Page 13 of Vicious Intentions
Yet, for all his hatred, we still bore his last name, and he made sure that we were raised as Donatos. From the moment we were born, he tore us from our mother’s arms and placed us in his home with Ginevra—a dreadful, evil woman whose heart was even blacker than my father’s. My brother, Carlo, was the only one in that house who protected us. The only one who loved us like his own.
But now he’s gone. Gone because our father was too much of a coward to stand up to Romano. God, how I hate him for it.
For all the sins he’s committed in our lives, it was allowing Carlo to die in such a gruesome spectacle for all to see that finally sealed his fate.
One day, my father will die. And I will be the one to kill him.
I want to see him on his knees, just as Romano forced my brother onto his. And when he’s powerless and broken, I’ll make sure that, in his final breath, he knows it was me sealing his fate. That his end comes at the hand of the son he never truly wanted in the first place.
“You look upset, Matteo,” my mother says softly, drawing me back to the present, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you not happy for me?”
My heart tightens in my chest. “I am happy, Mom. Seeing you happy makes me happy.”
Her steel-blue eyes shine, and she lets out a small breath of relief.
Though she’s having a good day, I doubt my poor mother fully grasps what’s happening around her. She’s always been… unmoored, for lack of a better word. Yes, her beauty is beyond comparison, but the life she lived on the streets before finding her way into one of my father’s brothels must have been filledwith horrors—so many that her mind couldn’t bear them all, much less process them.
Somewhere along the way, something in her mind fractured, retreating into a fragile kind of innocence. And now that pure heart will have to spend her life beside the monster who used her body as nothing more than a breeding vessel.
At least she’ll be living with us now. Niccolò and I will keep a vigilant eye on her and protect her. There’s a silver lining there somewhere.
“I’d like to dance,” she says, her eyes drifting toward the dance floor where guests continue to laugh and sway. “Everyone is dancing. I would really like to dance.”
My mother has been instructed not to mingle. It’s one thing for my father to marry a beautiful woman. It’s another for his men to believe he married someone whose mind is not always there. My father’s ego couldn’t survive that kind of ridicule. He’s perfectly fine with his own flesh and blood being the butt of every joke, just not himself.
“I’ll dance with you, Mom,” Niccolò offers as he takes her hand, leading her toward the dance floor.
My mother practically skips with excitement, while my brother offers her the only smile he’ll probably give anyone tonight.
My jaw clenches when I feel the weight of every gaze in the room fall on them as they begin to dance. No one bothers to hide their mocking smirks or quiet their snarky whispers. Niccolò senses it too, but for my mother’s sake, he focuses on his steps and pretends to be enjoying himself.
While he focuses on giving her one moment of joy, I memorize the faces of everyone who even looks at them funny. One day, I will make them regret every sneer, every cruel thought they ever directed at my family.
Still, as my eyes scan the room, I notice that not everyone is amused. A few heads of family watch with open disdain, their contempt aimed not at my mother or my brother, but at my father, who laughs too loudly as he downs glass after glass of champagne.
Interesting.
My father may be their Don, but by the looks of it, there is no love for him here. I see it in the way their eyes narrow and their lips curve down every time he bellows out a laugh. There’s no mistaking what lies behind their eyes as they look at him. How they wished it had been the senior who died in Chicago six months ago instead of the junior.
Allies. That’s what I see. Men who, when the time comes, will back my claim to the throne and follow me as I restore theCosa Nostrato its rightful place as rulers of the New York underworld.
This time, my smile isn’t an act. It’s one of genuine satisfaction.
These thoughts churn in my head as I continue scanning the ballroom, cataloging faces, weighing loyalties, searching for every man who might aid me when the time comes.
My mouth tightens, though, when I spot Raffaele slouched in a chair at an empty table, grinning down at the glowing screen of his phone. Like any fifteen-year-old, the thing is practically glued to his hand. But this isn’t the time or the place to act like a kid. He knows that all eyes will be on all of us tonight. And if he doesn’t, then I guess I’m the one who needs to remind him.
I stride toward him and snatch the phone from his grip before he even notices me.
“Hey! What the fuck, Matteo?” he snaps, oblivious to the people around.
“Sit. Down,” I order sternly, slipping the phone into my pocket.
Raffaele obeys, though his blue eyes, so much like our mother’s, shoot daggers up at me.
There’s a sharp pang in my chest whenever he looks at me this way. I’m not sure when it happened, but lately we butt heads more often than not.
I wanted to be the kind of older brother to him that Carlo was to me. In his eyes, however, it seems I’ve become more like our father—and I hate myself for it.
