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And then my phone rang again. It was one of my men—signaling the arrival of the Moretti family.
Time to get this show on the road.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Itensed, and my heart hammered with anticipation as the members of the Moretti family strode into the room as if they owned the place.
This meeting could go sideways in a heartbeat, and I strongly suspected there were men not three feet from me who’d like nothing more than to put a bullet in my head.
And rightfully so.
There hadn’t been a lot of interactions between the Morettis and the Falcones over the years—a mutual dislike, grudging disrespect, rumors of a family feud as old as the ancient Romans, and no love lost between the members of the families.
Even though there must’ve been more—friendship at least, maybe even attraction between my father and…my real father.
Hell, had anyone known, it wouldn’t have gone over well for both of them.
No wonder they kept it silent.
Franco—next to me—straightened, as well. “Alessandro,” he said, nodding towards the group of men, all hard-eyed and grim, each clad in dark, tailored suits that seemed to absorb the shadows around them. “Let me introduce you to the members of my family.”
No one spoke; no one stepped forward.
The tension in the room was a living thing, slithering and dangerous, barely contained and yet hidden in the shadows, ready to unfurl and unleash.
These men didn’t trust me, and I didn’t blame them.
I was a stranger.
A rival. An outsider.
You never trust an outsider.
But Franco plowed on. “First, we have Vittorio Moretti, my uncle and consigliere.”
A gray-haired man, probably way into his eighties, stepped forward. His assertive presence and unwavering gaze did little to ease my nerves. He stopped before Franco and me, a guarded but interested look in his eyes.
Full of the wisdom of age.
He’d probably seen it all. Done it all. Knew it all.
He grasped my outstretched hand, and for a moment, I thought he would crush it, but his grip remained firm and brief—a show of strength, not outright aggression. Maybe even respect.
A start.
Another man stepped forward and sized me up, his expression not giving me any hint.
“Rosario.” Franco nodded at him. “Rosario’s my cousin and underboss.”
I nodded at Rosario Moretti, who nodded back at me, his face completely emotionless. He was older than I’d expected—a couple of years older than Gabe. And his reputation as ruthless and cold was well known in my world—another contender for taking the lead.
“And finally, Lorenzo, Sergio, and Giuseppe,” Franco said.
The capos—I’d researched them all—did my homework to prepare even though I didn’t know who would be coming—if anyone.
Lorenzo was the tallest of the three, Sergio had only one eye left, and Giuseppe was small and stocky.
They all sized me up, as well, their expressions ranging from begrudging respect to outright hostility.
