Page 56 of Vicious Intentions
And I hate how it feels as if this is the beginning of the end.
Chapter 11
Matteo
Twenty-four years old
The restaurant is small and suffocating, the kind of place that never sees daylight even at noon. Yellow bulbs buzz faintly overhead, casting long shadows across cracked tile floors and peeling wallpaper worn thin by decades of use. The air is thick with oil, garlic, and old Naples history baked into the walls.
Soldiers line the room like furniture. They don’t speak. They don’t sit. They simply lean against the walls, arms folded, jackets hanging open just enough to remind anyone paying attention that they’re armed. Their focus never wavers from us, or from the only man seated in the entire establishment—The Old Fox, as he is known among those who serve him.
But to us, he is Don Aldo Vitale—the boss of theCamorra.
A plate of food rests before him, still warm, steam curling lazily into the dim light as he eats at his own unhurried pace. He hasn’t looked up once since Niccolò, and I stepped into this hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Until he acknowledges our presence, we have to remain rooted to our spot at the entrance.
I don’t like being kept waiting, but I bite my tongue and endure it. Those are the drawbacks of not being the boss. Your time is never as important as theirs.
It is all about hierarchy. He’s a boss. I’m nothing… yet.
The urge to crack my neck from side to side is strong with each second he makes us wait, but I won’t give the Old Fox the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting under my skin. If this is the only power play he has left to remind me that he still outranks me, I say let him have it. We both know that imbalance won’t last forever.
As if in tune with my inner thoughts, he finally lifts one hand, gesturing toward the empty chair across him without ever lifting his eyes from his plate. But before I even move in his direction, one of his soldiers places a hand on my chest, halting my steps.
“Not so fast,” he sneers, eyeing me up and down, his not-so-subtle way of telling me he has to search me for weapons first before I get to talk with his boss.
I extend my arms to the sides, palms open, and let him pat me down. The goon is thorough if a little slow for my liking. When he moves onto Niccolò, though, his hands pause almost immediately. Vitale’s soldier pulls back with a scowl, holding up the evidence he found on his first pat. Two guns.
“No weapons,” he snaps, like Niccolò should’ve known better than to bring them to a sit-down onCamorraturf.
“Whoops.” I shrug with an unapologetic grin.
Niccolò, however, doesn’t find any humor in the situation we find ourselves in.
His glare could kill the man where he stands as the Old Fox’s bodyguard continues to retrieve a few other fun little prizes my brother likes to keep on his person at all times. Some daggers, aboot knife, a couple of throwing daggers, garrote wire for when Niccolò likes to get up and personal, brass knuckles, and look at that, another gun. Say what you will about my brother, but he does love his toys.
“I’m going to need those back,” Niccolò growls, unimpressed by the entire situation.
“You’ll get them after. Sit down,” Don Vitale’s voice cuts through the room, calm and controlled.
Niccolò shoulder-checks the goon on his way and follows me to the small center table. I pull out a chair and sit across from the aging Don, while Niccolò remains standing behind me, keeping guard. He might be unarmed, but he is still very much a threat. If this conversation goes sideways, then I have complete faith my brother will tear through Vitale’s men like drywall under a sledgehammer.
“You’ve grown,” Don Vitale says between bites.
“Was I not supposed to?” I smirk, masking my impatience with sarcasm, as he continues eating his meal, refusing to meet my eyes.
“To be honest,” he continues, “I never gave much thought to what would become of you or your brothers. Didn’t waste much time thinking about you at all.”
“Things change,” I reply evenly.
“Yes,” he says, dabbing his mouth with a napkin before tossing it onto his empty plate. He leans forward, his gaze now on mine. “The better question is how much change we’re willing to accept.”
“Isn’t change a good thing?” I counter. “Adapt or die. Isn’t that the proverb?”
He studies me, amused. “You’re talking to the wrong man, young Donato. Change doesn’t come easily tomade menfrom my generation. We’re born into the chains of tradition. Youknow as well as anyone that some things aren’t meant to be broken.”
I lean forward slightly, never breaking eye contact with him. “Some traditions become obsolete with the turning tide. Especially if they no longer protect the people they were built for.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.
