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Vincenzo
“You can’t do this to me!” she shouts as I make my way out the dining-room door.
I stop and glance at her over my shoulder.
“You’ll soon learn I can do what I want, when I want, to whomever I want.”
Her face falls, some of the determination disappearing. The fight in her is appealing, but she gives up too easily. Too many times she’s lost that fire too quickly. I want her to keep fighting. It’s the most entertainment I’ve had in a while. Outside of fucking, that is.
“Why are you doing this, Enzo?” It isn’t the first time she’s gotten emotional over this or the first time she’s asked. She can ask a hundred times and she’ll get the same answer each and every one of them.
“We’ve been over this. And I won’t repeat myself.”
I walk out of the room, ignoring her pleas. I hear her cries all the way up the stairs, and even after I lock myself in my office, I hear them echoing in my head.
I don’t feel bad. But I feel something.
It isn’t guilt.
But it’s something all right.
Why are her pleas affecting me? Why do I not thoroughly enjoy her being upset over this? Yes, I like the fight, but her being sad? Not into it.
All concern over her emotions is shut down when my cell phone rings.
Maximo Gaetano.
This can’t be good. I take a breath before answering the call.
“Long time no talk,” I say.
“That’s exactly the problem, Vincenzo.”
“How so?”
There are four families who handle the southwest part of the US, all of us co-existing thanks to some treaty my great-grandfather put into place with whoever was in charge of the other families at the time. There have been tiffs now and again, but nothing we haven’t been able to settle agreeably.
Everything has been quiet for a long time, even though my Uncle Tommaso has been clear about his hatred of the Kearney’s—the only Irish included in our pact. Thankfully, they don’t take it personally. The rest of us are Italian. But the Irish? Fuck ‘em.
However, the treaty stands, and the Irish brothers don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, so it’s respected by all. We know our boundaries; we do our own thing. The head of the families and their right-hand men, usually their sons, meet three times a year to talk business and go over whatever needs to be gone over. Issues. Territory. Changes.
The problem is, my father hasn’t attended a single meeting this past year, and the last one, the other families asked a lot of questions. Questions we couldn’t answer. Rather, questions we wouldn’t answer. It looks bad, but my hands are tied.
“Your father has been absent. We don’t like it.”
We as in they’ve all been meeting behind our backs. Wonderful.
“What does my father’s absence have to do with anything? Everything still stands. No one has crossed any lines.”
“Well, we can’t be sure about that. See, because you aren’t the one in charge. Neither are either of your brothers, both of whom I’ve spoken to over the last few days as well. We need to speak with Amadeo.”
“He’s ill.”
“So we keep hearing. Yet we have no proof.”
The fucking nerve of this guy.
“You want proof of my sick father? What do you want me to send you? A stool sample? Want him to piss in a cup?”
