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“So it would seem,” Marcel sighs, world-weary, his exhaustion stemming from somewhere deeper than just one sleepless night. Years of being my right hand has worn on him, aged him too quickly. I don’t envy him the position; I wouldn’t want to have to keep track of me, either. “They’ll still want the meeting regardless.”
“Let them have their say. I’m only interested in fighting Gio. We don’t war on two fronts.”
Marcel nods his agreement, and we fall into step together, making our way to my office.
“Have one of the girls look after our guest princess. She’ll need a new wardrobe, and the room needs all the essentials stocked.”
“I’ll put Ava on it. Are you keeping her in there?” He asks.
“For now.”
“How long is ‘for now?’”
“Let me worry about that.”
If Marcel questions it, he doesn’t show it, merely nods in deference as we approach my office. The elder members of the Mori family, either by blood or by service, are already waiting.
Cecilia Mori, my great-aunt and oldest of the five elders, has taken point. Her drawn limbs and knotted hands tremble as we greet each other, her skin like ice as I clutch her ring-heavy hands in mine. The steely woman has been wheelchair bound for almost a decade; I’m convinced the rest of her is withering away as her body diverts all its energy into keeping her mind and mouth sharp, her eyes eerily keen as they move in her sunken face. She is nestled down in her chair, small and shriveled, with heavy blankets sprawled across her lap.
I have Marcel kindle the fireplace to warm the room for her.
I take my place behind the desk. The familiar faces study me, the oldest and most well-respected of us, second only to myself. As always, Cecilia is the first with something to say.
“When the family encouraged you to go and get a wife, Salvatore, we hardly meant it so literally. I go to sleep, you’re a bachelor. I wake up, and they say you’re set to marry. A Lovera.”
“An opportunity to move against Gio presented itself, and I took it.”
“Getting the girl was a good move,” one of the old war dogs agrees amicably from the couch, mustache bristling against his splotchy red face. “If old Gio can’t protect his own daughter, who can he protect? His image will take a hit, that’s for sure.”
Cecilia sniffs.
“It’s not my place to disagree with men on such matters. Take the girl, very well, but marry her? The purpose of you finding a wife is to continue a legacy. With respect, you can’t run a family without family. Cousins and nieces and nephews won’t suffice for a man of your rank.
You need a wife who will inspire love and loyalty, as your mother did. The only thing a Lovera will inspire in this family is a murder.”
The criticism fades into the crackling of the fireplace. I lean back, trying to consider the words and give them the due weight that they deserve—so when I find the right words to tell her to fuck off with, it’ll at least look like I gave a second thought to the woman’s preaching.
A wife makes me look more traditional, more in line with the old ways of governing family business. I never gave a fuck about those appearances, but the wishes of the elders aren’t something I can ignore entirely.
The people in this room built and defended the position I hold now. Some of our most valuable connections are forged through them. I have the final say, but those words must carry the voice of everyone else.
“A bride that weakens the enemy strengthens the family,” I counter shortly.
The old viper’s milky stare bores into me. We both know the truth—that you don’t have to marry a girl to ruin her. There’s something else, something greedy and possessive in my decision, that has nothing to do at all with family politics.
“I hope this a decision you have made with all of your obligations in mind,” she says, her old hands too shaky for sewing, but her mouth keen enough to stitch those subtle double-meanings throughout every word. “Your obligations not simply to the family as a whole, but to this council that serves you.”
There are certain secrets that cannot be uttered, even in rooms where everyone knows the truth.
Years ago, when my older brother landed himself in prison, the elders quietly decided this was a stroke of good luck. Nico Mori was better suited for the pen than leadership, and everybody but my father could see that.
Nico lasted as don for six months before he caught a murder charge. Broad daylight, CCTV. A careless squabble over some girl. With men like us, it’s always over some girl.
Traditionally, the family pulls strings, buying and intimidating its way out of convictions, drowning the legal system in so much paperwork, some trials linger on for decades until all the pawns are in place.
Nico was shipped to prison posthaste, and the elders abided it, making backroom meetings with the district attorney while pretending that their hands were tied.
Everyone agreed, short of a white room with a straight jacket, prison might be the best environment for someone like Nico. That decision—that betrayal—was made in this very office.
