“Dio mio.” Martino's words snapped me out of my little personal celebration. I met his eyes in the rearview mirror, openly judging me. “Don Camillo...”
“A man has to set limits, Martino.”
“Right. Uh, if you don't mind, I’m gonna open the windows…”
Chapter 36
Camillo Vicari
July, 2025
Reggio Calabria, Calabria, Italy
The private room at Carlo Mancuso's restaurant could seat about a hundred people, but I felt suffocated, as if I had been confined to a tiny box or, worse, a coffin.
There were supposed to be only five of us at that table, but there was a sixth guest. I gritted my teeth, fixing my gaze on the blonde man in front of me. He smiled, his chin too high for someone with such a grotesque appearance and even worse manners.
"Congratulations, Don Vicari. The wine from your cellars is exceptional!" praised Cissio Accorinti, taking a greedy sip of the crimson liquid, drinking it as if it were water.
I gave a slight shake of my head. “Grazie.”
“How has your agricultural business been going, Camillo? I heard that the Sicilians have also been expanding into those fields.” A weak, hoarse voice silenced the room, and no wonder.
I stared at Ettore Zaccaria with the reverence the man deserved. At ninety-eight, he was the oldest Capobastone in Calabria, elected by the Crimine itself. Despite his years, his mind remained sharper than any man’s at that table. He had already buried children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren, but he still clung to a power that no one dared to challenge.
“We have recently started exporting our olive oil and wine to China, Don Zaccaria. I think it couldn't be going better.”
Before Don Zaccaria could formulate a response, Cissio Accorinti’s shrill laugh cut through the air like a blade.
“Agromafia, isn't that what the police are calling it?”
Don Zaccaria cleared his throat. “Ecco.” The answer came without a glance.
“Who would have thought that oranges were worth as much as diamonds, right?” Donato Rinaldi laughed, and I smiled reluctantly, sipping my wine.
It was that rat who invited Accorinti to our meeting, and that was enough to know that he was already neck-deep in theflesh business. I said little as the conversation went on. Donato Rinaldi was from my father's generation, they had even been schoolmates, and I remembered well the stories he had been involved in. One of them spoke more loudly about his character than any other.
In his youth, Rinaldi sold his own girlfriend to a Bratva soldier who worked for a Russian Pakhan with whom his ‘ndrina had done business. It was said the girl was barely fifteen. No one ever saw her again.
I wasn't surprised that now, even so many years later, with seventy years behind him, Donato Rinaldi had entered the human trafficking business.
Between conversations about the more legitimate businesses of our società, the bowls of 'Nduja and warm bread were emptied in no time, and so did the wine. I signaled Federico, Carlo Mancuso’s eldest son. At nineteen, the boy was already efficient. I gestured for the first course and another round of wine.
The rule was that a Capobastone who couldn't put food on the table couldn't run a ‘ndrina, and I made sure there was always plenty, just like all the Vicari before me and as all the others after me were expected to do. Once lunch was served, we devouredstoccafisso alla mammoleseaccompanied by the best white wine from our cellars, followed bymaccheroni al ferrettoand thencapretto al fornoaccompanied by one of our reds. It was a display of abundance—and a tactical showcase of our finest exports.
Don Antonio Palumbo had just praised the meat of our goats, saying it was like silk on his tongue, when Cissio Accorinti once again shattered the serenity of the moment with hysterical laughter.
“That's right! The Vicari come from shepherds.” I immediately sensed the contempt in that comment and put the cutlery down on my plate, giving the idiot my full attention. Theothers did the same. “How did that turn into a jewelry empire? Did some goat shit out a diamond?”
The smile didn’t reach my eyes. I was about to respond when Filippo Barone, a Capobastone my age and a childhood friend of mine, picked up the salt shaker nearby and held it out toward Cissio Accorinti.
“Put some salt on the goat meat, Don Accorinti, and you'll see that the Vicaris never needed jewelry for anything.”
Cissio Accorinti laughed and accepted the salt shaker, rambling on about the food he’d tasted during one of his extravagant vacations in Ibiza. He may have been in his late twenties, but he behaved like a foolish teenager oblivious to what had just happened.
My gaze met Filippo Barone's, who pretended to sip his wine. The salt shaker was a signal. It was never the same thing, it never happened in the same way, and not everyone always understood it. When someone at the table was disliked, they were either served wine differently or something similar to what Filippo Barone did was done to them.
Don Zaccaria's extremely wrinkled face twisted into a mocking expression. I saw him run a crooked index finger across his nose and realized that not only he noticed, but he shared Barone's sentiment. However, I knew the same could not be said about the other two.
