Page 26 of Vicious Intentions
My brother looks out of place among the well-dressed clientele in his fitted black T-shirt and jeans. The tattoos covering nearly every inch of his exposed skin don’t help him blend in either. Everything about Niccolò signals that he’s a manwho expects trouble to find him. What people don’t realize is that he more than welcomes it.
Niccolò’s far more comfortable breaking bones and knocking teeth loose than sitting through mob meetings. He has always been a man of few words, so listening to others talk out of their asses ninety percent of the time grates on his nerves.
Punches don’t make excuses. Bullets never apologize. Spilled blood never pretends to be something it isn’t. There’s a certain honesty to violence. An integrity to it that some men don’t have. Niccolò appreciates the brutal truth of it all, how pain has a way of stripping everything down to what’s real.
In contrast to my brother’s preferred attire, I’m wearing one of my best gray suits, tailored to remind anyone who looks at me that I’m not to be trifled with. The suit suggests I have the bank account to back it up, but it’s my unnerving glare and nefarious grin that warn people to steer clear.
“You’re late,” Niccolò says, scowling.
“Or our hosts are early,” I reply, offering him a measured smile.
“I thought the point of this meeting was to make friends.”
“And it is,” I say evenly. “But arriving on time would suggest I need Moretti more than he needs me. If I intend to be the boss, that imbalance won’t do.” Niccolò studies me for a moment, then nods when he sees the merit in it. “Any more questions?” I can’t help but tease.
“Fuck off,” he mumbles, strutting into the restaurant before me.
I swallow the small chuckle threatening to slip out and follow him toward the hostess stand. When she finally looks up from her tablet, her cheeks color at once, and her pupils dilate.
“Name, please,” she pants, as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. Her gaze bounces between the two of us like a ping-pongball, as if trying to decide which one of us she wants to take home.
Irritation prickles under my skin as Niccolò replies, “Moretti.”
“Moretti,” she repeats, biting the corner of her lip, practically eye-fucking Niccolò.
A part of me understands her reaction. While we inherited our father’s dark hair and eyes, we were fortunate not to inherit anything else from him. Any good looks we possess came from our mother. And though she is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful women in Manhattan, we made certain those traits never softened her sons—only hardened them into something solid, imposing, and unafraid to take up space.
Niccolò and I have deliberately honed those attributes, so when people look at us, they see power, strength, and a clear warning to keep their distance. Raffaele is the only one of us who still clings to his boyish looks.
In our world, appearances are not vanity—they are armor, and I chose long ago which battles were worth dressing for. I would rather earn the respect of every family head in this city than the fleeting attention of a woman who will never fully grasp the complexities of the life we live.
“Right this way,” she says, batting her eyelashes at Niccolò, apparently settling for him as her choice of man.
She’s shit out of luck. If I have no interest in anything she could offer, then Niccolò is even less likely to give her the time of day. My brother isn’t exactly known for his success with the opposite sex. Women tend to window-shop when he’s in their line of sight. Still, his monotone replies and four-word sentences—if he manages that many—usually kill any initial infatuation.
When we reach the table, I see that Moretti has brought his son, Rocco, with him.
I’ve always liked Rocco. He doesn’t bullshit when it comes to business. He’s dependable, trustworthy, and, more importantly, he hates the Outfit just as much as we do. But like his father, he’s also ambitious.
Maybe I misread the intent behind this sit-down. Perhaps this isn’t about the future of the organization at all. Maybe Moretti wants to discuss Rocco’s future within theCosa Nostrainstead.
“I’m glad we could do this, gentlemen. Please, sit. We have much to discuss,” Moretti says, smiling warmly.
“The waiter will be with you shortly,” the hostess adds, throwing another smoldering glance at Niccolò before walking away.
I’d laugh if I didn’t think how pathetic the woman is when she nearly trips on her own feet on the way back to her station.
“You boys certainly make an impression,” Moretti says with a chuckle, picking up on why his hostess is suddenly so flustered.
“It’s a curse,” I reply.
He laughs at my remark. I hadn’t meant it as a joke, but I don’t correct him either.
“Most men would see women falling over themselves to get near them as a blessing,” Moretti says with an easy smile. “But I understand what you’re saying.”
Moretti has always smiled easily. Too easily.
I’ve never trusted a man who can bare his teeth without effort like that. Still, he has always been honorable in his dealings. Up until now, he has followed my father’s orders with unwavering loyalty. That makes this meeting all the more curious. Especially since most of the family heads trust his judgment implicitly.
