31. ANTONIO
What a fucking shitshow this was.
Alfonso: dead
His wife: dead
Five Venezuelans: dead
Ricci: dead
I throw the whiskey back, revel in the burn down my throat, and hold the empty glass out to Vito to fill it up again. As if the devil is in high gear today, my phone rings.
"Don Edoardo," I answer. My eyes meet Vito’s; neither of us bears the bastard any love. “What did I do to deserve the honor of you calling me?" My voice is dripping with sarcasm, and I'm sure Edoardo hears it, too.
"Don't play coy, DeLuna. Why is Matías calling and cursing me?" Edoardo's voice sounds over the speaker. Vito arches a brow in mock surprise over Edoardo, almost sounding like a Don.
"Why don't you ask the fucking Venezuelans why they kidnapped and tortured my accountant and his wife?" I don't even try to keep the disgust from my voice.
"Your accountant?"
"My fucking accountant, yes," I repeat, adding, just in case he's as stupid as I think he is, "the same guy who cooks our books. As in all our books. You might want to ask Matías how much information he got out of Alfonso while they raped and tortured his wife right in front of him."
"Shit, I?—"
I don't give him time to finish his sentence, "As the Don of this family, you should have a serious word with that asshole, before he either rats us out to the feds or hacks our accounts."
"You don't give me orders, DeLuna," Edoardo spits.
Vito mouths, uh oh you're in deep shit now . And I mime shooting him with my forefinger.
"I'm not giving you orders, Don Edoardo . I'm simply counseling you on what to do since you seem in dire need of it."
Now Vito raises his eyebrows and shakes his head while making a time-out motion with his hands, but I'm done playing games with the kid.
His lackluster leadership might cost all of us a lot of money.
I have no idea what information Matías got out of Alfonso, but right now, I have to assume the worst-case scenario, which means it's time for some serious damage control.
"I'll be back in two hours. Call the others; we need to meet," I say before I disconnect the call.
"Was that wise?" Vito asks.
"Probably not," I say, downing another three fingers of whiskey, "but it felt fucking good. That little fucking prick!"
Vito refills my glass. I run my hand through my hair, "Fuck!"
He nods, fully aware of the implications.
When we got there, Alfonso's wife was already dead, and Alfonso was as good as.
We killed five Venezuelans, including Ricci, slowly, but none of the fuckers talked, at least nothing that helped us.
I hated putting a bullet through Alfonso's head, but he wasn't of any further use to us as broken as he was.
Everybody would know soon enough that he sang; there was no way to keep him alive. It would send the wrong message.
At least it was quick for him.
For the others, not so much.
We mixed up their body parts and sent them to Matías; he could figure out which part belonged to whom or just burn the entire mess. I shrug, no sweat off my back. I have bigger problems right now.
As the family's money launderer, I have access to all kinds of sensitive financial information, and so did Alfonso. He didn't know names, thank fuck, every name in the books was encrypted, and only I have the key, but it still leaves a nice trail for anybody who decides to come sniffing.
The important thing right now is to get our money transferred.
The first thing I did while my soldiers cleaned up the bloody mess we left was send a text to all the family members, advising them to move their money into new accounts, which unfortunately will take days, since many are offshore accounts.
Nobody has asked what happened, yet. They know I will fill them in later.
"Where the hell am I going to find a new accountant?" I ask Vito, leaning back in my chair.
"Alfonso wasn't the only one. He was the head of a team, I'm sure?—"
I glare at Vito. I'm not an idiot like Edoardo. I know that Alfonso had a team. At least Vito has the good sense to shut up. "I'll talk to the team. Want me to do that after the meeting?"
"No," I stare into my empty glass. “Do it in the morning. I want you to head home, call Gigi, and make her come too. I want everything tight and locked up."
Vito tenses. "You're expecting trouble?"
"If it's not from the Venezuelans, it'll come from our family. I don't think they will take it too well that I compromised our financials."
I hired Alfonso, and I'm in charge of the books. No matter how I look at this, it comes back to me—my responsibility, my fault. And if I see it that way, the rest of the family sure as fuck will.
"Make sure Gigi and Scarlet are taken care of, and finish the deal with Carlos." I refill my glass.
Vito looks shaken. "You expect not to come back?"
I rub my chin, feeling incredibly tired. My only regret right now is that I can’t fuck Scarlet one more time.
"I don't expect anything; I'm taking precautions," I say. But deep down, I won't be surprised if I don’t walk out of that conference.
As we land, rain hammers against the rooftop, drowning the city in gray. The skyline is a blur, and the streets below are just a mass of moving shadows—the kind of night people disappear in.
Perfect fucking timing.
"Are you sure about this?" Vito leans out of the chopper. He has to yell for me to hear him over the rotors.
I don't answer him. As my second-in-command, he knows everything, even the shit with Grigori.
He will finish what I started. To keep my women safe, I need to face our Capo dei Capi and the other capos.
Resolutely, I make my way to the entrance, not waiting for the four bodyguards Vito sends with me.
I don't give a shit. If it makes him feel better, the poor bastards can die with me.
"Late as always," Edoardo sneers, swirling his whiskey like a smug old king on his throne. "Traffic again?"
I hold his gaze, keeping my expression flat and unreadable. For a second, I let him think he’s won. Then, slowly, I glance down at my blood-stained cuff, like I just remembered it was there.
Edoardo shifts slightly, just enough to tell me he caught that.
"Since you're late already, you should have changed," Edoardo gestures lazily. The same group from just a couple of days ago is assembled again. I meet their gazes, but can't quite ascertain if Edoardo has already filled them in.
"That's what work looks like." Enrico surprises me, leaning back in his chair as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. "You probably wouldn't know it if it hit you in the head."
"Enrico, enough," his father admonishes. Fabrizio's face is strained. I've never seen Enrico and his father in disagreement; they're as tight as my dad and I were.
"Where is Matías?" I glance around the room, pretending to search for someone I already know isn’t here.
Fabrizio Conti’s forehead creases. "Matías as in Matías Rivera?"
"I've already spoken to Matías and soothed the waves you created," Edoardo scoffs, "it wasn't easy."
I arch a brow and stare him down. He is the first to look away. That's right, asshole.
"Will someone fill us in on what the fuck is going on?" Carlos snaps.
I let the silence stretch, then shift my gaze to Edoardo. I want to see if he’ll do it. If he has the balls to say it himself. He flicks his fingers in irritation. "Go ahead, it’s your fuckup after all."
For a brief, satisfying moment, I picture grabbing his hand and cutting it off at the wrist. The vision calms me.
"Yesterday, Matías's Conquistadores snatched Alfonso Romano and his wife in broad daylight from their friends' house." I fill in the others, making sure to make eye contact with each of them, letting the weight of my words settle in.
"The fucking bookkeeper? You allowed the Venezuelans to take our bookkeeper?" Carlos’s voice is thick with undisguised glee, his chair creaking underneath his weight. He wants me dead. He’s wanted me dead just like he wanted my father to die.
"The real question should be, why did the Venezuelans take our bookkeeper? They know this means war," I counter, staring directly at Edoardo.
"I've already spoken to Matías. It was an unfortunate incident. There will be no war," Edoardo fills us in.
"No war?" Enrico splays his hands. "No war, he says. " He turns to the others, raising his eyebrows one at a time. "They snatch our bookkeeper… and no war?"
Nobody meets his eyes. Least of all Edoardo, who emphasizes, "No war."
Silence follows. Marcello catches my eye and imperceptibly shakes his head at me.
Yeah. None of us believe that shit. But Edoardo is already looking away, reaching for his drink, signaling that this conversation is over as far as he’s concerned.
And that? That tells me he wants it buried, for whatever reason.
Interestingly enough, Marcello seems to already be on it.
"What information did they get?" Marcello asks the first meaningful question.
"The only one who can answer that question is Matías." Again, I stare at Edoardo.
"Some members of his gang went rogue. He's dealing with it." Edoardo says.
Enrico claps his hands. "Un-fucking-believable. You believe that shit?"
"Hold on, let's get back to Antonio." Carlos is as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. He knows he's living on borrowed time. Nothing would please him more than to see me dead. "Who did it is not that important right now?—"
Marcello interrupts him with a snort. Irritated, Carlos continues, " More important ," he emphasizes, "is that vital information was stolen from us , under his watch!" Inanely, he points his finger at me, wagging it.
"That's ridiculous, Toni couldn't—" Enrico rushes to my defense, probably getting kicked by his father under the table.
I interrupt him, "He's right," I agree, interrupting him and surprising the others in the room. "It did happen under my watch. Alfonso was my man. What happened is my fault."