4. Cassio
Arabella Moretti, beloved daughter, and loving sister the simple tombstone read. Bella wasn’t the kind of girl for flashy things or grand gestures. She had been a simple girl in a world of diamonds and gold. She had been offered a silver spoon but would have rather eaten with a wooden one.
That had been Bella, my little sister.
Soft patters of rain landed on my coat. It was an ugly, depressing day. The bouquet of flowers I had left for her would soon become drenched with rain. What had caught my eye when I arrived this morning, was that a fresh bouquet of white tulips had been placed at my sister’s tombstone.
Tulips.
I knew only one person with an obsession with tulips, one person who would go to the greatest lengths to find them even though they were not in season. I tried to push thoughts of her out of my head but waging war with myself was futile. So, I had been torturing myself with visions of Francesca Manci for the past week—no reprieve.
Night after night I placed my head on my pillow only to be invaded with golden blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and the sweet scent of cherries. It left my mouth watering and my dick hard as a fucking stone. Not even Claire, my usual booty call was able to soothe my needs.
Once.
All it took was seeing her once again and my body was already acting like a teenager after discovering his dick served for other purposes other than pissing. It was pathetic and not to mention unnecessary. Francesca had no place in my head, not even to annoy the fuck out of me with that tight mini dress.
Fuck. Me.
It had left nothing to the imagination, it had hugged her body in all the right places. She was nineteen the last time I saw her, and you could already see traces of the woman she was becoming, but holy devil.
The woman was a temptation.
She was the most delicious of sins, and I wanted to commit it over and over again. Soft curves, which demanded to be grabbed by my hands. Wide hips that would look incredible straddling mine. Round breasts that would taste exquisite and mile-long legs that have no trouble wrapping around my waist as I pounded?—
“Fuck.” I pinched my nose and looked at my shoes, anywhere but the tombstone before me, feeling a bout of shame.
Bella and Francesca had been close friends and that’s actually how I met Francesca, through my little sister. When Francesca and I started dating in secret, she had wanted to tell Bella. I was the idiot who told her not to. I was scared, terrified even. Back then, Francesca was already promised to Paolo. Their engagement was set, she even had his ring on her delicate finger.
Francesca didn’t want him. She had only met Paolo twice before being offered to him like cattle in a market. We were supposed to have been friends and nothing more, not even that…acquaintances at best. But then, how could Istay away from her?
Meeting Francesca was like meeting an angel after living in the darkness of Hell for centuries. She was the light at the end of a long endless tunnel. The bright light in my cold, dark world.
“What am I going to do, Bellissima?” I tapped my shoe on the floor.
The silence that followed was like a knife to the gut. I didn’t know why I insisted on coming here every week. My father used to say it was a form of obsession. My brother Vitelli said it was a form of grief. I disagreed. It was guilt, plain and simple.
Still is.
I sighed as my phone chimed, the incoming messages a sign it was going to be a busy day. There were no off days in the Mafia, especially not for a young Capo who was being watched by vultures ready to pick off my carcass the moment I fell. That was not going to happen—unfortunately for them.
The drive to one of my newest clubs took me slightly more than the usual twenty minutes. Pearl Jam blasted on the radio, and while alone, I allowed myself to fully enjoy the music, singing along to vent some of the upcoming stress.
The club, Posh, was empty save for the cleaners and the staff who were getting it ready for the night. I made my way up to my office on the second floor, shut the door with my foot, and then headed toward my desk, which sat before a massive floor-to-ceiling window that offered me a view of the club downstairs.
I took my seat and opened my drawer, picking up one of my favorite knives. I wasn’t a knife kind of man, but this one in particular was special because of the person it was going to kill. Grigori Petrovich, Pakhan of the Russian Bratva and my sister’s murderer.
I had been saving this blade for this job for four years now, waiting and planning how I was going to savor every moment of stabbing it into his heart. Offering no mercy. Only pain. Like he’d done with my sister. Stabbing her in the gut and leaving her there in the living room to bleed out. So, we could find her later on.
I could still remember the sight, the blood seeping onto the marble floor, painting it red. Her cries, the unrelenting fear in her eyes, the tremor in her hands, and finally, the empty gaze in her eyes, which were once filled with so much warmth.
I swallowed hard while gripping the knife, and closed my eyes, imagining Grigori’s face and his own dead eyes when I killed him.
How sweet it would be.
It was a ritual of sorts. Every day, like a prayer I would stare at that knife and imagine the man I’d kill with it. A promise. A vow. Something to keep me going when the days grew long and cold. Even I, used to living in the dark, had days I felt lost. So, my promise to Bella was all I had left. My need for vengeance was stronger than the need for my next breath. Killing Grigori and his ilk was the reason God had put me on this earth.
The war with the Bratva might have started before I was even born, but my father was never ruthless, or cruel. He hadn’t been strong enough to end them. My father didn’t have the right motivation, as I had now. His untimely death due to a speeding accident made an impact on the Outfit, especially me. Now I was left to clean up his mess and deal with this shit.
I unlocked my phone again and ended up on the same gossip site from yesterday, only to be bombarded with a picture of Francesca and her late husband at a charity gala. I had done a thorough search of her this past week, mostly to scratch an itch. I had no idea why since I had no intentions of seeing her again.
After learning what I did, that Paolo Biancini mistreated Francesca, and allowed her to use drugs, all I wanted to do was kill him all over again. Torture Francesca’s late husband for days, making sure he paid for what he did to her.
Paolo had been known to have a foot on the wild side. He ran my drug empire in Indianapolis, overseeing it for me. No wonder she had easy access to it. That didn’t mean she should have. Francesca, as his wife and the wife of a Mafiosi, should have been protected from the darker aspects of our life.
Except from what I’ve heard, respect was the last thing she was given. The rumors I’d heard were that Francesca was nothing more than his trophy wife, placed high up on the shelf to collect dust while he fucked his mistresses. When he needed Francesca, he’d take her out and polish her until she looked like he desired.
No wonder I didn’t recognize her that night. Something about her had been off, I simply couldn’t decide whether Paolo Biancini managed to truly change her or if she was wearing a mask. An armor to protect herself. Neither of those options sat well with me.
Why would you care?Francesca was none of my business, not anymore. Perhaps, if I was being honest, she never had been. She had always belonged to someone else, even in the past when we dated in secret. She had been promised to another—I was the one who wanted a taste of the forbidden fruit. But I wanted what I wanted, and a Moretti always got what he desired one way or the other.
I’ve heard that repeating the same thing over and over again helped with making it sound truer. So that’s what I did. I told myself that I didn’t care about Francesca. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My eyes closed, and I pinched my nose. When the traitorous thought was gone, I stood and headed toward my liquor cabinet, it was early and I didn’t drink, not anymore, not since after Arabella’s death. I filled a tumbler with water and used it to wash away the guilt that had lodged in my throat like a boulder.
You broke things off and let her go. You made your bed so now sleep in it.
I spied the bottles still full of liquor and imagined how easy it would be to wash it all away. A few sips, and I could bleach out the sour taste in my mouth. Except I had made a promise. To Bella. To me. To the Outfit.
After my father’s death, someone needed to take over, and a grieving, drunkard had no place at the head of the Mafia. I stopped drinking and cleared my head, promising to never drink again. And for four years I didn’t.
The ringing of my phone interrupted my thoughts, offering me a much-needed reprieve. “My office now,” I hissed, ended the call, and threw my phone on the desk.
Today looked like one of those days that seemed too long and too damned annoying to survive with a clear head. But alas, here I was. The crown may sit heavily upon my head, but I had been groomed for this my entire life. If it were easy, any man would be doing it.
I sat in my chair again and waited, knife in hand. When the door creaked open and my brother’s head peeked through, the blade went flying. “I called you three times,” I snapped, running my thumb under my lips. The blade wobbled when my brother took it from where it had been embedded in the doorframe and held it closed. “If I wanted you dead, you would be—now sit down.”
“You’re in a peachy mood today. Is it Claire again? I told you to find someone else to put your little friend in,” Vitelli grinned. “One of these days she’s going to beg for you to put a ring on that finger.”
“As if,” I scoffed. Claire was nothing but a booty call, someone I fucked when the need arose. She knew that I knew that. Case solved. No ring on that finger—ever. “First, there is nothing little about me, and second, I called you thrice, Vitelli. Thrice.”Vitelli was still grinning like a cat who had his fill of cream. “Why the fuck are you smiling, your mood is making me nauseous.”
Vitelli set the knife on my desk and ran his fingers through his bedhead hair. Indicating he had just woken up, and by the wrinkles on his shirt and the marks on his neck, he hadn’t been alone. I sighed inwardly; when was he going to grow up?
“My apologies for insulting your manhood, brother?—”
“Where were you? When your boss calls, I expect you to answer it, immediately.”
“Even if I am inside someone?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and seriously thought about using that blade on him. “Vitelli, how much do you enjoy keeping your neck attached to your head?”
“Okay… noted, next time I’ll answer. What’s so urgent you had me come in here so early on a Friday morning?”
“Romeo Ferraro has contacted me,” I said simply, but the reaction on my brother’s face had mirrored my own when I received the call last night.
“Romeo fucking Ferraro? Il Diavolo?”
I scoffed at the name. Devil my ass, the man was flesh and blood like all of us. The only difference was that there were insane men, and then there were men like Romeo Ferraro. He had made a name for himself by killing for the first time at the age of nine, and also his father and most of his underbosses. He’d taken control of New York in less than a few months and was now the undisputed Capo of the Cosa Nostra.
“When?” There was excitement in my brother’s eyes but also apprehension.
“Yesterday,” I answered, leaning back into my seat pretending to possess a calm I did not have. “He wants to set up a meeting. To discuss matters.”
“Matters? What could we have to discuss with him?” Vitelli sneered. “The man is deranged. Killed all his men.”
“His father’s men,” I reminded him. “Ferraro has been having problems with the Russians as well, perhaps he finally sees reason and decided to ask for my help.”
Vitelli scoffed. “A man like him does not ask for help, Cassio.”
“Neither do I.” But alas, here I was, agreeing to a meeting with a man I never thought I would talk to—ever.
The Outfit and the Famiglia had never seen eye to eye. A few years back, a war between both Mafias had started thanks to a bloody wedding. No one knew who shot first, but in the end, five people had died. Romeo having killed two of them himself.
Peace between New York and Chicago hadn’t been something I would have imagined, but despite his shortcomings and infamy, Romeo seemed like a man whom I could deal with. I would rather sit with real monsters than men who hid behind masks.
“There is something else.” I tapped my fingers over the table. “Another one of our cargos has been stolen by the Russians, more than the last time.”
“How did they know we were transporting it?” Vitelli said and stood up heading towards the liquor cabinet, opened a bottle, and served himself two fingers of Scotch. I didn’t bother telling him it was ten in the morning.
“Luciano managed to question one of the culprits.”
“What did he say?” Vitelli closed the cork and sipped.
“That our theory about having a spy in our midst is correct. The Russians are receiving info from a man calling himself Volpe.”
“The fox,” Vitelli chuckled. “Doesn’t exactly inspire fear.”
“Foxes are one of the most cunning animals in the world. Apparently, this spy is one egotistical fucker.” I ran my thumb under my lips growing frustrated.
“Should we warn the Commission?”
I had pondered it before, but no, telling the rest of my underbosses would only create unnecessary chaos. “Let Luciano deal with it, for now.”
As my enforcer, it was his job, he had eyes and ears in every corner of this city. Not to mention his other skills inside the questioning cell. If anyone could help me find who this Volpe was, it had to be Luciano.
“Will you warn Donato Manci?”
“No.” The word slipped out effortlessly from my lips. “This stays between us.”
Donato Manci, Francesca’s father, had been my consigliere for the past four years. He had also been my father’s, before his untimely death. The title was a decorative one at best. Everyone knew my true consigliere was Vitelli, but for appearances sake, and peace amongst my men, Donato was the one who played the part.
Unfortunately, I still needed him to maintain the bridge between the younger generations and the old traditionalist one—which Donato ruled over. Despite hating his guts and wishing I could use them to hang him, I needed the fucker and the support he offered me.
“We should just kill him and get this over with.”
“Then what, I start a civil war? What do you think his supporters will do when I end him? I’m not Romeo Ferraro, I don’t kill my own.”
I had a bullet with Donato’s name carved on it, and he had an expiration date, all I needed was a cause and a good enough reason to use it. Except the man was loyal to a fault and had never given me any doubt as to where his allegiances lay. He might not like me much either, but we had both learned to live in the same cage together—like two hungry lions.
“He will kill us, mark my words, brother,” Vitelli pointed out somberly.
I had thought that, too, once, but Donato had lost his chance when I was weak and grieving. After my father’s death—a few months after my sister’s—Donato could have taken control of the Outfit. Risen above me and taken the crown and put it on his own head. He had had enough support to do so, but he never did. Instead, he followed me, he stood at my back and watched as I took control. If he wanted me dead, he would have done something already.
My brother and I sat for another hour discussing our future meeting with the New York Capo, as well as the growing problem with the Russians. While we talked, a nagging feeling at the back of my head wouldn’t leave me alone.
“Did we ever catch the man who killed Paolo Biancini?” Vitelli frowned at my sudden change in subject.
“No,” he said. “The assassin left no traces behind. We think he was a mercenary. Paolo’s heart attack was legit, caused by poisoning.”
“Aconite.” I supplied the name of the poison that truly killed him. “Does anyone know?”
Vitelli shook his head. “We cleared the files and made sure no one would talk.” That meant the files were torched and those who knew, now lay six feet under.
“Why would someone kill an old man?” I wondered aloud.
“Because he wasn’t that old and was still strong as a horse. Someone wanted to speed up the process.” Vitelli tapped the rim of his scotch which now sat untouched.
Someone who would gain a lot from killing the richest man in the Outfit. Most of his profit was redirected to our coffers, since he left no male heirs behind, but I was sure somewhere along the line, some of that money went somewhere else.
“Did we look into it?”
“Not really.” Vitelli shrugged. “As I recall, you told me to let it die.”
I recall now saying those words, but I had always held a grudge with the man, albeit unbeknownst to him. He had what I most wanted and couldn’t have. The only reason he was on my mind was because of Francesca, and honestly, I wouldn’t have cared about that idiot if it wasn’t for her.
“Why are you thinking about that old fart right now?” Vitelli inquired.
“The shit you say makes me wonder if I punched you too hard when we were children.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Someone has to think about these things.” I answered him.
“Do you want me to investigate it?” Vitelli asked as if this was the last thing he wanted to do.
I tapped my fingers against the table and took a deep breath. Was it worth opening that Pandora’s box right now? With so much going on, did I really need one more problem to deal with?
Francesca’s dilated pupils and a hazy gaze came to mind. Her nausea and messy appearance. Like she didn’t give two fucks about what she was doing. As if she didn’t care about anything or anyone, especially not herself. Seeing her in that cell, sitting on the floor like a fallen angel, had struck something within me. Thoughts that wouldn’t be so easily replaced.
“Yes,” I finally answered, both ashamed that I was doing so, and eager to find out more on the subject.
Vitelli nodded, drained the rest of his Scotch, and set the cup down. He made to leave but stopped halfway and turned again to face me. I could see it in his features that he had something to say, it was practically spilling from his mouth, yet he kept silent.
“I don’t have all day, Vitelli, so spit it out.”
“What are you doing next Friday night?” he asked.
“Working as I always am.” Which was not a surprise.
“I…” He paused and looked at the ceiling. It was not like my brother to forget his words.
“You.”
“I met someone, she’s throwing a small party Friday and I want you to come.” He finally spilled the words without stopping to breathe.
My eyes lingered on my brother, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “You met someone?”
He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw but nodded. “I’ve been seeing her for weeks now. Three to be specific.”
That caught my attention, Vitelli didn’t see women, he fucked, then left. I couldn’t remember the last time he had been with the same woman twice. That’s because it never happened. “You?”
“Yes, Cassio? Why is it so hard to believe?”
“Because you are always on my ass to find someone to fuck other than Claire, and here you are, telling me you met someone.”
He looked at me in exasperation, knowing I had caught him. “She’s different, Cassio.” His eyes fucking twinkled when he said those words. “One night, it’s all that I ask.” One night. Could I escape my problems for one night?
“Your problems will still be here in the morning,” Vitelli said, reading my mind. “Just come.”
“No.” The word slipped from my lips before I had a chance to truly process my brother’s request.
“Cassio.” It sounded awfully like a plea, and I stared at my brother as he sat up straighter in his chair. He seemed… awkward. Vitelli was nervous. “Everyone will be there, and I would like you to meet her, too. She’s nice.”
“Good for her.”
“Can’t you for fucking once do something for me?”
“I do it every day, Vitelli. I keep your ass from getting killed. I keep the streets you walk safe, and I keep the money in our bank accounts flowing.”
“Fuck, Cassio.” He shot from his chair and paced. I watched the scene before me in confusion. “I…like her.”
“You like fucking women, Vitelli; you don’t like them in particular.” That caused him to stop and clenched his fists. I hadn’t seen that kind of anger in my brother’s eyes in a long time.
“She’s different. I really like her. I have been seeing her for three weeks now. Almost a fucking month, Cassio. I didn’t know it was fucking possible.”
My brother sounded awfully stunned by his confession as he took a deep breath and plopped himself into the chair again. “It’s one night.”
One night. A lot of things could happen in one night. Distractions allowed for errors, and errors allowed for problems.
Fuck it.
“Text me the address,” I said and raised my finger. “For a few hours, nothing more.”
Vitelli tried to hide his grin but failed. “Yes, Boss.”