Page 43 of The Mastermind
Just about enough time to solidify my defence before the Sword of Damocles swinging over my head fell.
14
CESARE
Dinner at Fallbrook was a formal affair.
The men were required to wear bespoke three-piece suits, the women tasteful dresses from the selection of handpicked Italian designers who were in Orazio’s good graces. Dozens scrambled to be on that list just for the exponential clout it afforded them. What the public didn’t know was that being on that list cost them a nice slice of their annual revenue.
‘Magnanimous’ wasn’t a word my grandfather was familiar with.
I arrived first and took my place opposite the space where my father would sit, to the left-hand side of the head of the table.
Rafaelle strolled into the dining room with Bibi on his arm, muttering something in her ear that made her roll her eyes. Her make-up was expertly applied but I could still see the faint bags under her eyes.
Hopefully the ball I intended to set rolling tonight would help us find our quarry quickly and she could get back to the usual challenges of evading Orazio and Papa’s clever traps.
Whatever Rafa said as they neared the table made her giggle, triggering my smile.
Rafa pulled out her chair and she took her place two seats down from me, before he claimed the one next to me.
‘I’m guessing the wives won’t be in attendance,’ Bibi said, eyeing the remaining place settings. She meant the wives of my uncle Bagio and Pietro, who were normally considered senior enough to eat with us.
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Rafa replied.
She sighed. ‘Fuck, I’d hoped this would be a nice family dinner without the ritual grilling.’
Rafa grinned. ‘Nah, sis. If you have any skin left after the old man is done with you, you can have the aunties whisk you to the country club spa in the morning for a “Prosecco and dermal rejuvenation”.’ He said that last bit in the Barbie imitation of Pietro’s wife.
Just as Pietro walked in.
Bibi tucked away the middle finger she’d been aiming at Rafa and dutifully greeted our uncle, offering her cheek for a kiss.
Then Pietro shot a searing glare at Rafa. ‘Don’t know what you’re so cheerful about.’ His gaze swung to me. ‘You’re about to experience your grandfather’s full wrath.’
‘Thanks for the warning, Ziu. But it’s really not necessary. I’m inflammable and unflappable. Which is why I occupy this seat.’
The reminder of my superior rank stung, as I fully intended it to.
The first time I’d heard the phrase The Three Stooges in reference to Orazio Salvatore’s sons had been in middle school. I’d patiently learned the meaning behind it, then waited for the pimply faced kid who’d dealt the insult to my father and uncles and rearranged his facial features in the art supply room.
Sadly, the connotations had proved correct, borne out by Orazio bypassing his own firstborn – and appeasing him with a token consigliere role he’d never utilised – to hand the underboss role to me, and never promoting Pietro and Bagioabove the roles of mid-level capos. Even the twins were ranked higher than our uncles.
Pietro’s attempt to stare me down started and ended within ten seconds, as did his disgruntled muttering when footsteps approached.
Renzo and Bagio entered first, followed by my father and the head of the family and the Salvatore Organisation.
As one, the men stood next to their chairs, arms clasped respectfully as Orazio Salvatore entered the room.
At just under six feet tall, he hadn’t attained the height he’d passed down to his sons and grandsons, who all edged him by two or three inches. For a time, he’d secretly worn shoes with lifts, then inexplicably gave up the ruse.
But secret lift or not, Orazio possessed an electrifying presence. I’d seen grown men piss themselves without a single word spoken by my grandfather. And on a visit to the Old Country years ago, more than one elderly woman had hurriedly made the sign of the cross upon seeing him.
With his neatly combed grey hair, which retained an impressive amount of black, and expertly cut Tom Ford suit gracing his trim body, he looked younger than his years.
Until he moved. Then the telltale signs of age showed in his stiffer spine and laboured breathing.
Orazio loved to refer to himself as a spry seventy-something. But no matter how physically sub-par he might have been, his bark still packed a considerable punch.
