Page 28 of Vicious Intentions
I take his words in and turn them over in my mind.
Alfonso Moretti must be in his mid-to-late forties. My father has been Don of the Cosa Nostra for well over two decades, which means Moretti would have still been finding his footing back then.
“I get the sense you want to tell me more,” I say. “So go ahead. Tell me everything.”
Moretti’s smile returns. “Does the name Ciro LaSpina mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does,” I answer, curbing the urge to spit at the sound of such a name being uttered.
Ciro LaSpina was the bastard son of Salvatore Romano, theCapo dei Capiof the Outfit, and the uncle and mentor of Vincent Romano. Though ot was never proven, rumor has it the last thing Big Sal ever saw was Ciro’s mad smile as he smothered him to death in his own bed.
Still, killing his father wasn’t enough to quench his thirst for revenge. Years of neglect and ridicule had consumed him, forcing Ciro to come to New York and seek an alliance with theCosa Nostrato remove his cousin from the throne, one he believed should have always belonged to him by blood.
Bastard or not, theCosa Nostragave weight to his claim and offered their assistance, believing his lineage surpassed that ofhis cousin and that he had the right to wage war on the syndicate until they bent the knee to the rightful heir.
However, Ciro let his feelings for Vincent’s wife, Selene, cloud his judgment. He let emotion rule his vengeance, which ultimately led to his downfall.
Selene earned her nickname—The Red Queen—not only by killing her father, the Butcher, who aided Ciro in his coup, but by slitting Ciro’s throat for daring to steal the crown from the man she loved.
Yes, Ciro may have had a legitimate claim. But he let his heart rule when he should have crushed his enemies with an iron fist when he had the chance.
I will not make the same mistake. I do want the Outfit to bleed for killing my brother, but I won’t allow my hatred to control me. I will bide my time. I will plan carefully.
I don’t want to just hurt the Romanos. I want to cripple them so meticulously that they will never be able to raise a hand against us ever again.
“He’s the reason theCosa Nostraand the Outfit have been at odds for decades,” I add when Moretti remains silent, as if waiting for me to give more context to my short reply.
“A polite way to phrase it,” Moretti mutters. “But correct. Your uncle plotted with Ciro LaSpina, and that betrayal shattered the alliance we had with the syndicate. What you don’t know is this.” He leans in slightly. “Your father was the one who brokered the deal with LaSpina, not Alessandro.”
It takes inhumane strength to keep my expression blank at Moretti’s words. Not that it matters. He knows he’s got a captive audience in me.
“And once Alessandro was executed by the syndicate for his treasonous act, your father played the fool, shouting from every rooftop that he had no part in the scheme and took Alessandro’s seat at the head of the table and never lookedback,” Moretti continues. “And if you haven’t noticed, Carlo has never appointed aconsigliereof his own. He, more than anyone, knows how dangerous bad advice can be to a Don,” Moretti states, unhiding his disgust. “No one will ever convince me that your father didn’t plan it all from the very beginning. That he didn’t place his bets on both outcomes. If Ciro succeeded, theCosa Nostraalliance with the Outfit would be significantly strengthened, and Alessandro would make it known that Carlo was the mastermind behind it all, giving him his due. And if Ciro failed, then your uncle would die for his betrayal, and your father would ascend to the throne. Either way, he won.”
I keep my expression carefully neutral, but it’s clear Moretti can see that this information has rattled me.
I always knew my father was a coward. A cheat. A traitorous man with no scruples whatsoever. I just never understood how deep his depravity ran until now, and how far he was willing to go to seize and keep his title as Don.
My father let Carlo die without lifting a finger in outrage. He betrayed his own brother and stole his birthright with just a few choice words. If he could do all that to blood he actually cared about, what’s stopping him from doing far worse to my brothers and me?
Chapter 5
Matteo
Twenty-two years old
This is not the meeting I thought I was walking into today.
I was looking for an alliance. What I got was a wake-up call.
Moretti’s gaze weighs on me as I unpack everything he’s told me about my father’s treacherous past and his ascent as the boss of theCosa Nostra.
Before I can speak, Rocco pushes his chair back. “Excuse me,” he says, already rising to his feet. “I’ll go take care of the bill,” he adds casually, almost politely, but the move isn’t lost on me. Either this meeting is coming to a close, or Rocco doesn’t want to be implicated in whatever is about to be discussed next.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask, finally.
Moretti lets out an exaggerated breath, his posture slackening slightly as he leans back in his chair.
“Because I’m done following a scheming coward,” he confesses. “And I’m not the only one. We arealltired, Matteo. Tired of the Irish flooding our streets and taking what is ours byblood and right. Tired of the Outfit breathing down our necks at the slightest indiscretion. But most of all, we’re tired of watching the nameCosa Nostralose its meaning under his rule.” His gaze sharpens. “We were gods once, Matteo. And now look at us. Look how far we’ve fallen.”
