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All of us come from the same parents, and except for what my father had put me through, we brothers had been exposed to a similar set of circumstances; yet each of us had grown up to be different men. We have different personalities, and disparate tastes when it comes to women, or to the kinds of kinks that we prefer. And that includes Xander… Though among all of us, he, perhaps, holds the least hatred toward our father. And that’s only because of the kind of man he is. He never holds a grudge, probably because he channels all of his angst into his art, living true to his heart and mind, unaffected by others and able to live life as he wants.
Now, he rises from his seat and walks over to our father. At six-feet three-inches, Xander towers over our father. Not that I’d ever call the Don frail. At seventy, he still wields his power like a cloak that he’ll take with him to his grave when he dies.
"Padre," he kisses our father on both cheeks, "how wonderful of you to drop by."
"Sandro," our father grips his shoulder, "you are looking well. Being part of the Mafia suits you."
Xander tilts his head. "Now, Father," he reminds him, "you and I both know, I am here only because this allows me an outlet to paint to my heart’s content."
"And what masterpieces they are." Christian rises to his feet, "If it weren’t for Xander’s genius, we’d never be able to use his growing fame in the art world to identify potential new targets we could kidnap and hold for ransom."
"In return for their safety, we get access to influence and to power, which we use infiltrate governments and those in higher echelons of power. Yeah, yeah." The Don scoffs, "Save it, son, I didn’t come here for a lesson in how to run my own business."
Christian’s shoulders stiffen. He opens his mouth to retort, but I hold up my hand.
"Enough, Christian," I murmur, "I believe our father is here with an agenda of his own tonight."
The Don’s lips curve in a semblance of a smile. Those dark eyes hold mine in a challenge, a look with which I am all too familiar. Perhaps it’s because I am too much like him, a trait I can do nothing to rectify, but which I use to my advantage at every possible opportunity—that I can read his moves as if they were my own.
"Very good." His grin widens, "Let’s get down to business then." He glances about the room, "Out, all of you."
"Wait, what?" Sebastian protests, "If it’s about business, we need to be involved in it too."
"I came here to talk to the Capo."
"I thought you came here to meet your sons."
"And I have." He jerks his chin, "Out, boys."
Luca’s jaw hardens. He glances at my father, then turns to me. "You gonna be okay, Mika?" he asks in a low voice.
At my nod, he turns and stalks out, followed by Christian, Xander and Massimo. Sebastian seems like he is about to protest again.
"Leave, Seb," I murmur. "You heard the Don."
He frowns, then tilts his head. "Fine, but you’d better catch us up later."
"I’ll do what I think is right." I lower my chin, "Now go."
7
Michael
After the men leave, the Don walks over to take the armchair at the head of the coffee table. I prowl over, pour some of the whiskey in a glass, and hand it to him. Then refresh my glass before I sink down onto the chaise.
I take a sip of my drink, watch as he brings the drink to his nose and sniffs it. "Twenty-four years aged?"
"Seventy-two," I retort.
He whistles, "Your tastes have matured, son."
"Yours haven’t."
He chuckles, "You always were a quick study, Michael. I knew you’d make a wonderful heir to take over my legacy some day."
"A legacy which I hope to clean of your taint as soon as I can."
"Some things," his grin broadens, "are etched into your skin. You can’t carve them out, for they are a part of you. They are burned into your soul, and whatever you try will only engrave them deeper into every cell of your body... Until they dominate your every thought, your every action dictated by the ghosts of your past." He stares at the scar on my throat, leaving me in no doubt of what he is referring to.
