10. Plans
Chapter ten
Plans
(Dante)
Iwish we had more time, more information, more options, but all we have is a visiting party of unhappy Dons with revenge in their eyes and murder in their fists.
My throat tightens like someone is cutting off my airway, but in a non-consensual, unpleasant way. Fuck!
Emilio patiently waits for my response.
But Danica isn’t known for her patience. “Those assholes!” she exclaims before I can say anything.
According to Emilio’s early morning update, the Russians had been busy while we slept. Last night, they attacked one of our car dealerships and burned half of it to the ground before anyone could stop the flames.
The other families suffered similar fates.
If I was uncertain whether moving quickly was the right choice, now it’s clear we have no alternative.
I know this cannot wait; I will not risk losing any more men.
This ends now!
They don't know who they're messing with. I once kept a man alive for four days while I slowly, strategically cut off pieces of his body with my hunting knife, stacking them in rows on the floor before him until, finally, I carved my signature on his unbeating heart.
The way he broke, piece by piece...those sounds were music to my ears.
There was artistry to my methods then. I'd take my time, orchestrate every moment of terror. Other Dons sent their soldiers to do their dirty work, but I believed in the intimacy of fear. In wearing three-piece suits spattered with red. In letting them see the monster behind the manners.
The sound a man makes when he realizes Don Fera himself is the one holding the blade…delegated violence could never feel that powerful.
The Russians think they know brutality? They should ask about the Marino family's former consigliere.
Should ask what happened during those long hours when I personally extracted every secret, every betrayal.
Should ask about the night I painted my office walls with the consequences of disloyalty.
They never did get those stains out of the hardwood…
But that was before Danica.
Before I learned there were better ways to sleep than remembering the exact pressure needed to keep a man conscious while you peel away his reasons for silence.
I take a deep breath, twisting my rings in an attempt to tame the brewing storm inside. Steady, Dante.
This is no time to dwell on the past.
“Is everyone here?” I ask Emilio curtly, not responding to his account of the damage, the extent of the attacks. What was there to say? It was time for action.
“Sì, Don mio. The families are in the dining room.”
“Thanks, Emilio.”
The old guard hesitates. There is something on his mind. I know his body language too well.
“What is it?”
Emilio takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if we can trust our contact, sir. Something doesn’t feel right.” He knows he can speak freely.
“Do we have any other leads, any other way in?”
He shakes his head—no.
“Let’s see what the others think.” I pick up my cup of cold coffee from the desk and swallow it down in one go. “This shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you upstairs,” I tell Danica, pulling her toward me for a goodbye kiss.
But she pushes me away, a scowl on her brow. “If you think you’re sending me away, you have another thing coming.” Arms crossed over her chest, her gaze meets mine in cold defiance and I know this isn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped.
I sigh. “Danica…”
“No. We’ve spoken about this. I want to be more involved. This is my life too.” I want to argue, but I know there is no point. Sure, I can have one of the guards take her to her room by force, but I’ll have to spend a week groveling if I resort to such measures.
“Fine, but please stay quiet,” I reluctantly concede. She did make a good argument.
Danica nods and follows me downstairs, where the five Dons and their various bodyguards are gathered around the large wooden table, making forced conversation.
The tension is thick, thicker than the air. Not everyone came, but the original families were all represented. All except the Riccis. I refuse to have those assholes on my property.
The men get up when we enter the room, looking at Danica questionably. But I ignore their scornful glances and start my round of greetings, respectfully starting with the eldest, Don Vinci, the one with the walking cane shaped like a scythe.
Don Greco covers my hands with his, holding me a moment longer.
“I’m sorry about your wedding, Dante. Danica is a fine woman; you did well.
Not as fine as our dear Elena, of course…
” Hearing the name of the wife I couldn’t save, couldn’t protect, cuts me deep with guilt as it always does.
But I can’t think of Elena now. It’s too late for her.
I am relieved Danica is on the other side of the room. She doesn’t see me flinch, see me stumble as I try to regain my composure.
“Thank you, Don Greco,” I say simply, patting my former father-in-law on the shoulder with what I hope comes across as an empathetic gesture.
Elena would never have joined me in the “war room”—she was far too delicate for that. Sure, she knew the business inside out, she grew up in this world after all, but she trusted my leadership, my protection…my dominance.
And then I failed her.
But I won’t fail Danica.
Fuck these Russian assholes.
Everyone settles down, and the staff makes sure their drinks are filled, from the tea drinkers to the whiskey connoisseurs.
Taking the floor, I silence the men to recount the details Emilio shared during the debriefings.
The Volkovs are nasty fuckers—drugs, human trafficking, manipulating the awarding of construction contracts, just to name a few.
They came out of seemingly nowhere and brought the entire city to a standstill, playing by their own rules (or no rules at all) as they plundered their way through our territories.
Like thieves in the night, they came in and took the ports, undoing decades of peace negotiations.
“The ports are off limits!” Don Vinci interrupts me, hammering his shaky hand on the table with an assertive bang. The old man is well over 80 now, barely hanging on to life, but his rage burns no less bright.
“Sì, Don Vinci. That’s why the families agreed to keep this as neutral ground all those years ago.”
The men in the room nod while Danica sits quietly by my side, observing, playing the part of the perfect, obedient wife. If they only knew…
Losing control of the ports is the biggest threat to our businesses. If we can’t get anything in or out of the city, things quickly become very complicated.
There used to be endless turf wars about the ports until the Feras negotiated peace nearly two decades ago. My father would never have settled for a white flag, but I am not my father. If he conceded earlier, maybe my mother would still be alive.
“The trafficking is nasty business,” Don Greco adds, and everyone but Don Vinci nods. We all know that he’s secretly got a side trade in a similar line, but the families have an unspoken rule not to interfere.
The men start mumbling to each other in hushed Italian, going off on separate tracks.
“Silencio!” I command in my deep voice, forcing them to settle down.
Standing up, I tower over all of them as I speak.
The Dons quieten down.
“What’s your plan, Don Fera?” It’s Don Marino who asks what on everyone’s mind.
“We wait for the right opportunity.”
Don Vinci jumps up. “We’ve waited long enough—”
“Sit down, per pavore.” My voice is thick. I don’t care how old he is, my house, my rules.
He sits down.
“According to our contact, on Wednesday, they’re loading a new shipment of women. There is a lot of commotion on those days, a lot of people in and out, and that’s our best chance to get inside.”
The Fera family has many contacts and informants. This particular one owes a huge debt to my family. Many years ago, I paid his son’s tuition to help him become a doctor.
For a long time, I took my job as Don seriously—everyone who sat down in my office, pleading for the assistance of the Fera family, was heard.
After Elena’s death, work was my everything.
I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t keep the guilt from drowning me during every waking hour.
So I threw open the doors and let them all in.
Crying old ladies begging for mercy for their sons who got into gangs, young women with abusive husbands and nowhere to turn, outright thugs who got themselves mixed with the wrong crowd—I heard them all and did what I could for our people, our community.
It never took the pain away, the gnawing guilt, the feeling that it was all my fault that she was dead, my fault that our unborn son would never have a life.
But then Danica came along and gave me another reason to get up in the morning. Another way to repent for my sins.
“You can have as many of my men as you need,” Don Greco offers, pulling me back to the present conversation.
“From the Antonios too.”
The families all pledge their armies, eager to get rid of the Russian pestilence fucking up our delicate equilibrium.
They have no reason to trust me but even less reason for distrust. I have always been a man of my word, a man who has helped any family who came to him.
The rest of the meeting deals with the formalities, discussing the alleged security detail at the ports, the number of men we would need
The reality is that we only have two days to prepare.
It’s not a lot.
Never mind the logistics, I’m not sure two days will be enough to get my body ready. I’m achy and nauseous, tired beyond belief.
But I don’t mention any of my ailments, of course not.
I just shake the Dons’ hands firmly as they leave, kissing their cheeks as I promise everyone the situation will be dealt with swiftly.
How foolish of me.
Once the last hand has been shaken and ushered out, I head upstairs to my office as Danica disappears to the kitchen in search of a snack. I need time to think.
My head throbs with the weight of today's negotiations, the tension of forced smiles and veiled threats still heavy on my shoulders.
I loosen my shirt’s top button as I sink into my office chair.
The other families might show respect to my face, but their eyes tell a different story.
They think I'm getting soft.
And that’s dangerous.
The familiar click of nails against hardwood announces Biscotti's arrival before his head appears around the door frame. In his mouth, that ridiculous purple dinosaur toy Danica bought him.
"Not now, piccolo," I mutter, but he ignores my protest, padding over to drop the toy directly in my lap. When I don't immediately respond, he nudges my hand with his wet nose.
"You're as stubborn as your mama, you know that?" The words come out gruffer than intended, but Biscotti just wags his tail, unperturbed by my tone. That's the thing about dogs—they don't care about the politics, the power plays, the masks we wear.
Despite myself, I pick up the dinosaur. One squeeze, and its ridiculous squeak echoes through my office. Biscotti's entire body wags with excitement.
Five minutes, I tell myself. Five minutes to play with my dog before returning to being Don Fera.
The toy goes flying across the room, and Biscotti tears after it, his nails scrabbling on the wooden floor. He brings it back, dropping it in my lap with such pride you'd think he'd just solved all my problems.
"At least someone around here is happy," I tell him, scratching behind his ears. "Though between you and me, cane, this ambush we’re planning? It stinks worse than your breath."
Biscotti tilts his head, those loyal eyes fixed on mine like he understands every word.
"Yeah, I know. Your mama would say I'm being paranoid." I throw the toy again, watching him bound after it. "But something's not right. I can feel it in my bones."
The dinosaur returns to my lap, slightly soggier than before. This time, I just hold it, lost in thought, as Biscotti rests his head on my knee.
At least someone in this family still believes I know what I'm doing.
That makes one of us.