5. Matteo
Matteo
“Daddy, look!”
My son runs over to me, clutching something in his hand. Leo hasn’t stopped running since he learned how to walk two years ago. I sit up on the lawn chair, removing my sunglasses as he reaches me. Whatever it is he wants to show me, I’m sure it’ll be absolutely fascinating.
However, nothing prepares me for the sight of a tiny dead toad when he opens his palm.
“It’s dead,” he informs me excitedly.
I choose my next words carefully. “Yes. I can see that. Where did you find it?”
“On the floor next to my fish tank.”
“And what was it doing there?” I ask my five-year-old who never fails to surprise me.
“How should I know, Dad?” He giggles.
“Good point,” I murmur. “And what do you plan to do with it?”
“Draw it.”
That gives me pause. “Ah. I see. You want to draw the dead toad.”
He nods enthusiastically, the movement causing the mop of light brown curls on his head to shake.
“Well, you might as well get started on anatomy early,” I concede.
“What’s anatomy?” he asks, smiling.
“It’s a science that has to do with learning about the parts of a living thing. Like a human or animals, for example, the dead toad you’ve got in your hand.”
“If it’s dead, how can it be a living thing?”
I’m utterly unable to fend off my smile at the question. I run a hand through his hair feeling a wave of affection. He’s incredibly intelligent, and I’m not just saying that because I’m biased and he’s my son.
“Because it used to be a living thing, and that doesn’t stop even after it dies,” I tell him affectionately.
He ponders that for a minute. “Can you get Ros to find me a toad that’s still alive?”
“Why?”
“So I can draw it. It’ll be better for anatomy if I draw when it’s still alive, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say softly. “I’ll tell Roscoe to get you a bunch of toads and then you can have a toad tank as well.”
“Yes! Thanks, Dad.”
“In the meantime, I think you should bury the dead toad,” I tell him. “Send him off properly.”
He nods sagely. “Will you help me?”
“Sure.”
I get to my feet and follow him to the backyard. Roscoe, who’s never too far apart from Leo, assists him in digging a small hole. We both watch as he drops the toad into it and starts to cover it up with the sand.
“Boss, I’m concerned about the house becoming a petting zoo,” Roscoe says from beside me, the amusement in his voice clear as day. “The kid’s already got a fish tank, two rabbits, and a guinea pig. And now we’re adding toads to the mix. What’s next?”
“Probably dogs,” I say dryly. “I’ll have to say no then, though. Dogs are too disruptive.”
Roscoe smirks. “You didn’t think there’d be rabbits in your backyard either, and yet…” He gestures to the small structure at side of the house that houses Leo’s pets.
I smile. “Maybe he’ll be a veterinarian someday.”
Leo finishes his burial and we head back to the side of the house, in front of the pool. He wants to swim, so Roscoe calls for his nanny who changes him into his floaties and swim shorts. We watch as he splashes in the pool for a little bit and I feel light, at peace.
It doesn’t happen too often. With Leo, there are good days and bad days.
Fatherhood is a wholly unexplainable experience.
There’s no one I can talk to tell me if I’m doing a good job with him.
I’ve certainly read books, but no one kid is similar to another, which means my kid is entirely uncharted territory.
And then there’s the gap that I’ll never be able to fill no matter how hard I try. The gap that’s been left behind for his mother. I do my best, though. Every day.
My thoughts are forestalled by the appearance of my little brother. Elio saunters toward the pool dressed in shorts and sneakers while wearing a blue sweat band on his head. My eyebrows rise in question.
“Tennis match,” he explains.
“Right… Since when do you play tennis?”
He grins, “Since the girl I met last week invited me to join her in a couples match. I played pretty well, actually. We won. Which earned me another night in her bed. Specifically, tonight.”
“Congratulations,” I say dryly. “What do you want?”
“To talk to you,” he replies before his attention turns to the little boy in the pool. “And to see my favorite nephew. What’s up, L-train?”
Leo giggles. “Hi, Zio Elly.”
I get to my feet in the meantime, sharing a brief look with Roscoe to let him know I’m heading into the house. He nods in reply, continuing his silent vigil over my son. Elio follows me without another word.
Inside the house is quiet, still. My footsteps carry faintly across the stone as I move through the entry, the space opening up without obstruction. High ceilings, clean lines. Everything in my home is placed where it belongs. Nothing is allowed to shift without my permission,
Soon enough we’re in my office. We take a seat on the couches with a round table between us. Elio’s gaze lands on the chess board and he looks up at me with a smile.
“Wanna play?”
“Sure, if you’re ready to lose,” I say.
He sets the board up, playing black like he always does.
Says it helps him think better, whatever that means.
He’s the only one who can play chess with me and manage to keep up.
Salvatore’s too impatient when it comes to the game and the idea of Raffaele sitting down to play chess is almost laughable.
While Elio will play with me, he’s yet to win a single game. I think only one person in our family’s capable of that. Too bad the Don’s declared war on him.
“We need to talk about Dante and Salvatore,” Elio states like he can read my mind. “Where’s your head at with Sal’s proclamation?”
I shrug, moving a pawn one step forward. “The Don made an order. We have to follow it.”
“Really? Because I didn’t see you following it the night of the proclamation or the other day when the men tracked Dante to Jersey,” Elio states, putting his knight into play.
“I stopped by to talk to you the other day, but you were MIA. Where were you? I thought you’d be front and center, leading the men in the search for Dante. ”
My jaw tightens slightly as I remember exactly what I’d been doing that night. And my mind flashes with the same thing I’ve been trying to keep buried for two days. But the regret in Lindsay Beaumont’s eyes has been seared into my memory.
For the most part, I’ve tried not to think about her. Which has been working perfectly. Except when I close my eyes at night. The way she looked at me, it both burned and invigorated me.
“We’re not going to find Dante,” I say to my brother, who has been patiently waiting for a reply. “He’s too smart to be caught like a mouse.”
I’m talking about my brother, but my mind is on Lindsay. Contrary to what she might believe, I didn’t go to the hotel planning to sleep with her. While I might have intended to mess with her a little by fucking with her head, I didn’t think getting to fuck her was in the cards.
Nearly every minute of my life is planned; every move I make is one I could see coming. I didn’t plan Lindsay, and I didn’t expect her, either.
That night caught me off guard. Everything caught me off guard in a way that’s still making it hard for me to think.
“That’s not the point. The point is that you disagree with Salvatore on this,” Elio continues.
He moves a pawn of his own, watching my hand more than the board.
“I disagree with Salvatore on a lot of things.”
“But this feels different,” he retorts.
I make a small non-committal sound before moving my bishop, sliding it across the board with quiet certainty.
“Matt,” he starts, making another move, “I need you to be better. There’s too much on the line and we can’t afford for you to lose your head.”
“You worry too much, fratello,” I say on a smile.
He clicks his tongue, leaning back slightly in his chair, waiting for me to take my turn. His eyes are narrowed onto the board like it might rearrange itself if he stares long enough. It won’t.
Silence settles between us, broken only by a soft clink as I take his knight.
“See?” I say. “You’re predictable when you start talking too much.”
“That’s not fair. You talk and play just fine.”
“I don’t talk.”
He snorts. “You’re talking right now.”
True. But only because I already see the end of this game. Three moves, maybe four. Elio leans forward again, elbows on his knees, studying the board harder this time.
“When Salvatore gets back from his trip, we’re going to have to discuss what we’ll do about the Russians.”
“I already have a plan to take care of things.”
“Which is?” he questions.
“I’ll share it once I need to.”
He rolls his eyes. “You might need to revise your plans because I have news. The Russians are about to find themselves in a bit of a pickle. Mayor Beaumont is pushing for the FBI to open up their RICO case against the Bratva. And guess which prosecutor he’s planning on putting in charge of it.”
My hand stills. Just for a second. Small enough that my brother doesn’t notice.
“Lindsay Beaumont,” I answer quietly, my mind racing as images of her flash through my mind.
Memories of her deep blue eyes, her tits, the way my cock slammed into her, the sounds she made. I grit my teeth, trying to concentrate again, trying to leave behind thoughts of that night. I move a piece, not the one I intended. But it’s too late to take it back.
“Got it in one. I think the dear mayor is trying to draw his daughter’s attention away from us. Which is smart, to be honest.”
“He’s going to put her in charge of going after the Russians. I wouldn’t call that smart.”
“If she’s going after the Volkovs, she won’t be coming after us. That’s good, isn’t it?”
I don’t reply, thinking it over. “She’d be stupid to go after the Russians. They possess a particularly special type of brutality and their code of ethics does not expand to not hurting defenseless women like ours does.”
Elio shrugs. “Who cares? She’s a thorn in our side, now she can be one in theirs. And if she gets hurt in the process, it’s a win-win for us.”
That has me clenching my jaw. The ruthlessness in his voice, while admirable, causes a cold ripple to go through me.
No one hurts her, I think.
It’s an asinine thought. One night with her and suddenly I want to rip apart whoever dares to lay a hand on her supple skin. As my brother said, she is a thorn in our side and I should want her gone.
And I do. I just don’t want her hurt.
“I’ll keep an eye on Lindsay Beaumont,” I tell Elio, ending the conversation.
The game continues and then Elio lets out a quiet disbelieving laugh.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, staring at the chessboard. “You just gave me your queen, fratello.”
I look down and he’s right. The position is wrong, sloppy. Elio leans back, studying me.
“What the hell, Matteo? You never make mistakes like that.”
My jaw clenches. I’d been distracted. All the talk of Lindsay Beaumont had thrown me off my game.
“Just keep playing, Eli,” I state.
His fingers close around the queen, lifting it off the board with deliberate care. It’s a small victory. But it’s the first real one he’s ever had over me.
He shifts forward, more alert and focused. I wait patiently as he slides the rook across the board eagerly, and then I capture one of his pawns with my bishop. We’re both quiet. The atmosphere is tense. My little brother thinks he’s going to beat me.
It’s cute. Temporary lapse aside, Elio knows me well enough to know that I don’t lose. Ever.
I move my knight. Check.
He freezes, then swears evenly under his breath. He blocks it, but it’s a sloppy move. I move my knight again. Another check.
“I hate it when you do that,” Elio mutters, dragging a hand over his jaw.
“What?” I ask lightly.
“Toy with me. You already have your endgame in sight. Finish it quickly and let me die with dignity.”
“Ah,” I draw out slowly. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re a dick, Matteo,” my brother states, frustration flashing across his face as he’s forced to move his king.
I take another one of his pieces.
“Two moves,” I say.
“I know,” he mutters.
He studies the board anyway, stubborn. Searching for a way out that doesn’t exist. He continues to play, though. I respect that. If it had been Raffaele, he would have flipped the board over and walked out of the room.
He shifts his bishop, a last attempt. It’s good, but not good enough. I capture the bishop, moving my knight into place.
“Checkmate.”
He groans, leaning back in his chair. “Almost had you, though.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I lean back as well, thinking over our conversation. Lindsay Beaumont is starting to feel like a wound festering beneath my skin. I need to cut her out. I don’t want this infection to spread to my heart. Or even worse, my head.
Now that would be fatal.