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“Romeo.” Cousin Niccolo stands in the doorway, his fists shoved into his pockets. As Boss of the Montavio family, he leads them all. He assumed the throne only months ago, after his own father’s death, and now stands as the youngest Boss in America.
I stand and walk to him. Niccolo and I have always gotten along well.
“What is it, brother?”
He claps his hand on my shoulder and his eyes warm at me. He’s known for being a particularly ruthless killer but to me he’s just cousin Nic.
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” I say to him before I close the door so my father doesn’t eavesdrop. “We can’t go against Nonno’s wishes, and you know that.”
“Bullshit,” Nic says. “You’re the fuckin’ Underboss.”
“I can’t tell you anything new,” I say, shaking my head. I can’t. It’s illegal for me to do so, and anything less than following my grandfather’s wishes to the letter of the law means forfeiting something monumental, like the very house my family lives in.
I hear the front doorbell in the distance and the sound of heels clicking to answer it, followed by Mama’s most welcoming voice. The lawyer’s arrived.
“Go,” I tell my cousin. “I’ll make sure to tell you anything that happens, and for Christ’s sake, Nicco, trust me. I won’t let things get fucked up, cousin.”
I hear the familiar sound of my mother’s heels clicking on the hardwood floors, a sound my brothers and I learned to heed at a very young age. When I got older, I realized she did it on purpose—an alarm, so to speak, to give us warning to hide our smokes or our girls before my father found out. God how I’ve missed the little things while I was away.
A few moments later, my mom enters the Great Hall. She takes her place by my father.
“Romeo, Narciso. Meet Gerardo Rocco, my father’s lawyer.”
Gerardo Rocco is an older gentleman who once had red hair, but he’s now gone gray and white around the temples. He’s taller than my mother but not me, and holds his hand out like we’re old friends.
“Pleased to meet you.” I notice he greets me before he greets my father. Interesting. There was a time when that’d earn him a beating, but my father’s older now. I’m more likely to pour him a fucking shot for giving me preference.
It’s time. I’m ready.
“I’m so sorry the others can’t be present,” Gerardo says. “Your grandfather was very specific with his instructions.”
“Right. Let’s see it.” I take the paper he hands me, squinting at the words. The list is short. Christ it feels good to be back.
Those allowed to be present:
Tosca Rossi
Narciso Rossi
Rosa Rossi
Romeo Rossi
Ottavio Rossi
Orlando Rossi
Mario Rossi
Marialena Rossi
Tosca Montavio
Vittoria DeSanto.
“Who the fuck’s Vittoria DeSanto?” my father asks at the same time my mother says, “He left Santo out?”
I don’t know why she’s surprised. He never did accept Santo as a member of this family.
I look to Gerardo. “Who’s Vittoria DeSanto?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rossi, but I have no idea. She was listed on the invitations. My office sent her a letter asking her to come to the hearing.” He frowns. “Does anyone know if she came?”
Marialena waves her hand. “Oh. Oh! Yes. She’s in the sitting room! Pretty woman with kinda crazy auburn hair?”
I frown. Last night I met a pretty woman with crazy auburn hair, but there’s no way she’s here now. Not after my warning to her.
I don’t know why my mind went to her of all the people in the world. Lots of women have crazy auburn hair.
Don’t they?
I look to Tavi, but he only shrugs. Orlando’s brows are knit together, and even jovial Mario rubs his fingers across the stubble on his jaw. “Not even Leo can come?”
My mother shakes her head. “Remember, boys. My father was explicit in his instructions. Perhaps he wants us to share the news after?”
Does she know something we don’t?
“What news, Mama?”
“I mean the details of the will.”
I turn to Tavi and Marialena. “You two go to the main room and ask if there’s a Vittoria DeSanto. I want to get this started.” I’m feeling impatient, irritable.
I turn to Mama. “Mama, do you have any idea what he wanted?”
She sighs. “No idea, son. If I knew, I’d have told you.”
Would she? I’ve always been closer to my father than my mother, due in no small part to my father’s animosity toward anyone and anything that threatens his power. Still, I’m not sure if I trust her.
Nonna smiles to herself, her hands clasped on her knee. She speaks hardly any English, but she knows we’re perplexed and my father’s pissed, and if there’s anything that makes her happy, it’s knowing my father’s angry. She’s probably silently fist pumping right about now.
“Sure thing, brother,” Marialena says with a smile. “I know who she is.” Maybe she’s the one that knows something we don’t? Why does it seem like everyone’s in on a conspiracy tonight?
