Page 27 of Vicious Intentions
“But I didn’t invite you here to talk about women,” he continues.
“I didn’t think you did,” I deadpan. “Though I am curious why you asked us here in the first place.”
Moretti’s eyes gleam, as if enjoying the way he’s keeping us waiting. As if dangling bait just out of reach amuses him.
“I suggest we eat first,” he says calmly. “Then we can talk business.”
My jaw tightens, but I have no choice but to accept his terms.
For the next hour, that’s exactly what we do. We eat while Moretti fills the air with meaningless conversation. Stories about his family, his summer, places he visited.
Niccolò and Rocco remain mostly silent, mirroring each other almost perfectly. They both know this meal is nothing more than a formality, a prelude to what actually matters.
Once dessert has been cleared, and espresso demitasse cups are set in front of us, Moretti’s demeanor shifts. The neighborly warmth vanishes, replaced by the presence of a man who knows exactly how much power he holds. Now I’m sitting in the presence of acapoworth his salt.
“I hear your father is back in the city.”
“You heard right,” I reply, noting how fast that piece of information reached him.
Either my father contacted him directly, or Moretti has eyes on his boss. I’m betting on the latter.
“And will he be resuming his duties as Don,” he asks, while studying me closely, “or will this finally be the year he steps aside?”
“You’ll have to ask him that.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Why the sudden interest, Moretti?” I counter aloofly. “Is my father no longer someone you wish to follow?”
“He wasneverthe man I wanted to follow,” he says bluntly.
Moretti’s honesty catches me off guard. Yes, this was what I wanted to hear, but I never expected that he would have the ballsto say it so plainly. Suddenly, my respect for the man doubles tenfold.
If he sees how his directness left me at a loss for words, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and instead leans forward, fingers interlaced on the table. “Did you know your father was never meant to lead theCosa Nostra?”
I feel Niccolò tense beside me at the out-of-left-field question. Such a topic of conversation has been forbidden in our circles. But then again, I’m more than happy to dig in my father’s closet in search of any skeletons that may be of use to me.
“That story is… sensitive,” I tread carefully. “My father forbade anyone from speaking about it. He wants his origin story permanently erased from people’s memories. It’s his legacy that needs to live on.”
“That wasn’t my question,” Moretti says evenly. “Do you know how your father came to power or not?”
“I do,” I say with a nod.
A satisfied smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Then tell me, Matteo. What have you heard?”
“It was his eldest brother, Alessandro Donato, who was Don before him,” I say. “He was the one truly in charge, before my father took the reins after his death. Before that, my father served as his underboss.”
“Oh, no,” Moretti tsks softly. “That’s where the lie starts. Carlo Senior was never an underboss a day in his life. Your grandfather made sure of it. Before he died, he instructed Alessandro to name Carlo as hisconsigliere. And Alessandro did just that, making Carlo the voice in his ear, advising him on every major decision the Don ever made.”
My brow furrows instantly.
How did I not know this?
Ihatethat I didn’t fucking know this!
I hate it even more the fact that Moretti knows, and he’s far too pleased to expose my ignorance.
“Don’t be upset, Matteo,” he says smoothly. “Your father made sure that story never traveled far. Most of the family heads from that time either met their end at the muzzle of an Outfit gun or are too old to remember the facts clearly. But not me. I was there from the very beginning. And to your father’s displeasure, I remember how it all unfolded clearly in my mind as if I were living it today.”
