4. Nico
NICO
Father was very clear about his expectations. I could pick my new bride, I wouldn’t embarrass the family, and I would give him heirs as soon as possible.
But I always like to exceed expectations when I can.
Valeria Aceto is perfect.
I thought Father would take one look at the sneering ice queen with a sullied family name and lose his fucking mind.
So I went all in, spewing a bunch of shit about it being love at first sight—like seeing Valeria in her black bob and sour expression for the first time would endear her to me—and Father gave up without much of a fight.
If she gives you boys, he said, you could keep her.
It was agreeable and fair. Maybe even a little bit romantic.
But coming from Father, it didn’t add up.
This is the man who deemed Alessia’s best friend in middle school a “bad influence” and arranged for the girl’s family to be shipped out of New York by the following day. And when Alessia complained, he had her kneel on rice until she stopped.
Maybe Father thinks Valeria is so up against it that she’ll make for an obedient and eager-to-please wife. Maybe he likes that her dad owes me his life and was so willing to overthrow Salvatore—a little extra insurance in case Salvatore ever turns on us.
But with Father, I’ve learned to dig a little deeper into the shit. There’s always something worse underneath.
For now, at least I got a pretty new toy out of this.
Valeria refused to acknowledge she had any recollection of our passionate night of lovemaking when I came to inspect her in front of her dad and brother. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that much.
I can’t wait to see her try to smother her reaction when I tell her about our expectations to breed an entire generation of Matassa boys.
I smile. That’ll get under her skin.
“I’m glad this is so amusing to you,” Salvatore says in a dry tone. My dear half-brother watches me from across his dining room table while his wife Marisol smirks from his side.
Marisol Luporini is everything Valeria is not—short, round, and constantly wearing a sliding scale of expressions which suggest she’s secretly plotting my demise in some way. And considering her black-hat hacker background, she might be. Nice tits though.
Before I left New York, Alessia caught me up over brunch.
Our half-brother had defied and murdered his former don to marry the woman at his side.
Father pretended to be outraged, but Alessia said he drank to the former don’s death in private.
Now, I’m here in Chicago to “learn at my brother’s feet”, like I need any more education on being a selfish, bloodthirsty bastard.
Alessia and I were raised to hate Salvatore. He was the defective, traitorous brother who’d escaped our father’s sphere of influence.
As I’d grown to understand what that influence meant, I’d hoped that Salvatore and I might have more in common, but he’s just as cold, power hungry, and banal as Father.
“It’s hilarious,” I say, “that you don’t think the Russians won’t shoot me on sight.”
Everyone wants to meet with the famed Matassa heir.
I can barely go a day without meeting with Zia so-and-so, Cousin Zippy, or some fat-cat business associate.
They all leave disappointed, and the Russians will be the same.
The only real difference is that Salvatore’s capos would love the chance to lick a Matassa’s balls, while the Russians are much more inclined to aim a gun in that direction instead.
“They probably won’t shoot you,” Salvatore says without conviction. “Anyway, the Viper should be able to get himself out of any situation, shouldn’t he?”
The old nickname from my many, many fights in underground fighting rings back in the day. One of my few hobbies that Father approved of.
I roll my eyes. “Just know that I want an open casket funeral, for my mamma.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Giovanni says as he strides into the dining room. “The Russians have given their word for tonight.”
My good humor crashes and burns. I turn toward Salvatore. “You’re sending me with a babysitter?”
“He’s more of a chaperone.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my stick-up-the-ass brother was amused.
Giovanni always drives in complete silence. Used to drive my sister up the wall when he’d ferry us around New York.
But it doesn’t bother me.
After a few minutes of scraping my short fingernails along the arm rest in the most annoying cadence possible, Giovanni breaks first.
“Do you understand why we’re meeting with the Russians tonight?” he asks, indulging in his love of Socratic questioning.
We enter the city outskirts, the sun dying at our backs.
“My new fiancée’s daddy tried paying Roman Yezhov and four of his mercenaries to kill Salvatore and sow discord.” I tap the armrest with each syllable. “And now the current pakhan wants to prove to us he didn’t know about that whole business and let’s just put this whole thing behind us.”
Giovanni’s brows furrow. “Yes.” The seconds roll into minutes before he speaks again. “What would you do, as the pakhan?”
I would have every one of those Russian idiots slaughtered, the only punishment fitting for such a fucking failure. The only thing worse than working for the enemy is doing it badly.
I stare out the window, along the cold, dark streets speeding past. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“I would ask them very nicely not to do that again.”
He sighs. “Why do you think Salvatore is sending you to this meeting?”
“Because my dear brother couldn’t care less if we live or die.”
“Do you think he expects you to make a good impression?”
I snort. Not likely. “You think he wants me to fuck this up so he can start a fight with the Russians?”
I’m surprised. I had Salvatore pegged as a conservative type.
I didn’t expect him to hold a petty grudge just because a handful of Russians tried one time to kill him, but that must be our father’s blood in his veins, hissing for retribution.
That, or Giovanni’s trying to manipulate me into compliance.
“You need allies in Chicago. I can only do so much for you.”
“Touching.”
“The pakhan and your father have been friends for many years. He could be your friend, too.”
“Do you think he’ll invite me to a sleepover? I should’ve brought pajamas.”
Ding. Ding. Father has asked Giovanni to encourage me to network tonight, to shake hands and make backroom deals like a good little mobster.
Giovanni parks us in front of the Golden Apple hotel. He turns toward me, solemn as a judge. “Do you think,” he says slowly and clearly, “the Russians will be happy with your fiancée’s family for getting them into this mess?”
My fiancée. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the breathy moans she made as I sank into her tight heat.
Still feel the slender curve of her jaw as I lifted her impassive face toward me a few days later.
The simmering hate in her eyes. She’s clearly doing this to protect her family.
I wonder how far I could push her before she’d snap.
I shrug. “Her mother and brother are useless, and her father is a shell of a man. I doubt the Russians are worried about the Acetos in the slightest.”
“The Russians already paid them a visit. Valeria’s mom ran a month ago—she is living in Quebec with her sister now.”
And left Valeria behind?
I hadn’t thought much of her mom missing at the family dinner the other night.
No wonder Valeria was looking for a quick fuck that night of the party.
She probably wanted to let out some steam if she thinks the Russians are breathing down her neck.
The image of her sitting on her friend’s kitchen counter, nursing a single jello shot, flashes in my mind. She seemed so calm.
“One thing your father and the pakhan have in common is a long memory. Maybe he would have been satisfied with Aceto’s punishment before, but you have lifted his daughter to the level of a Matassa.
And now all of Chicago will watch to see if you treat the Russians with respect or disdain.
You are taking a wife, and that makes you a player, Nico.
The pakhan will be willing to set the whole business of Aceto’s betrayal behind him if you play along.
He will offer an open hand if you are willing to take it. ”
An open hand and a blade behind his back. Anyone who’s willingly friends with my father is no stranger to scheming and backstabbing. Not exactly the type of company you want to surround yourself with.
The moment we step foot into the entrance to the hotel, we’re hit with flashing neon and gold lights and the rush of pings from slot machines.
Giovanni must have been here before, because he seems to know his way as we snake through the hordes of people bent over their slots and the staff offering drinks to all.
I swipe a beer off a passing waitress’s tray and chug it to Giovanni’s quiet disapproval.
A pale man with black eyes kicks off a wall to join us. “Giovanni. Nicolo. Yevgeniy is happy you arrived. Come with me.”
We follow our new companion through the rat’s maze of gamblers and machines and stop before a nondescript elevator which he opens with the touch of a blank, white keycard.
“They call me Omari,” he says, tapping a button once we’re inside. The elevator display slowly drops from numbers to letters.
Omari is almost as tall as I am, with the cauliflower ears of a fighter, and deep, white scarring across his throat like the ghost of a garrote.
He stands directly in front of the elevator door, heels together and hands clasped in front of him in a showy little display of a soldier’s at-ease position.
In my peripherals, Giovanni stares daggers at me like he’s trying to telepathically strangle me into compliance.
He doesn’t need to bother. Yes, Omari favors his left leg while he walks and looks so priggish and uptight that he almost certainly would hate any insults to his mother’s honor, but I’m reckless, not suicidal, and picking a fight in enemy territory falls firmly into that second category.