Chapter 17
Ruin
THE MAESTRO | Past
How can someone attack him in his goddamn house? Where was the fucking security?”
I sit at the head of the table because no one else dared to. Not even while my Father still breathed.
Not even while the old bastard lay in a hospital bed with tubes shoved down his throat, a catheter between his legs, and half his body dead because I made damn sure my bullets kissed his kidneys before tearing through flesh.
He is alive.
Unfortunately.
But breathing and living are two different things. He will never walk again.
Or fuck again.
That alone almost makes me smile.
I roll my cufflinks. Thirteen of Italy’s most powerful men avoid my eyes.
Cowards.
Every last one of them.
Except the oldest of the dons. Vane fucking Davenport.
So, when I lean back in my chair and cross one ankle over my knee, Vane gives me that knowing smile.
Like the bastard I am, I smile back.
“That…” I muse, almost politely. “…is a beautiful question.”
I look around the table. One by one.
Watching them squirm.
None of them dares to go against me. Well, some of them must suspect I tried to kill my own fucking Father, but that’s all it is, an idea, and nothing more.
And notions don’t mean shit in this business.
“Perhaps,” I continue despite Vane glaring down, “you should ask the men who were on duty that night.”
“They’re… dead.”
I tilt my head.
“Exactly.”
A pulse jumps in Don Ricci’s throat. He’s old, barely able to walk without the help of his damn guards, but he’s smart too.
But he’s not much of a threat to me. He’ll die either way. This Syndicate will rot. Vane fucking Davenport will have no say in this matter as long as I am the last living heir of the Cosa Nostra.
None of them is thick-skulled.
One looks down at his glass. Another finds the marble floor fascinating.
I tap my fingers once against the armrest.
“Which means,” I susurrate, “either someone inside betrayed us…” I pause, let it breathe, and paranoia sinks its claws in. “…or someone powerful enough to walk through Vitale security exists.”
No one speaks.
Because both answers end in blood.
And everyone in this room knows exactly who spills the blood best.
Me.
“But Elio Vitale is alive.” Vane intervenes.
I don’t know what that bastard wants, except maybe to test how far he can push me with that ugly face and that damn nerve of his. He might be the most infuriating Motherfucker I’ve ever met.
“And as his eldest son…” My ring clicks against the table. “…until further notice, I speak for this family and the Cosa Nostra.”
There are no objections.
An objection requires courage.
And courage tends to disappear around me.
Except another Motherfucker. Massimo Bianchi. The bastard sits across from me like he owns the fucking country.
Because in many ways… he does.
He folds his hands over his knee.
“Temporary authority,” he mutters with the same calmness as me. “Italy still answers to me, Vitale.”
I stare at him. “Do they now?”
Massimo’s jaw ticks, but I ignore his tactics to fuel me and focus on the matter at hand.
“Three days from now…” My voice echoes. “The wedding proceeds.”
Three days.
Three fucking days until the wedding. Crystella will become my wife.
My Father getting shot changes nothing.
If anything, it speeds things up.
I button my jacket, staring straight at Ricci’s eyes. “If anyone here has a problem…” I shift my attention directly at Massimo. Then smile wider. “…speak now.”
“And what about revenge?” Vane interrupts.
Every pair of eyes shifts between us.
Cowards always love front row seats to executions.
Vane tilts his head. “Will the great Zagreus Vitale not avenge his Father?”
Ah, there it is.
This isn’t even politics.
But an old bastard poking a starving wolf with a cane just to see if it still bites.
My thumb brushes over the cold metal of my ring. I look down at it for a second.
Mostly because looking at Vane too long makes me curious how difficult it will be to remove a man’s spine through his mouth.
Probably messy. Probably worth it.
“Of course.” I shrug. “Did you think I’d send flowers?”
One idiot coughs into his fist to hide a laugh.
Brave. Suicidal.
The same thing in this room.
Vane’s eyes narrow just enough for me to enjoy it. “Then I assume,” he croons, “blood will answer blood.”
“It usually does.”
What I don’t say…
Especially when I’m the one who spilled it.
Minor detail.
Family matter.
None of their fucking business.
Vane nods slowly. Like we understand each other. We don’t. I understand chess better.
He thinks we are playing it.
I am just deciding which piece to set on fire first.
“Very well.” His lips curl. “Oh and…” His gaze sweeps the room.
“As we’re speaking of weddings…” My fists curl, knowing wherever this conversation is going will lead to a bloodbath.
“I’d also like everyone present to know…
” Vane sets his glass down. “My son will be marrying Visconti’s daughter next month. ”
Ah.
There it is.
There’s the knife.
Not aimed at my throat.
But close enough to feel the cold.
Davenport. Visconti. Bianchi.
Three old bloodlines. Three houses. Three problems.
And all of them are interested in weddings. How romantic. I smile.
Because when I don’t smile, people tend to die.
Actually, people tend to die either way.
My hand drifts under the table. Rests on the grip of my gun.
I imagine it. One shot to Vane’s kneecap. One to Massimo’s throat. Maybe Ricci too, just because he looks nervous and I hate nervous people.
I inhale because, apparently, murdering half of Italy’s aristocracy during a leadership meeting was considered “bad optics.”
Ridiculous. I release the breath through my nose, smiling wider.
“Congratulations.”
My voice comes out warm. Almost sincere.
It frightens them more.
“And your son,” I pause and tilt my head, “does he know?”
Vane frowns. “Know what?”
“That accidents happen all the time.”
Vane Davenport’s jaw hardens. His fingers tighten around his glass.
“Are you threatening me, boy?” Boy.
Because apparently prison is full, and I am trying very hard not to create more vacancies.
I shrug.
My hand slips beneath the table. Thirteen men stop breathing as I wrap my fingers around my gun, pull it free, and slide it back into the holster beneath my jacket.
“Why would I threaten you?”
The men pretend they aren’t one wrong sentence away from becoming wall art.
“If I wanted you dead…” Watch Vane’s pulse jump. “…you’d already be buried.”
I turn and walk out.
Because leaving a room alive scares people more than shooting it up.
Funny how that works.
The balcony doors shut behind me with a heavy click. I exhale hard.
Fuck this world.
I reach into my pocket. Pull out a cigarette. Put it between my lips. Then check the other pocket.
Nothing.
I stare at the cigarette.
Then at the sky. Then at the cigarette again.
Leaning against the stone railing, I look down at the city sprawl beneath me like a kingdom I never particularly wanted.
Italy.
Beautiful.
Corrupt.
Bleeding.
Mine… whether or not I like it. I bend slightly over the balcony. Click.
A flame flickers inches from my face. I freeze.
My hands go to my holster. I look sideways.
Massimo Bianchi stands beside me. Like he’s always been there. Some kinds of old devils don’t need permission to appear. Colder eyes. Crooked grin.
I stare at him for a long second. Then lean in and light the cigarette. Take a drag, letting it burn my insides, and exhale slowly.
Massimo keeps his lighter open. Watching the city along with me.
“The woman I was supposed to marry…” He shuts the lighter with a flick. “…ran away last year.”
I turn my head and take another drag. “Smart girl.”
“Foolish more than smart.”
I smirk as smoke curls between us. “Depends.”
Massimo glances at me. “On what?”
I look back at the city, at the lights and the shadows that come with it.
At all the places bodies could disappear. “On what she was running from.”
That wipes the amusement off his face. I take another drag. Strangely liking the smoke. And for the first time tonight, the silence between us doesn’t feel political.
It feels personal.
“Didn’t know you smoke,” I mutter as Massimo leans against the railing beside me.
Close enough to be disrespectful. Far enough not to get stabbed.
“I don’t,” he says.
I glance at him. “Then why the lighter?”
Massimo looks at the skyline. “At some point…” His voice drops. “…you stop carrying things for yourself.”
I whisper into the darkness. “And start carrying them for ghosts?”
He looks at me. “Something like that.”
Interesting.
Dangerous.
I hate the interesting part, though. I flick ash over the balcony and study him properly.
Massimo is young, my age. Maybe a little younger. But still as dangerous.
Still rich.
Still powerful enough that half of Italy will bend the knee without realizing they are kneeling. He’s a charmer. He can talk anyone into any deal. Except for what he just told me.
And worst of all, he knows it.
“I’ll give you Italy’s throne.”
I stare at him and speak. “I already have it.”
“No.” He looks down at the city. “You have fear.”
When his gaze meets mine again, I see a fire that matches my own.
“Fear is lurid.” A pause. “Power…” His mouth flattens. “…is silent. It’s inevitable.”
I hate when people sound intelligent. Makes murder feel less satisfying.
“What do you want?”
“Help me find someone.”
“The woman who ran?”
He nods. “The woman I was supposed to marry.”
I bark a laugh. Maybe I am concussed. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Massimo’s expression doesn’t change. “Because you need the underworld.”
I say nothing.
So he continues. “Even if you kill Vane Davenport…” A pause. “…your Father…” Another. “…or even Ricci…” He shrugs. “Bloodshed won’t give you what you want.”
Smoke curls from my lips. “And what makes you think…” My voice drops. “…you know what I want?”
“Because I know what it feels like.” His eyes darken. “To watch the woman you love…” He looks toward the horizon. “…walk away.”
“Love?” I spit the word like poison.
I crush the cigarette against the stone railing. Watch the embers die.
“She’ll be mine either way,” I say after a while. Because there’s no lie in that. Selene will be mine. I’ve shot my Father for her, so it will be a bare minimum if I burn those who mean her harm.
Massimo’s eyes shift to me.
He still thinks we are talking about the same thing. I turn and walk to the door, feeling every inch of me on fire, ’cause, fuck, he’s right and I hate to let him know that.
If he thinks what I have for Selene is obsession or possession of some kind, or probably a sickness carved into my ribs by a pretty mouth and soft fucking eyes, it’s not.
It’s worse.
By the time I reach the door, the familiar rot is already spreading beneath my skin. It’s similar to whenever she isn’t near me.
Dangerously violent and pathetically terminal. My Dolcezza.
“You’re fucked,” Massimo’s voice follows me, and I stop.
A humorless laugh tears out of me.
“You think I don’t know that?” I grip the handle tighter.
Because the truth is as ugly as everything.
I’ve put bullets between men’s eyes and slept like a baby after. I’ve burned families to ash for crossing me, watched grown men beg at my feet while choking on their own blood.
None of it ever makes my hands shake, but she walks out of my office, and I can’t fucking breathe right.
“Once you have Italy’s throne, backed by Bianchi Clan, power is yours. Your woman will be safe.” His words have that coaxing power. And I hate to admit it’s working. “Vane won’t exist, and your enemies will know their place.”
“Like I said, she’ll be mine either way. And if someone dares to take her from me,” I say quietly, “there won’t be enough power in Italy to save him.”
“Why complicate things, when all you have to do is sit and watch.”
He’s baiting me.
Fucking bastard.
I look over my shoulder. He looks deceptive enough, but if he believes only I can find that woman, there must be something, or probably someone being a nuisance to him.
I’d love to shake hands with that person.
Coming to think of it, I might have an idea.
“But…” I smile wider. “If you can arrange a meeting with Judas Romanovski.”
Massimo’s jaw clenches as I say. “I might re-consider.”