Page 69 of Texting My Mafia Boss

Ettore: Thank you. I’ll see you soon.

“Do you think Ugo’s confession is enough?” Mark asks anxiously.

“It will have to be,” I grunt.

“This would be one hell of a war.”

“Then it will be one hell of a war.”

He looks sideways at me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say fiercely. “The Calvis are dogs. Look at what his men have been doing. They think they can control us. That they can do anything they want. They think they can kill innocent people and make children orphans.”

He grinds his teeth, but he doesn’t say anything. Good. He knows I’m talking about my woman. He knows this has gone beyond business and even my deep desire to keep my daughter out of this life.

“If we fight, we fight until the end,” Mark says. “We have to be more brutal than them. We have to be beasts.”

I nod. “I can do that.”

Four of us meet in a smoky room in the back of a bar. Cesare Malaspina, Ottavio Rinaldi, Ruggero Calvi, and myself. There are no underbosses, no captains, no consiglieri. Just the men who make the real decisions.

Cesare, a man in his sixties, smooths a hand over his heavily tanned bald head, his gold watch flashing. “Don Ferrante is still in Miami,” he says. “As his territories and business don’t overlap with either the Calvis or the Bellandis, it’s generally agreed that we can proceed on this issue without him.”

Ottavio, a man a couple of years younger than me, not yet graying, hides a smirk behind a pull on his cigarette. He’s covered in tattoos, dark ink all over his hands, disappearing into his black T-shirt, reappearing on his neck and up to his face. Ottavio is often amused by how official Cesare speaks.

Ruggero sighs and adjusts the tie of his crisp suit. “Let’s get down to business, gentlemen.”

Cesare turns to me. “I believe you have some desire to attest to certain grievances, Ettore?”

“Whose head is going on what spike?” Ottavio grunts, stubbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another. “Let’s get down to real talk here.”

“Bastian Calvi, executed,” I grunt. “With a promise from you, Ruggero, that you’ll accept your nephew’s fate. You won’t retaliate. You’ll understand the little prick deserves it. After I’ve taken care of the little prick, we’ll resume business, but you’ll agree to get your men under control. No more kidnapping pregnant women. No more assaults. No more moves that are bad for business.”

Ruggero stares at me for a long time, then lets out a civilized laugh that makes me want to cave his face in. “Excuse me?”

“Your nephew launched an unsanctioned attack on a Bellandi-owned business.”

The other two Dons spin to him, Cesare with the wide, shocked eyes of a man who can’t imagine a fellow Don would violate tradition. Launching an attack without the approval of the other Families? It’s unthinkable… unless you’re clever enough to leave behind no evidence. Ottavio grins, enjoying the show, shrouded in smoke.

“Do you have any proof?” Ruggero says. “Or are these unfounded, paranoid delusions all you came with?”

This is the game. This is where I shine. This is where these morons become overzealous, consumed by their egos. They only know how to think in terms of threats and blood and hate.

“I don’t as yet have any proof,” I say. Ilie. “That’s why I’m here. I want the permission of these fine gentlemen, including yourself, Ruggero, to question your men. I want a full investigation into what happened. That is, if your men can be trusted.”

Ruggero smirks at me like I’m an idiot. I know what he’s thinking.Is this all you have?

“My men can be trusted,” he says.

“You vouch for their word?”

“You can ask them anything. I assure you, they’ll give you the correct answer.”

Yeah, because he’ll have time to scare them.

“So, you’re saying that if I were to talk to one of your men, and he told me that your nephew did this, it would be proof?”

“You’ll never get that proof,” Ruggero spits.