11. Dante
Dante
For the Argentos, family and tradition are intrinsically tied together and impossible to separate. For as long as I can remember, my brother and I have dedicated Sunday mornings for brunch and business discussions at my father’s townhouse.
Giovanni Argento’s home isn’t far from mine. His historical limestone mansion in Carnegie Hill is designed in the Beaux-Arts style, with soaring ten-foot coffered ceilings, sparkling marble floors, and intricate mahogany molding.
While my own residence has one elevator, Papà’s has three.
Mamma decorated the place with carefully curated art, and photos of our family adorn nearly every wall.
The décor is more personal than my home, the furniture worn and dated because Papà refused to change anything after she died.
Traipsing through the halls to the courtyard out back is like entering a time capsule of more joyful moments, my mother’s laughter a haunting echo around every corner.
A museum where every exhibit tells the same story.
One of a man who lost something precious.
Outside, Marco and Giovanni are already waiting.
As soon as I join them in the backyard, I feel as if I’ve been transported to another world.
When I was seven, my mother and I planted those hydrangeas together.
Marco’s tree swing once hung from that tall, lush apple tree in the corner of the yard.
Mamma loved gardening, not because she had a green thumb—she did not— but because she found the associated tasks simple and relaxing. Normal.
As we grew up, she was determined to give us normal.
To show us what life outside of the mafia could be like, even though she knew nothing about it beyond her own imagination.
I wonder sometimes if she regretted running away with my father, or if love made her brave enough to dream of freedom in the first place.
If my parents had loved one another less, they would have been happier, but I would never say as much out loud.
“Took you long enough.”
I glare at Marco as I drop into the seat next to him, and he grins.
Little shit.
Exuding his familiar, spicy mix of smoke and aged vanilla, my brother lounges carelessly.
Great. He’s been day drinking again. Papà refrains from commenting, but he won’t look at Marco either.
If this gathering is anything like the last two times my brother showed up tipsy, they won’t speak much.
Our father wants Marco to step up and shoulder more responsibility as capo, but Marco balks at every opportunity.
As a result, the two butt heads whenever they’re in a room together. Today’s silent treatment demonstrates a marked improvement over their usual bickering.
The area around the iron table easily fits four, though the fourth spot always remains empty. A silent tribute to our mother at Giovanni’s insistence. As the official head of the Argento family, even if it is in name only these days, my father gets what he wants.
At sixty years old, Papà’s only just starting to show his age.
His sable hair has more gray than ever before, though his hazel eyes are as sharp as ever.
The muscle that once made him such an imposing figure has deteriorated over the years, and with his broad shoulders and thick midsection, he reminds me of a retired linebacker.
One of my earliest memories of my father is of him lifting up Marco and me and swinging us through the air.
The harsh angles of his face have softened, too, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth hint at a lifetime of grief and joy.
“Leave your brother alone.” Giovanni pounds his cane on the brick patio. “You’re only here because you passed out in the guest room last night.”
The recrimination in the gaze he levels at Marco steals some of the light from my brother’s eyes.
“Ma Dai, Papà.” Marco’s previous satisfaction is long gone. “You know I’ve never missed Sunday brunch.”
I fold my arms across my chest, not even bothering to lower my voice. “Not from lack of trying.”
Marco rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Dante.”
“Basta.” Giovanni glares at us, and, ever obedient, we fall silent. The fire in him retreats as fast as it appeared, and he slumps in his chair, rubbing his knee where a bullet at point-blank range stole away his ability to walk without pain. “Tell me what’s been going on.”
Our weekly meetings are just as much about business as they are about family. The metal roof of the canopy we’re sitting under uses structural transducers to vibrate the panels with white noise, while the water splashing in the fountain near the orchids throws another wrench into eavesdropping.
I’m sure when Mamma designed the garden, she wasn’t fantasizing about foliage acting as cover for prying eyes, but the Argento men are nothing if not resourceful.
Marco and I spend the next hour updating our father on all the family businesses, both mafia and otherwise.
As I’ve picked up more and more responsibility each year, the majority of the operations have fallen to me.
I offer Giovanni weekly reports so he can give his stamp of approval, but it’s all performative.
Giovanni hasn’t cared about being the boss for a long time.
As Marco goes over some numbers, my mind wanders. Sara picked at her skin again this morning. Worse than the day before. She kept her back to the camera, but her surreptitious mannerisms provided all the information I needed.
How many times has she done this? I bite into the French toast that Gio’s cook prepared, but the syrupy-cinnamon flavor tastes like ash. Why should I care if she’s hurting herself? I should revel in the knowledge that she’s suffering even a fraction of what I suffered, but I don’t.
My softness will be the death of me unless I fix it. If Luca hadn’t helped me put on that little show Friday night for the Council soldiers hidden among the guests, the others would have sensed my hesitation and barely concealed yearning. Especially with the way she looked bent over on the table.
In my world, showing weakness is like spilling blood in shark-infested waters. Once the other predators get a whiff, their first instinct is to close in for the kill. Papà taps his cane, returning me to the present. “Doesn’t SilverTech have an investor’s meeting next week?”
She’s getting too skinny. When she sat in my lap Friday night, she barely weighed anything at all.
The memory of her writhing on me brings to mind other things.
Like how her pussy gripped my fingers as if she never wanted to let them go.
All I could think of, then and now, was unzipping my pants and sliding her down the length of my cock.
I can still fantasize about how good she’d feel, how wet and tight.
Fuck.
“Dante.” Gio scowls, frustrated with having to demand my attention, and I reach for my champagne flute before swallowing down my father’s expensive imported Krug Clos d’Ambonnay to bring me back to the here and now.
Setting the glass back down with a clink on the iron table, I clear my throat. “Sorry, I missed that. What were you saying?”
Marco smirks at me from across the table before downing his own bubbly in two gulps.
The fucker knows exactly where my head is and for a sweet, brief moment, I imagine launching myself across the table and beating the shit out of him.
The look on my face must communicate that urge.
In the next heartbeat, his ridiculous expression falls as he reaches for a refill.
Papà shakes his head, exhaustion sapping the strength from him and causing his frown to die slowly. “It’s not important.” He stares at his hands. “I visited your mother yesterday.”
My stomach tightens at the mention of her, and I push my plate aside. “Oh?”
This is nothing new. Giovanni visits our family crypt at Trinity Church in Uptown once a week like clockwork. It would honestly be stranger if he didn’t go. A visit is always accompanied by the same request.
“You should come with me next time.”
Why? So I can watch you hover over her grave like a wraith?
Ashamed by the thought, I’m grateful—not for the first time—that Sara betrayed me before I could become just like my father. I give the same answer I always do, even though we both know I don’t mean it.
“Yes, sir.”
He dips his chin, content to let the topic drop.
Maybe he realizes the pointlessness of dragging it out.
We discuss SilverTech for a few minutes and then shift into Marco’s Swarmer profits before the conversation fizzles into thick silence.
Giovanni leans back in his chair. Despite our empty plates, none of us get to our feet just yet.
Papà wipes the edge of his face with his napkin before setting it aside. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I eye my father as I mull over my response. “I think there’s a mole in the garden.”
Outwardly, Marco and Giovanni don’t react, but their eyes sharpen in a way that hints at the violence we all understand too well. This is the real business we came to discuss, and the gentle, upper-crust widower and his sons vanish as though we never existed.
“You sure?”
I don’t have to say anything. My silence speaks volumes.
The Council knows I saw Sara at the hospital before I even walked in the room, and no matter what Luca and I do, the Ghost always stays three steps ahead of us.
Luca’s the best tracker in the business.
No one outmaneuvers him unless they know he’s coming.
On top of that, I suspect that this same rat also told my captors where to find Sara five years ago.
There are just too many synchronicities, too many ducks falling into a perfect row for it not to be true.
Someone’s been watching me this entire time and selling intel to the highest bidder.
Why, I have no idea, but I plan on obtaining that information, even if it means breaking every bone in their body before I kill them. Once I find them, that is.