Page 49 of Vicious Intentions
Twenty-three years old
Raffaele took theomertà. Finally.
Though I doubt the ceremony we just attended, and everything it represents, will weigh on him or impose any real sense of responsibility or maturity.
At least he’s learned to collect himself better. Well, enough that no one in attendance has the slightest clue how much he despises me.
I often wonder what I could do to improve our relationship, but somehow, any attempts on my part are either met with contempt or only make matters worse.
I will never be able to slip into the role of older brother the way I wish I could. That place will always belong to Carlo in his mind. And no matter how hard I try, competing with the memory of a ghost is something I will never win.
Still, my gut tells me that it wasn’t forcing Raffaele into theCosa Nostrathat has put him in such a foul mood lately. Eversince he convinced me to let him go on his school’s ski trip last spring, he hasn’t been the same.
I know life at Pembroke High is a stark contrast to the life awaiting a young, aspiringcapo. I know the problems of a high school senior don’t come close to those of theCosa Nostra. But my instincts tell me something happened on that trip. Something that soured him.
For all his faults, my brother is usually a happy kid. One who smiles often, even if those smiles are never directed at me. Lately, he doesn’t smile at anyone.
However, Raffaele has taken up a hobby he probably believes is more appropriate for his age. And that’s fucking everything that moves. If I find another girl sneaking out of our house in the middle of the night, I’m going to lose my mind.
I don’t care that he’s acting out. I don’t care that he’s only now, at eighteen, figured out he has a working dick. What I will not tolerate is him bringing girls intomyhouse. The house where our mother sleeps at night. I’m used to his shows of disrespect, but by God, he will not disrespect our mother.
I’m convinced the little fucker does it just to push my buttons.‘Look at me,’he seems to say.‘I’m getting laid. Maybe you should try it and lighten up.’At least, that’s how he sounds in my head.
Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I was with a woman. Five months ago? Eight? A year? I haven’t the foggiest idea. I’m too preoccupied with setting us up for success to bother with such trivialities.
My plan is nearly coming to fruition. I’ve managed to obtain DNA samples from all the Romano children, except one—Jude. And that’s only because I haven’t yet found a way to place someone loyal in London.
Still, I have time. Jude visits his family every few months. The next time he sets foot in the city, my people will be ready.And if they aren’t, they’ll have more than ample opportunities, especially now that he’s become more family-oriented since his father was shot.
When I first received word that Marcello had been arrested by the FBI, followed by Vincent getting shot by a federal agent, I thought the Almighty himself was finally smiling down at me. Handing me gift after gift.
However, my happiness was short-lived. Vincent survived, and Marcello walked free, thanks to his girlfriend, the very agent who was supposed to build a case against him.
Some men have all the luck. The Romanos always seem to stumble into good fortune the way other men trip over their own feet. It’s like they have horseshoes and four-leaf clovers shoved up their asses, with the way life always turns out in their favor.
“You’re frowning, Matteo. Today is not the day to look so miserable,” Moretti says beside me, sipping on his twenty-year-old scotch.
I don’t smile. Instead, I drain the rest of my glass and set it down on the table behind me with more force than necessary.
“I suppose I’m not in a celebratory mood.”
Moretti smiles as if in tune with my inner thoughts. “Yes, I’ve heard Raffaele has been experiencing a few growing pains when it comes to his role in thefamiglia. I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’m sure he’ll outgrow whatever rebellion he’s indulging in.”
Of course Moretti would assume my thoughts are on my little brother, not on the Romanos. After all, we’re gathered here in his club in Little Italy to celebrate Raffaele’s induction into the family.
I don’t correct him in his assumption. Though I’ve come to trust him, Moretti doesn’t need to know every thought that crosses my mind.
“I was disappointed that your father didn’t make an appearance tonight,” Moretti says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Is he still unwell?”
This time, my frown deepens. It always does when my father’s name comes up.
“Though it pained my father greatly to miss Raffaele’s induction, I’m afraid he’s simply too frail to attend. It’s best that he remains bedridden.”
“I see,” Moretti replies, pretending to believe the lies I’m feeding him. “Have the doctors discovered what ails him, for him to miss such important festivities?”
“My father is sixty-seven-years old, Don Alfonso,” I say evenly. “At that age, it’s difficult to pinpoint the source of every ailment.”
“Must be the result of a hard life lived,” Moretti says almost sarcastically, only to lower his voice next. “Some heads of families have begun to wonder whether his absence is being… enforced.”
