Page 92 of Vicious Intentions
Three dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
Caro Mio:How tragic to read such lukewarm words from the same woman who consumes my every waking thought and haunts all my dreams.
Caro Mio:Good night,vita mia.Maybe one day I’ll get a different answer.
The screen goes still after his goodbye. And just like that, going back to sleep becomes impossible.
Chapter 20
Matteo
Twenty-six years old.
“Are you nervous?” Moretti asks at my side as we watch all of the New York mob bosses waltz into one of the abandoned warehouses my family owns along the Brooklyn waterfront.
Red Hook is Irish territory now, but some of the buildings here still belong to the Donato roster of properties—this being one of them. But conducting a meeting smack in the middle of enemy territory is not the reason behind Moretti’s question.
Today, I’m going to share my game plan with all the heads of the Cosa Nostra families on how we are going to finally rid ourselves of the Outfit’s hold on us and our city.
Even as he continues to stare at me, I don’t deem Moretti a response. Instead, I glower at the three men who arrive after everyone else has already taken their seats at the table in the middle of the warehouse floor.
Ferraro, Lombardi, and Marino—the thorns at my side. The only ones to still offer fealty to my asshole of a father instead of pledging their loyalty to me.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” Moretti smiles. “Though if you stare any harder, those three are sure to realize your disdain for them.”
“Good. Let them.”
I’m not sure if it’s my reply that unsettles him, or the sinister edge in my tone. Either way, he shouldn’t worry. This meeting will have the outcome that I want. Before it comes to an end, Ferraro, Lombardi, and Marino will cease to be a problem.
“Boss,” Niccolò calls out when everyone has been seated, announcing that all the pieces on my chessboard are finally in place and I can begin.
“Take your seat, Don Alfonso. This shouldn’t take long.”
Moretti shakes his head as he takes his seat, then pastes on a bright smile meant to assuage the nervous men in the room.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice,” I say, eager to get this show on the road.
“It’s not like you gave us much choice,” Lombardi mumbles under his breath, though it’s loud enough for all to hear.
“You always have a choice. But I understand how, for a man like you, making the right one can feel… tricky,” Moretti says, coming to my defense before I even open my mouth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lombardi huffs, clearly offended.
“Relax, Lombardi. Moretti is just busting your balls,” Don Cavaliere throws in with a teasing grin from across the table. “I know it’s been a while since you attended a Don meeting, so it’s only natural you’ve forgotten what one looks like. I’m surprised you showed up at all.”
Most of the men begin to laugh at Lombardi’s expense, his face turning two shades of red.
One of the reasons Lombardi loves my father so much is because he’s just as lazy as Carlo Senior is. He likes the prestige that comes with the title of Don, but it’s the actual work that he has a problem with.
Under Carlo’s rule, his laziness would have been shrugged off.
Under mine, though… not so much.
“If this is a Don meeting, shouldn’t the actual Don of theCosa Nostrabe here? Where is Carlo?” Marino asks, chiming in as he shifts the attention from his embarrassed friend onto himself. “Call this meeting whatever you want, but without him, nothing said here will amount to anything,” he continues to rant, while looking at his fellow bosses to see if they are in agreement. But to his displeasure, only the two men at his side—Lombardi and Ferraro—seem to care that their asshole of a Don isn’t in attendance.
“Apologies, gentlemen, but as you know, my father is still very sick. And as I have taken charge of allCosa Nostrabusiness for the past few years now, I didn’t think his attendance was needed, especially considering how fragile his current health is.”
And when I say fragile, I mean my father’s days on this earth are fast coming to an end.
