemplating faking my death.
In the end, this was my place.
So here I was.
If only Dad survived. Things would be different.
But an assassination was one fate that couldn’t always be avoided.
“You will do this, Dominico.” The don loomed over me.
Gritting my teeth, I rose. “I cannot stay here.”
His jowls wriggled, a protest forming on his tongue.
“Here me out,” I said, twisting his notions to suit my purpose. “Wouldn’t it be unseemly to reside under the same roof as the woman I’m destined to wed? Especially since she’s still so young?”
That logic was infallible.
My grandfather spluttered and huffed.
I had him with that line.
“I’ll report back tomorrow for my first marching orders.” I buttoned my suit.
“Tomorrow, we’ll meet the capos at La Dolce Vita,” he agreed.
Ah yes, the henchmen. Pigs the lot of them. There wasn’t a soul who wasn’t poisoned with greed, and whose hands weren’t ready to stab their best friend in the back with the promise of advancement.
My father hated the captains Don Franco promoted.
He would have rewarded the loyal ones in our ranks. Never made a promotion based on blood lines and family honor.
“One more thing, ragazzo mio,” Nonno called out as my hand fell on the study door.
I stared at the door, forcing myself to take a deep breath. “Signore?”
“You will not kill any more of the famiglia.”
The command ricocheted through my mind.
“Do I make myself clear?” The bite in his voice promised unforgiveness.
“Crystal.”
With that false promise, I escaped. Any man who dared to cross me was dead. I’d done it before, and I would do it again.
Unlike street rabble, who ambushed each other on a whim, killing a sworn member of the famiglia without express permission from the don was seen as rebellion. In my case, there was a strong argument for self-defense. It was the only reason I was alive and my punishment had been exile.
I didn’t bother asking the chauffer to bring my car around. The keys were hanging in the garage, and I made a fast exit, peeling out of the drive as if the hounds of hell were baying at my heels.
Back in the fold….
Proclaimed the heir….
Forced to marry someone against my will….
It was too much.
The steering wheel shook as my fist banged against it.
“Vaffanculo!” I snarled and struck the wheel again.
Ahead, a yellow light turned red. I slammed on the brake, making the car stutter to a stop.
This was nothing short of a nightmare.
I raked both hands through my hair. The tie on my neck was too tight, and I viciously tugged it off.
The jacket followed. Breathing hard, I slammed my forehead against the wheel this time.
Bent over, I smacked the dash—over and over.
I needed to go somewhere to blow off steam.
If this was going to be the type of interaction I regularly faced, a consistent regimen of boxing or sparring would be a necessary outlet.
Something in the car rattled loose.
Cursing, I lifted my head and felt along the center console for a broken part.
Inside the compartment, my fingers brushed against something metal. I frowned. The light turned green, and a horn blared behind me.
There was no use throwing the grumpy driver the bird. With the window tint and the nocturnal shroud, they wouldn’t see. I gunned the car through the light and pulled up against the opposite curb.
My fingers wrapped around the strip of metal. It took dangling the piece between my fingers for me to realize was the object was.
A watch—my watch.
I glared at it. “How did you wind up here?”
The metal was silent.
I kept my car pristine. I didn’t even drink in here, let alone leave personal items like change or tie clips tucked in the compartments. Yet here was the designer watch. The one that I knew for a fact hadn’t been on my wrist last weekend when I left The Galway Arms.
Which meant sometime in the last week, the little criminal came to her senses, broke into my car, and returned it. There were several spots where it could have happened. Tomorrow, I would carefully retrace my steps, searching the haunts for any sign of her.
The watch slipped through my fingers. The metal seemed to pulse with a promise. I caught it and let it trickle down again. If I was going to be buried alive by the schemes of my grandfather, I might as well have one more moment of fun.
And my little thief was proving to be exactly that.