Page 23 of Vicious Intentions
“Hm,” he mumbles disapprovingly.
If he wants more feedback on how theCosa Nostrabusiness is doing these days, then he should take a more invested role in our dealings. But he won’t. At sixty-five, my father is already thinking about retirement. The only reason he hasn’t stepped down is because he loves the adoration from the other families too much to give it up yet.
He thrives on the power. He eats it up, savoring how good it tastes to be the Boss of theCosa Nostra, as if that even means anything anymore. He lives in delusion, the grand illusion that he still strikes fear into anyone.
He doesn’t. He’s a joke. A joke everyone laughs at. He’s an embarrassment, and I hate that I bear his last name.
However, it is that very name, the Donato name, that will ensure my claim to his throne. And his end.
“Shit,” I hear Raffaele mutter as he spots us, before striding into the kitchen.
“Good morning to you, too,” I greet him.
He gives me a brief nod and bypasses our father without offering so much as a greeting. Father doesn’t comment on the lack of courtesy, and frankly, neither do I. As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t deserve even a good morning from Raffaele.
“Morning, Mom,” Raffaele says, his voice noticeably lighter as he presses a kiss on her cheek.
His blue eyes sadden when she doesn’t respond, her gaze fixed on some empty space in the sink. My chest aches as he lowers his head and turns toward the fridge, grabbing a carton of orange juice to pour into a tall glass.
I wish I could say days like this were few and far between. They aren’t. And those good days… those good days make days like this hurt even more.
When our mother has all her faculties intact, she fills our lives with such excitement and joy that it almost feels like we’re trapped in a beautiful dream. It’s the little things I miss most when she’s like this. The way she hums while she cooks. How we catch her dancing and singing along to the radio whenever she’s preparing a new dish that she thinks we might like. The way she laughs at things that are barely funny. How her eyes look at us like we are the very light in her life. How she manages to make even this cold house feel warmer.
Those are the days she looks more like herself, like the woman she was meant to be before this life hollowed her out.
Then there are days like today. Days when her mind drifts somewhere we cannot reach. All that remains is a body moving on instinct. She eats because she has to. Dresses because it is expected. Bathes, cleans, and cooks because routine dictates. Everything happens on autopilot.
There is no spark behind her eyes. No emotion. No real awareness. Just the most basic form of survival, carrying her through the hours. And no matter how many times we’ve seen it, it never gets easier to watch.
When I catch Raffaele staring at her back, his hand lifting as if he wants to touch her, then dropping again because he knows better, my chest tightens even further. On days like this, even gentle contact can send our mother into a panic. Sometimes shescreams until her voice gives out. Other times, she curls into herself, rocking back and forth until she’s calm enough to stop.
“Do you want me to drive you to school this morning?” I ask, suddenly feeling extremely protective of my younger brother.
Raffaele stops short and stares at me. “You never drive me to school.”
It sounds more like an accusation than a statement, and he isn’t wrong. Carlo used to be the one who took Raffaele to school every morning. After Carlo died, I never felt it was my place to step into that role. Raffaele never asked me to, either, so I left it alone.
“Is that a no?”
I wouldn’t be offended if he declined my offer. He’s seventeen now, just starting his junior year at Pembroke High. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen with his older brother hovering over him.
“I don’t care. You can take me,” he says with a shrug.“A chauffeur is a chauffeur.”
Thanks for the enthusiasm, I almost say, but instead I bite down on the inside of my cheek and take the win.
“The boy is old enough to drive himself. He doesn’t need anyone coddling him,” my father says bitterly without looking up from his newspaper.
“Theboycan answer for himself,” Raffaele mutters as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Come on. I don’t want to be late.”
Raffaele leaves the kitchen without grabbing anything to eat. Apparently, my father’s presence has the same effect on his appetite as it does on mine.
I follow him toward the door, but before I step further away, I pause and glance back. My father remains seated at the table, coffee in hand, while my mother still stands at the sink with herback to us. I don’t like leaving her alone with him, especially on days like this.
I know both Niccolò and Raffaele are opposed to it, but I should hire a nurse. Someone who can be here around the clock. I don’t like leaving her alone when she’s incapable of fending for herself, especially when he’s here.
Fuck it. I know my brothers will be pissed, but I make a mental note to do it anyway. They’ll rant and rage, say Mom doesn’t like being treated like an invalid. That she can take care of herself just fine. And in a way, they’re right. On her good days, she can.
Still, it’s either a nurse or a bodyguard, and I know the bastard we have for a father would never allow soldiers to roam his house or touch his things. He’s particular like that. Possessive when it comes to material things, yet completely indifferent to his own flesh and blood.
