Page 29 of Vicious Intentions
“I know,” I retort, my jaw clenching, mirroring his frustration.
“We need a leader.” He looks me steadily in the eye. “And I believe that leader is you.”
I absorb his words and nod.
“And you shall have one, Don Alfonso. Once my father retires, I’ll gladly step into his role.”
“Your father will never retire,” Moretti replies, disgust heavy in his voice. “Not now that Carlo Jr. is dead. He doesn’t trust you, Matteo. He will cling to the title until his final breath. Only when you are an old man yourself, when his bones are nothing but ash, will you inherit the throne. That is his plan now.”
When I open my mouth to argue, he waves a dismissive hand to silence me.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Moretti continues. “That you’ve been doing his job for months now, just as Carlo Jr. did before you. That it’s his way of signaling to the otherfamigliasthat you will soon take his place, and that it’s only a matter of time before he steps down.”
Moretti pauses to finish his espresso. Only when the cup clinks softly against its saucer does he continue. “What you fail to see is that your father is perfectly content letting you shoulder the burden,” he says. “Especially now, when it means cleaning up the mess your brother left behind and dealing with the consequences.” His gaze hardens. “But don’t fool yourself. He will always want the recognition. The authority. The reverence that comes with being the head of theCosa Nostra.It’s the title he lusts after, not the work. And he won’t give it up willingly.”
Now I understand why Rocco left the table. We’re on the verge of conducting treason.
Moretti won’t come out and say it, but his suggestion is clear. For me to lead theCosa Nostraback to its former glory, my father must die. Only with his death will I become Don.
Killing my father has always been part of my plans, but for an honorable man like Moretti to even imply such a thing goes against everything he believes in.
My father may have no code of honor, but Moretti still clings to the old ways of how amade manshould conduct himself. There are rules you do not break. Rules you need to follow. And killing acapo, especially the boss of thefamiglia, comes with consequences. Harsh consequences.
If we follow the rule book, acapocan only be killed with the consent of the entire family. And even then, the execution must be carried out by enforcers or hired assassins. To have acapo’sblood on your own hands means you are tainted and therefore barred from ever becoming acapoyourself. Much less rise to become the head of a family.
If it had been that simple, then I’m sure my father would have killed his brother Alessandro with his bare hands long before Ciro ever came knocking at our door.
Moretti has given me much food for thought today. Yet I only focus on two things. One is that I might have more allies within thefamigliathan I originally thought. The other is that they will never accept me as boss should I take my father’s life with my own hands.
“Thank you, Don Alfonso, for the meal. It’s been highly educational,” I say before standing up from my seat, Niccolò already at my side. “I promise I will give your counsel much thought.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, Matteo,” he retorts, never rising from his seat. “Just remember that kings aren’t made ina day. You will need more than my favor to accomplish your goals.”
My wolfish smile tugs at my lips as I extend my hand for him to shake.
“That I have your favor at all is already a step in the right direction.”
Moretti places my hand in his, then clasps the other over mine. “When the new order is installed, I hope you remember me and my son, Rocco,” he says, his calculating gaze fixed on mine. “And that he, in particular, can serve you in your reform of thefamiglia.”
“Your generosity will not be forgotten, Don Alfonso. I will make sure that you and yours are always looked after under my rule.”
“I yearn to see that day come sooner rather than later.”
“As do I.”
And with a nod, I bid him farewell and make my way out of his restaurant with Niccolò trailing right behind.
Neither of us says anything as we make the short walk out of the restaurant, only to stop just before we hit the door as Rocco calls out to us.
“Hey! You two leaving already?” he asks, all bright smiles, just like the one his father wore before delivering his warning.
I don’t miss the way Rocco’s hair is slightly disheveled, or how his shirt has a few buttons fastened in the wrong slots. When the hostess appears from somewhere behind him, still tugging her skirt into place and smoothing down her hair, I realize Rocco made good use of his time while his father and I plotted my own father’s demise. The not-so-subtle smirk he flashes at the hostess as she returns to her station is more than confirmation of my suspicion.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that, Matteo,” he chuckles. “Nico was the one who left her all hot and bothered. I just did thegentlemanly thing and helped her out, since the big guy over here wasn’t going to step up to the plate.” He winks at my brother.
I’m not an envious man by nature, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t envy Rocco. He’s around my age, yet while I carry a permanent scowl carved by my upbringing and too many old wounds to let just any woman touch me, he doesn’t have that burden. He had the good fortune of a father who was present, proud, and unashamed to show it. Though Rocco is still expected to be amade manworthy of his last name, he’s allowed the luxury of acting his age. Of smiling when it suits him. Of taking pleasure where he finds it, without consequence etched into his every choice.
I wonder what kind of men we would be if our roles were reversed. If I’d had Moretti as a father, would I have been softer, kinder, easier with my smiles, too? And would Rocco have been able to endure the years my brothers and I suffered living under my father’s roof?
