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Chapter One
Vincenzo
Eighteen years old…
Sunday dinner. A tradition turned requirement of the Bramante family. Over the years, the guests have dwindled to a mere four—my father, me, and my two brothers—as the family moved on to other areas or, unfortunately, died. When I was a child, the house was filled to the brim, the table never big enough to seat everyone—even though it’s a grand oak behemoth that fills the spacious dining room. The house was always roaring, so full of energy, you could hear it and feel it from outside the house. I remember my Uncle Tommaso made a comment about it every time he walked through the door.
“Our enemies won’t have the balls to show up at this house on a Sunday evening.”
Then he’d laugh. So would everyone else.
I knew what he meant as a child. Because even as a child, I knew the business my father was in. Maybe not the specifics and logistics. Maybe I didn’t fully understand, but I knew. Kids always know.
My father was a mafia man. He controlled the city and hurt people. He threatened them and blackmailed them for money. He did whatever he needed to get to the top. He held power over thousands.
He ruled. He was a king. His words were law.
His power made me feel power. And it was at the young age of eleven that I knew one day I would hold that power too.
Though, according to family rules, that power wasn’t mine to hold. Being the youngest son, you don’t get shit in this world. Nothing. It’s the eldest son who inherits everything, and only because he was born first.
At least, that’s how it usually goes. But my father? He likes to push limits. Do what he wants. Because no one dares to question him. He makes the rules and others obey.
“My sons,” my father begins as he reaches for his zippo. My brothers and I, along with my father, are in our usual seats at the Grand Oak on a particularly cold Sunday in August. Papa lights his cigar, puffing on it, the smoke swirling around him making him look the part of big bad villain. “Today is an important day.”
“Oh, yeah?” Marco says with a chuckle. Marco is the middle brother. The one who jokes too much. The one who can never keep a straight face, can’t control his temper, and doesn’t know when to not ask a question. “Why’s that, Papa?”
“Because today I give you the key to my empire.”
My brothers and I share a look. Theirs portraying the exact thing I’m thinking—what the hell is he talking about?
“Are you ill?” Elio, my oldest brother, asks carefully.
All four of us look alike. Naturally tanned skin. Dark hair and eyes. Tall. Fit.
My father shakes his head, taking another puff of the cigar. “I’m giving you the key, my sons, but it isn’t time to use it. Not yet.”
I reach for my wine, because wine is a staple in this Italian household, starting from the age of twelve. I gulp half the glass, skeptical of what my father may say. You never know what the man will come up with. He’s my father, I love and respect him, but sometimes the man makes horrible fucking decisions. Solely because he can. There are no limits for him, and that’s dangerous.
I keep my gaze on my father as he looks at my two oldest brothers, who are sitting across from me and on Papa’s left side. He slowly turns his gaze to me. The man rarely smiles. Even when he’s happy, smiling isn’t something he does. Now is no different.
“I am so proud of you three. You’ve grown in to strong and respectable men. If your mother were here today, she’d glow with pride.” My father takes a few puffs of his cigar, reaching for his wine and finishing the glass. “In every parent’s life, there is a time when we must let our children go. We must trust we’ve done our duty and set them free into the world. Of course, for the Bramantes, things are a little different.” He chuckles, still unsmiling, and fills his wine glass, emptying the third bottle on the table. “Our family will always be close, and it will remain that way until we no longer walk this earth. However, just as when I die, my empire will be passed down to you, the same must be said for the three of you.”
He looks from me, to Marco, to Elio.
“I’ve been lost in my business. I forget that children have two parents for a reason, and I’ve not picked up the slack that fell behind when your mother passed away. The caring and nurturing you would have gotten from her?” He shakes his head. “I am sorry you’ve missed out on that. But you boys, you’re adults now. All of you. My youngest son is eighteen now. Elio, you’ve been a man for years, yet you have not taken a wife. None of you have. Not a fiancé. No children. Where will this legacy I’ve created go after you are gone?”
Elio watches my father intently, his dark eyebrows furrowed. Marco looks more shocked than anything, like how dare our father speak of such things? But didn’t they expect this conversation to happen? I knew it would come. Do my brothers not pay attention to the inner workings of the other mafia families? The ones that are part of the treaty? Do they not see the branches that have been formed, tightening their family bond further?
I’m certain if my father hadn’t made such a name for himself, if he weren’t so feared among the other families for being ruthless, we wouldn’t be here today. Because it’s just us. The other families have many. Brothers. Uncles. Sons. Cousins. The lists go on. But for the Bramantes? At least in this area, it is only Papa and his three boys. Of course there are the bodyguards, runners, and other smaller fish. But the foundation? It’s only the four of us.
“I’d considered an arranged marriage many times, but it’s not for the Bramantes. We don’t do things that way. Why should we give what we’ve made to another family for nothing? There is no truth there. No honestly. Those women would likely stab you in the back the moment they could. No, arranged marriage isn’t for my boys. Not for Bramante blood.”
“Papa, if we wanted to marry, we’d have done so by now,” Marco says.
My father shakes his head, taking more puffs of that cigar. “My son, without a wife, you have no children. You get nothing. This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what’s necessary for the family. Do you understand?”
Marco frowns but nods. “Yes, Papa.”
