Page 22 of Vicious Intentions
Chapter 4
Matteo
Twenty-two years old
I adjust my cufflinks as I descend the stairs, my mind already turning over the day ahead. I have a few meetings downtown in the Financial District, and later I’ll meet up with Niccolò so he can update me on enforcement matters and anything else that requires my attention.
Halfway down, a familiar clearing of the throat reaches my ears, coaxing my spine to stiffen in a knee-jerk reaction.
Cazzo.
I crack my neck from left to right before continuing toward the sound. The moment the kitchen comes into view, my gaze locks on the bane of my very existence—my father. He’s sitting comfortably at the table with a newspaper spread wide before him, while my mother stands off to the side at the counter, preparing his morning coffee in silence, her movements small and mechanical.
Something sharp coils in my chest at the sight of them together. My father isn’t supposed to be here. Not yet. And he sure as shit isn’t supposed to be left alone with my mother.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, not making the slightest effort to hide my animosity.
“This is stillmyhouse, Matteo. Or have you forgotten while I was away?” he replies, a smug smile firmly in place, not even bothering to lift his gaze from the newspaper.
“I thought you were going to spend the entire summer in the Hamptons,” I retort accusingly.
“It’s well past Labor Day, son. Nothing exciting ever happens in the Hamptons after Labor Day,” he explains, sounding bored. “Summer is officially over, I’m afraid.”
Merda.
I’ve been so busy that I must have completely lost track of the month, let alone the day. Still, what irritates me most is the casual way he talks about Labor Day and how it always marks the end of his stay at the Hamptons. As if it should be common knowledge to me.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve never set foot in his summer home in the Hamptons. Like clockwork, a week before the Fourth of July, he would take Carlo Jr. and his wife, Ginevra, away for an extended stay, while Niccolò, Raffaele, and I were forbidden to join them. We were always left behind, while they mingled with the one percenters and enjoyed the fruits of other people’s labor.
Not that I minded much. I might have felt Carlo’s absence during those months, but not having our father and his wicked witch of a wife around were the only months any of us ever got a taste of freedom. It was also the only occasion that we were allowed to spend quality time with our mother. Our father would always pull her out of his brothel during the summer so she could look after us. He would laugh and say, ‘Why should I pay ananny to look after you when you have a mother who can do the job for free?’
My father knew damn well that if anyone needed looking after, it was us taking care of our mother, not the other way around. Not that we minded. In fact, we preferred it.
Those months with her had to last us the rest of the year. Because soon our father and Ginevra would return to torment our lives, while our mother would once again have to suffer the injustice of us being ripped away from her hands, only to be thrown back into a life where men like him would abuse her body and fracture her mind even more.
My nostrils flare in disgust as I watch him tap his empty mug, silently ordering my mother to refill it. With her head bowed, she follows his command to a T and then quickly turns around to clean the dishes she used to make the fucker breakfast.
I hate seeing him this close to her. I hate that he even breathes the same air she does. But like he loves to remind me, thisisstill his house, and I have to pretend that actually means something.
I don’t utter another word to him as I walk over to my mother and press a kiss on her cheek.
“Morning, Mom.”
When I look into her eyes and see the blank expression staring back at me, I realize she isn’t in the room with us today. Not really. Her body may be present, but her mind is nowhere in sight.
Still, I offer her a warm smile and fix myself an espresso. The French toast she made will remain untouched. Seeing my father so early in the morning has stolen whatever appetite I had.
With the coffee warm in my hand, I lean against the counter and stare at thestronzo, wondering what fresh hell he’s up to now.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day, son, or are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to all summer?” my father asks, his eyes never leaving the newspaper.
I’ve been plotting your demise, old man. That’s what I’ve been doing.
“I’ve been dealing with business, like I always do in your absence,” I say instead.
“And how is business?” he asks.
“The same.”
