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The sound of footsteps immediately puts the thoroughbred on alert, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Cesare approaching the training arena. My brother, however, stops his approach long before reaching the white wooden enclosure and, as if understanding what it means to have the respect of La Santa's enforcer, Galard sets in motion deciding that now is a good time to obey the order that I gave him more than five minutes ago.
I remain impassive, refusing to show any kind of appreciation for the animal's capricious behavior. He does not need positive reinforcement for the pride he naturally displays.
“Alright. We're done for today,” I tell him when his last lap of training is complete.
He still waits for almost a full minute before accepting that delay in complying with my order will have consequences, and when the fearful stable hand opens the gate to the pen, Galard trots wildly back to the stables.
“You've killed men for less than that,” Cesare comments when he finally approaches, and I don't take my attention away from Galard until he's inside the stables.
My brother's eyes follow mine, attentive to the horse's movements and then to any sign of anything unusual in the animal's destination. Cesare makes a point of imposing a certain distance between himself and the horses.
The second of my brothers is the wildest of the four of us, and every time I see him react like this to my pets, I wonder if this fear comes from his identification with their savagery. My temperament is sometimes described as lethally silent. But Cesare's muteness, without a doubt, screams.
“That's because I don't have favorite people,” I reply, taking off my gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of my riding pants.
I pass through the fence gate and walk to the side of the stable. I turn on the tap nestled in the stone wall and wet my face, washing away the sweat that the late morning sun has made on my skin.
“Tizziano would be disappointed to hear that, he's sure he's your favorite brother.”
“I really don't know what could have given him that impression.”
“Probably the fact that he’s still alive even after thirty-five years.”
“That's becauseMammawouldn't give me peace if I killed any of her children.” Cesare laughs, and I raise a questioning eyebrow.
My brother stares at me like he doesn't know I'm serious. I would never spill my own blood unless there was a just reason to do so, and although I have often wished so, the underboss's ability to anger me cannot be considered one. Cesare knows this.
“You will go to the Americas with me,” I inform him of the decision I made this morning.
“Adam Scott,” he assumes.
“I heard he has a nice family. I think they would love a visit from Sagrada’s Michelangelo[16]. Let's see what he does with the American dream.” Cesare smiles, a smile even more empty than his blue eyes.
“Art. What else would it be?”
***
Paolo parks, but I keep my eyes focused on the iPad in my hands. Technology is, in fact, one of the few things that the North Americanmaledetos[17] know how to do with quality. Dario is the first to get out of the car, jumping from the front seat of the Volvo adapted to accommodate me and the five men who are always around me.
Salvatore is next, opening the door to my left and leaving the back seat in front of mine, with his gun already drawn. My mind, although attentive to the article about a new grape variety being created in the laboratory, does not detach itself from the usual security routine being carried out outside the armored car.
Even if there wasn't an electronic earpiece in my left ear, notifying me of each step of the process, it would be impossible to disconnect from it. At this point, it already pulses through my veins as much as Italian blood.
Cantina[18] Santo Monte has been home to the Cataneos since the 19th century, when Giuseppe Cataneo and his twin brother brought together the first group of what would later split into Cosa Nostra and La Santa: the two oldest mafias in Italy. Yet not even here, the home in which I was born and raised and, before that, each of my ancestors did, are security procedures dispensable. It takes three minutes to check the outside area and another five to check the main entrance hall of the house. When I get out of the car, flanked by Luigi and Antonio, the smell of grapes covering every inch of the miles and miles of our land overtakes my sense of smell at once.
My feet crunch on the gravel on the way to the front door where only I enter. My trusted men stay outside, their voices, however, remain in my head, keeping me informed of everything that matters.
Luigia, my mother's housekeeper, is already standing by, waiting for my jacket, which I remove and hand to her before heading to the bathroom in the hall.
“The starters are already served cold, Vitto, you don't need to make us wait for hours every night just because you don't like hot food. They will be to your liking, whether you arrive at the scheduled timeper cena[19] or two hours later, as always, in fact.” Tizziano welcomes me in the dining room with the same complaint as always.
“Tizziano!”Mammaimmediately scolds him only to earn a flirtatious little smile and wink from her second son.
“Ciao![20]” I greet upon entry. The head of the table is the only seat still empty, and I occupy it, flanked bymio padre[21]on my right and Tizziano on my left.
“Ciao, figlio mio[22].” Sitting aftermio padre,Mammaresponds, extending her hand across the table to reach mine.
I lean in so she can kiss the back of my hand in a welcoming gesture. Soon after, with a wave, she tells the house staff to start serving dinner.
