Page 25 of Vicious Intentions
“Spare me, Matteo. I don’t need you suddenly acting like a concerned big brother,” he scoffs.
“Rafe—”
“I said no, Matteo,” he snaps. “The only brother who ever gave a shit about me is dead. And no matter how eager you are to fill his shoes everywhere else, it won’t work on me.”
This time, I don’t bother hiding my frown. His words sit heavy in my chest, and I loosen my tie for air.
This was a bad idea. No matter what I do to try to reach Raffaele, he always treats me like the enemy.
I take a slow breath and shift my focus to the early-morning traffic instead. Today, I have far more important things to deal with than worrying about how much my younger brother resents me over things I have no control over.
When we pull up to Pembroke High, I barely manage to park along the curb before Raffaele jumps out of the car.
“See ya,” he says, slamming the door shut behind him.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I count to ten, forcing myself not to get out of the car and slap some manners into the kid. I’ve let him run unchecked for too long. Let him live his life untouched by our world’s responsibilities longer than I should have.
Still, a part of me feels compelled to honor Carlo’s wishes a little while longer. He never wanted Raffaele anywhere near theCosa Nostra. He wanted him spared from all of it. From the blood. The violence. The weight that comes with our last name.
Lately, though, I’m starting to think I’m doing Raffaele more harm than good. That in trying to honor a dead brother, I’m failing the living one.
I don’t have time to sit with that forlorn thought for long before my phone rings. When Niccolò’s name flashes across the dashboard screen, I answer on the second ring.
“Talk.”
Unlike Raffaele, Niccolò is used to my clipped tone. He knows not to be offended by it.
“I got us a meeting with Moretti.”
My frown disappears instantly, replaced by a slow smile. “And how did you manage that?”
“Saw Rocco at the gym this morning. He’s the one who brought it up.”
“You don’t say,” I smirk as the pads of my fingers begin to dance against the steering wheel.
“So it’s a go? I should set it up?”
“Yes, Nico. I’m very interested in what Alfonso Moretti would like to talk to me about.” Instead of a confirmation, the line goes quiet. “Is something wrong?” I ask when Niccolò doesn’t fill the silence.
“If we do this, the other families are going to find out about it. It’s only a question of time.”
“And that is precisely what we want, dear brother,” I reply, a genuine smile pulling at my lips.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Once we open this door, there’s no closing it.”
I hear the hesitation in his voice. It isn’t fear. Niccolò isn’t afraid of anything. It’s concern. He knows, just like I do, that this first meeting will surely set things in motion. A chain reaction that won’t stop once it starts. If things turn volatile or the wrong person gets wind of my plan, the Outfit is sure to hear about it. And if they do, there will be no turning back. Only death.
“I’d say it’s about time we started to reclaim what is ours by birthright,” I answer calmly. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
That is all I needed to hear.
“Tell Rocco to set things up and then send me the details. I’ll be there.” The line goes dead.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrates with an incoming message. Moretti wants to have lunch on his side of town. Of course he does. He’s old school like that. If a capo is going to betray his Don, he might as well do it on his own turf, with all his men watching.
Niccolò is waiting for me at the entrance of one of Moretti’s most exclusive restaurants in Little Italy.
