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She kisses the top of my head as she passes and tells me to shut up in Italian.
When she’s gone, Rocco says, “What the fuck are we gonna tell your mom about this kidnapping shit, and Allegra?”
Allegra. There’s an even bigger complication. She was married to my late cousin, Roberto, and stayed within the Medici ranks long after he died.
She was implicated in all of this mess, and I’ve no idea what to do about it.
Some fucking Don I would have made; Angelo was only faking his own death for twenty-four hours and I’m sweating like a pig. I am the underboss, but I’ve never exactly had to step up in this way before.
All of this shit has gotten under my skin, and I don’t like it.
This isn’t like me. This isn’t how I am.
I feel unsettled. Like something big is coming, not that it hasn’t already, except this feels nuclear.
“The bigger issue is the trouble that’s brewing,” I say gravely. “We’re at war, gentlemen. The Russians, the Colombians, Rombaldi and his smuggling ring, not to mention half the fucking constabulary that were involved in these two girls being held in a trashed, crumbling building. Nobody can tell me that higher officials aren’t involved. Angelo is going to want more than one head for all of this.”
“I see you handled the troops in my absence,” Angelo says, stepping into the kitchen. “Anyone would think you’ve had a little practice.”
I do a double-take as he runs a hand through his hair.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s very wrong.
“The prodigal son returns,” Enzo says with an eye roll.
“I had to go see Mario,” he says, his eye flicking to mine as I question him without words.
“How is the old man?” Dante asks.
“He’s dead,” Angelo says, loosening the collar on his shirt. “He died in his sleep.”
We all stop at the same time.
I stare at him. “What?”
“It’s better this way,” he says. “He was beginning to suffer.”
“I’ll pour you a scotch,” I say, rising from the table.
“I need to get some air,” Angelo says.
Rocco starts to rise, ever the protector in the family, even though he’s technically not blood-related.
Angelo waves a hand at him. “There’s no need.”
He sits back down but looks ready to rumble if the need calls for it.
Angelo needs to speak to me alone.
“What the fuck, Angelo?” Dante says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You’re just gonna lay that on us and then leave?”
“I said I need some fucking air. Tonight has been bad enough as it without listening to you whine,” he grunts, then turns and closes the distance between the kitchen and the door.
I turn to Dante. “This’ll be hard on all of us. Give him some space.”
“Holy fuck,” Fynn says, looking truly upset. “Uncle Mario is really gone?”
