Page 57 of Vicious Intentions
“Yes. Quite right,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side while his gaze rakes over me, ever so calculatingly. “Your father, for example… he seems like a man open to change.”
“He’s not.”
“No?” Don Vitale arches a brow. “Hasn’t he altered tradition to name you his heir? Quite a few rules were bent to make that happen. Starting with marrying his mistress.”
I’ll give it to the Old Fox. He sure knows exactly where to stab.
“Don’t assume my father does anything for his sons,” I reply coldly. “If he married my mother, it was for his own selfish reasons. An heir is a symbol of strength. If he could’ve named anyone else as his progeny and direct descendants instead of me or my brothers, he would have.”
Don Vitale chews on my words carefully before following with another question. “And howisyour father these days? I heard he suffered a heart attack last year. Has his health improved? I’ve noticed he hasn’t made a public appearance in a while.”
“He’s not dead yet, if that answers your question.”
Don Vitale studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I never did like your father much,” he says bluntly.
“You and I have that in common then.”
That earns a low chuckle from theCamorraboss. “Is that so?” he asks. “Tell me, young Donato, what else do we havein common?” He enunciates the wordwewith mockery, a reminder that I’m still beneath him.
“Aside from our shared dislike of my father?” I say lightly. “We hate something else even more.”
“And what would that be?” He chuckles.
“The Outfit.”
That does it. Don Vitale’s posture instantly shifts. Not by much, but enough for me to clock the way his blood must have heated with the mere mention of such a syndicate.
His eyes narrow as he leans into the table, his voice dropping to a lower octave. “I have never claimed to hate the Outfit. You are mistaken,” he says, as if even speaking the name too loudly would summon them to his door.
“Come now, Old Fox. You can be honest with me.”
“Can I? The Donatos haven’t exactly had the best track record when it comes to being trustworthy,” he shoots back, every word dripping with cynicism.
“I’m not my father, Don Vitale,” I state firmly. “Youcantrust me. After all, isn’t that why I was summoned here today? Because Don Moretti whispered in your ear that I’m a man who deserves your trust. That I’m a man set on change?” I let the silence stretch before continuing. “The winds are turning, Old Fox, and it would be in your best interest to follow where they lead.”
“Is that so?” he mutters, still not convinced, forcing me to try a more compelling tactic.
If Don Vitale is all too glad to drag up the past to make his point, then I’m more than happy to do the same to prove mine.
“I know what it cost you to ask Romano for help all those years ago,” I start calmly, “when the Irish started carving into your territory in Philadelphia. At any other time, theCosa Nostrawould have been your first choice for aid, but the Outfit already had its boot on our necks by then. They were the onlyones you could turn to for reinforcements.” I let that sit before continuing. “I know how it must’ve felt when Romano refused to lift a finger. When he stood by and left you to deal with them on your own.” My gaze never leaves his. “And I can imagine the betrayal cut even deeper when you watched those same Irish move into New York territory afterward. With the Outfit’s blessing, no less.” His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop. “Romano told you he wouldn’t pick sides. But in the end, he did, didn’t he?” I tilt my head. “And it wasn’t theCamorra’s, now was it?”
“Careful, young Donato,” he warns, his tone suddenly razor sharp. “I invited you here because a man I admire and trust told me that you are worth having a conversation with. Don’t make today one where you gain another enemy.”
“That was never my goal.”
“Then I’d advise you not to pour salt into a wound that hasn’t fully healed.”
“We all carry battle scars,” I reply steadfastly. “And we’ve all been betrayed by Romano in one form or another. He didn’t back your claim to Philadelphia, and he’s stolen New York right out from under us.”
“Stolen?” he laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “As far as I’m aware, New York is still yours. You can still do business there. TheCamorracan’t even step foot in Philly anymore. You and I are not the same, boy.”
“Oh, but we are,” I say, my voice tightening with years of pent-up fury brought on by the memory of another Don calling meboy. Still I manage to collect myself and not use the Old Fox’s poor choice of words against him. “TheCosa Nostrahas lost all its footing in New York. We’ve been ridiculed, shamed, and neutered. Everyone knows we’re nothing more than the Outfit’s lapdog.” I curse out, bitter with how far we’ve fallen. “Worse, actually. Dogs at least get let off the leash. The Outfit’s knee is always on our backs. We can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t make adecision without notifying them first.” I meet the Old Fox square in the eyes. “So tell me… which one of us got the worse deal from Chicago? You got their indifference. We got their wrath.”
“Your brother, Carlo, brought that down on you himself,” Don Vitale snaps. “We did nothing to provoke the Outfit.”
“And yet,” I say smoothly, “you still feel the effects of their ruthlessness.” I then lean back in the chair and pretend to flick imaginary lint off my sleeve. “Tell me, Don Vitale, how long before they close their eyes again while the Irish finish what they started? How long before they push you into some forgotten corner of the world and leave you there to rot?”
“That will never happen.” He shakes his head.
