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I keep my cool this time, mainly for Matteo. He adores his grandfather, and I don’t think it would do me any favors to be outwardly cruel towards the man.
The most obvious forms of torture are off the table. I can’t upset my future wife and my son too much. Happy wife, happy life, and all that shit. That doesn’t mean I can’t find more creative ways to torture the man. I can make him file the paperwork to officially change Matteo’s last name. It needs to match the blood that runs through his veins.
Or maybe I’ll make him file the paperwork for Emma’s and I’s marriage.
Eric is under 24-hour surveillance. He can’t so much as go to the bathroom without someone watching him. It surprised anyone who knows my father as the Don that he isn’t immobilized entirely. However, my father isn’t a stranger to the long game. If we’re going to win over Emma and Matteo, we need to keep the man intact. He’s not to be trusted. His intentions to keep my heir as far away from me as possible have not changed. We’re closely monitoring his every interaction, ensuring he does nothing reckless to get them away from me again.
I’m not sure what I’d prefer. At least in death, there is finality, but what Eric is facing is the monotonous life as a prisoner.
The heavy door to my father’s office closes behind me as I approach him. I don’t hide the annoyance on my face that business has interrupted my first day with my son. “You asked for me?”
“I hope you know I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t urgent, so you can cut the attitude.”
My father’s face is in a cruel sneer as he glares at me. My back stiffens. Very little has the capability of getting under my father’s skin. Years of working as the head of a crime family mean he has learned to let most things roll off his back. The stress would have killed him years ago otherwise.
“Chris may have screwed us over with the Russians. The Petrovs expect us to be proposing a marriage any day now and they have put a hold on any alliance until then,” he tells me.
Eric has an inflated sense of ego if he thought his plan to broker a marriage between Nina and me was going to work. He doesn’t have any kind of authority. It sounds like he has been making promises, putting ideas on the table that he had no business in doing. He must have felt the pressure of Emma’s impending graduation. Gotten desperate. I’d seen countless men get bolder when they were desperate. It can only be chalked up to human behavior.
“What is there to be done about it?” I ask.
“We’re meeting with them in three days. I will let Oleg Petrov know while I have nephews available for marriage, my son is not. I don’t think it will be good enough for him.”
“It is Oleg’s fault for taking the word of a lawyer to be the word of the Don.”
“And yet, the consequences are ours to bear.”
Irritation edges in. We've been working on this deal for a long time, and it's frustrating to see all of that work coming to a halt because of a lawyer running his mouth. Without this deal, there is something else hanging on the horizon.
There is war.
I curse under my breath. A war between two families means a lot of things. It means unnecessary money spent, it means more time spent out of the house, and it means more danger for everyone involved. It isn’t an environment I want to bring my bride and son into.
We spend the next hour talking logistics. We are going to need to bring a small show of force, something that says we will not be bullied into whatever they want from us. It takes us longer to figure out what we can negotiate and what we won’t. Ultimately, it’s up to my father. He can change his mind in the middle of the meeting and I'd be forced to comply. That’s not his style. He wants us to be on the same page and present as a united front. It will make it easier for my transition into Don.
Andy texts me he has taken Emma and Matteo back to their temporary room. He is standing guard outside their door. Until I move Emma into my room, she’ll have a guard on her door. Not for the same reasons as her father. I won’t be restricting her movement as long as she stays on the property, but I want someone to monitor her. Track her. Make sure she doesn’t leave with Matteo again.
When I round the corner, Andy is smiling at something just inside the doorway. As I get closer, I can see what was amusing him so much. My little boy is there, showing him all of his Legos.
Matteo notices me first, and if that’s indicative of Andy’s job performance as a sentinel, then he’s going to need some extra training. Matteo gives me a little wave, which is what finally catches Andy’s attention.
“Fuck,” Andy mutters, clasping his hand to his chest. “How do you move so quietly?”
“Language. My child is here.”
Matteo watches me curiously. He doesn’t have the same caution in his gaze his mother does. He observes without judgment. Maybe it’s childhood innocence. There aren’t many adults who can be around Andy and me without a sense of unease. Or maybe he senses we’re alike. That he belongs here with us.
“My mommy sleeping,” Matteo says after he finishes his silent perusal. I peek past him to see Emma sprawled on the bed. Her hair is scattered in several directions, and I’m pretty sure I see a string of drool coming out of her mouth. My chest warms at the sight. There’s a part of my brain, a caveman who hasn’t shut up since the day I first spotted her, that finally feels at ease knowing she is here. She is here, she is safe, and she is mine.
“I can see. Are you tired? Would you like to take a nap with her?” I ask him, suddenly struck by a feeling of total incompetence. Does a four-year-old need a nap? Is this a good time for a nap?
Matteo shakes his head. There is no way I’m waking Emma up to ask her, so I take his word.
“Grandpa okay? He looks sad.”
I glance at Andy, who just gives me an unhelpful shrug. Despite staying up all night reading every parenting article I came across, and filling a library with child development books, some things you can only learn in practice. “I think your grandpa had a bad day.”
It’s a simple explanation, but not untruthful. Matteo ponders it but ultimately accepts it, much to my relief. I’m not sure I’m equipped to get philosophic with a child. With his question answered, he returns to the open suitcase full of toys. Small, easily packed toys.
