My first stop after breakfast is the shower. I know I won’t get anything done before I take care of the problem inside my pants. Water cascades down my back as I fist my cock to a visual of Martina begging me to suck her tits. Her name spills past my lips as I come all over the marble wall, the orgasm so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.
This is turning into a complete disaster.
I’ve started to wonder if I’ve made a grave mistake trying to snap her out of her depression. I didn’t expect her to go from barely talking to saying things that make me feel more like a crazed beast than a man.
She liked the way I kissed her.
I like the idea of her begging on her knees. It doesn’t really matter what she’s begging for—her clothes off, an orgasm, my cock in her mouth. I’m quite sure I’d give her whatever she asked of me in that position. Thank God, her provocations have been limited to words instead of actions.
For now.
I turn the water off, grab a towel, and dry myself.
This has to stop. I have to stop this, but I’m not fooling her with my denials, and it’s a first. I’m a good liar. Excellent, even. Yet somehow, I’m not able to keep up my impenetrable mask around her.
When in the afternoon I get the summons from Sal, I feel a wave of relief. He wants to see me tomorrow and it’s a fine excuse to leave the castello. To put some distance between Martina and me.
It’s five am the following morning when I step out the front door. Sal wants to gather all of the capos and his inner circle together for a meeting. I don’t fall into either category, but I got an invite as well. My guess is it’s a sign he’s growing irritated at my lack of progress when it comes to Martina, and he wants to remind me who’s boss.
As if I could forget.
Sal’s not known for being particularly clever, but he’s paranoid, and after Damiano’s betrayal, even more so. The fact that he’s inviting me to this thing is a sign of desperation. I guess the mercenaries he’s hired to look for Martina haven’t gotten him the results that he’s wanted.
After Sal’s meeting, I’m going to see my father. That conversation won’t take long unless he’s in one of his rare sentimental moods. I need to know if Sal’s been asking my father about me, and that’s something that requires a face-to-face conversation. My father knows better than to say anything sensitive over the phone, especially when he might already know war is afoot. Not to mention, he might lie. It’s a good thing I can see right through his lies.
The gravel crunches under my leather shoes as I walk toward the garage. Speed is my primary consideration for today, so I grab the key to my Ferrari from its hook on the wall and slip inside the car. The drive from Perugia to Naples takes about four hours, but I can make it in three by leaving this early. Unless there’s bad traffic on the road, I should be back by midday.
When I pull out of the garage, I see Polo hurrying over. I wait for him to approach.
He places his palms on the hood of the car and meets my gaze. “Where are you going?”
“Casal and Naples. I’ll be back later today.”
“Take me with you.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Are you meeting with him today?”
Irritation makes my nape prickle. “No.”
Polo’s eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m going to see Nino.”
“Isn’t that nice? You can see your father whenever you want,” he says, his voice tense with barely contained anger. “I should be able to do the same.”
My hands tighten around the smooth leather of the wheel. “It’s too early for this, Polo.”
When he slaps the roof of the car with his palms, my patience runs out. I turn off the engine, get out, and stalk toward him until we’re chest to chest. Fear flashes inside his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. “I deserve to be a part of the clan as much as you do,” he says angrily. “Do you think I want to be a fucking gardener for the rest of my life? I want to be made.”
“It’s never going to happen. I made a promise to your mother, and I don’t intend on breaking it.”
“My mother’s dead. I can’t live the rest of my life in accordance to the dying wishes of a sick woman. You think your mother would have wanted this for you?” He takes a step back and spreads his arms. “You’re a fucking hypocrite, Gio. You’re no different than me, remember? But you seem to take pleasure in keeping me a rung below you.”
Does he really think this is about my fucking ego? I grab him by the collar of his shirt, my anger boiling over. “Watch your fucking tongue. I’m keeping you alive. Becoming a made man of the Casalesi is an early death sentence, especially for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” He makes a disbelieving scoff. “Just because I don’t know computers or all of that security bullshit like you doesn’t mean I can’t be valuable.”
“You’d be made a soldier, sent to the streets, and left to die.”
His eyes darken. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what the don will say once he meets me.”
The naive confidence in his gaze is so disappointing, I shove him away. “I know it’s never going to be what you want to hear. I joined the clan because I didn’t have a choice. You do, Polo.”
His expression turns into a grimace, and he spits on the ground. “What choice? What fucking choice?” He points his finger at me. “You’ve made my decision.”
I check my watch. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Yeah, you never do,” he grits out.
My eyes scan him over. “While I’m gone, make sure Martina doesn’t wander off anywhere. Keep an eye on her.”
“You can’t keep me here forever,” he seethes. “I’m not your prisoner. One day, I’ll walk out of this place, and you’ll wish you helped me when I asked for it.”
“I am helping you,” I say as I get back inside the car. “You’re just too blind to see it. Did you hear me? I said keep an eye on Mar—”
“I heard you. I’ll take care of your pet while you’re gone, don’t worry.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t like his fucking tone. But I also need to get on the damn road if I want to get back here before nightfall.
I decide to let it go. Polo’s angry, but he’ll calm down. He always does. We have too much in common, him and I. When I was his age, I had the same restlessness inside my blood, but I put everything into my work, burying myself in projects. Polo doesn’t have any place to channel it—something I suppose is on me to provide. I knew what I was signing up for when I took him on. Have I been neglecting my duty? I guess I always thought that working for Sal would be the last thing he’d want after what happened to his mother. It sure as fuck was the last thing I wanted, but at the time, it truly was the only way for me to survive.
I turn on the car. The more I let him entertain the idea of becoming a made man, the more invested he’s become in the fucking fantasy. Has he forgotten what it’s like on the streets of Secondigliano? Maybe his mother managed to somewhat insulate him from it growing up. She came from a wealthy family, and even after they’d kicked her out for getting pregnant out of wedlock, she had enough money to afford to live in one of the nicer buildings on the edge of the neighborhood. Polo has no fucking clue what clan business actually entails.
I should show him. Take him back there with me one time so that he can see what the life of a foot soldier looks like.
But I can’t now. Not when I already have my hands full with Martina.
As I pull out of the yard, I register the furious expression on Polo’s face in the rearview mirror, and it leaves a nagging feeling at the back of my head.
Everyone meets in Sal’s office a few doors down from the main church in Casal. At least four icons hang around the room, Jesus’s forlorn face gazing down at the twenty-something group of killers gathered in front of him.
The atmosphere is tense as we wait for Sal to appear. His consigliere, Calisto, stands by the desk and whispers something into Vito Pirozzi’s ear. Vito’s face is disfigured from a recent altercation with De Rossi involving a bowl of stew, and as he listens to Calisto, he itches the burn scar on his cheek. His younger brother, Nelo, isn’t here, but he can’t be far. The vultures are circling around the heart of Casal, waiting to see who’ll prevail. Our piece of shit don, or his unproven contender.
At last, the doors part, and Sal walks in dressed in one of his best suits. He’s impeccably groomed, a heavy watch shining on his wrist, his leather shoes so polished they gleam in the light.
Appearances matter more than most like to admit.
He’s trying to project his power so as to cement his infallibility. Most here are smart enough to see through it, but not all.
Calisto pulls out Sal’s chair, and everyone stands up a little bit straighter as they wait for the don to speak.
He surveys us with a slow and steady gaze, pausing on some faces longer than others. When he gets to me, he looks right into my eyes, as if they’re two peepholes inside my mind. I keep my features neutral until he moves on, but that penetrating look raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
I’ve learned to trust my instincts.
Something’s going on.
“Damiano De Rossi’s futile rebellion has entered its second week,” he begins. “I want to make it clear that agreeing to a meeting with him counts as betrayal in my books, and we all know how we punish traitors.”
A few men nod around the room.
“While his attempt to gain more power is as likely as our Vito here winning a beauty contest—” some chuckles break out while Vito frowns “—he’s managed to disrupt our business and anger our Algerian partners by denying them distribution in Ibiza.” Sal twists his watch. “Not to mention, word of his rebellion has reached some of our enemies, namely the Mallardo clan. Since they don’t have insight into the internal politics of the Casalesi, they think they’ll gain something by backing him.”
Of course they will. The only reason the Mallardos are our enemies is because Sal recently overstepped the decade-old borders between our territories to start building a factory on their side. He did it to show everyone how big his dick is. He got too arrogant to appreciate the Mallardos as valuable allies.
“This charade needs to end,” he concludes.
“What’s the plan, Don?” a capo standing beside me asks.
“De Rossi’s plan relies on his ability to deceive others. Sources tell me his pitch is that he’s capable of forging strong alliances and running this business better than I have for the past decade.” Sal scoffs. “It just shows he has no idea what it takes to lead the Casalesi. Our collective business enterprise might rival that of Fortune 500 conglomerates, but at our core, we are just men who will do whatever it takes to maintain the clan’s dominance. De Rossi is not one of us. Do any of you know why he never dared to challenge me before this?”
Vito crosses his arms over his chest. “His sister.”
“She is his weakness,” Sal says. “Now, he’s also got a wife, but she’s a less appealing target due to her connection to the Garzolo clan in New York. We don’t need any Americans sniffing around our turf. As soon as we have Martina De Rossi, this war will be over.”
“You really think he’ll just give it all up for her?” someone asks.
“I know it. He hid that little bitch—”
My posture firms. What the fuck did he just call her?
“But it won’t be long before I find her.” He turns to me. “Giorgio is one of the many men I have working on tracking Martina. You all know how talented he is, so I have no doubt the search will be over very soon.”
An image of me flexing my fists, flying across the room, and pummeling his face until all that’s left is bloody pulp plays inside my head. But no hint of the fantasy makes it to the outside of my skull. I give him a relaxed smile. “I look forward to bringing her to you.”
He nods and turns his attention to Calisto, whispering something into his ear.
After another fifteen minutes, the meeting wraps up. As I exit the building, I’m on high alert, so when I pull out of the parking lot, I notice the car following me immediately.
Cazzo.
Sal is suspicious of me.
I clench my jaw and spend the next ten minutes losing my tail before finally getting on the road to Naples.
As soon as I step onto the pavement of Secondigliano, the smells of the neighborhood slam into me like a shockwave.
The pizzeria on the first floor of the apartment building my father lives in has been producing pies since the seventies, when the complex was first built. The smells of grease, cheese, and tomato sauce work overtime to hide the smell of piss that soaks the sidewalks. There are two long benches right ahead of the main entrance of the building, and after eight p.m., they’re crowded with junkies shooting up fentanyl they manage to score a few streets over. Civilians don’t walk here afterhours unless they have a death wish or a sick kind of curiosity driving them to see how far human beings can fall.
The chef sees me through the window and gives me a curt nod. I respond with the same before I pass through the front door. The tempered glass has been cracked for the past few years, and no one seems too eager to get it fixed. What’s the point? It’ll only last a few days before someone breaks it again.
The apartment where I spent the first sixteen years of my life is located on the top floor.
Unit 404.
I knock.
There’s the jingle of a chain. Then the click of a lock.
The door swings open to reveal Nino Girardi, and one look at his yellowish white dress shirt and sagging dress pants is enough to make me want to turn around and leave.
I might call the man my father, but I’ve never felt any familial affection for him.
He disgusts me.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always told myself I’ll never be like him.
“Gio,” he says, his voice hoarse from cigarettes and age. “I was glad when you called. Come in.”
I follow him inside the apartment, and it’s like stepping back into a time machine. Nothing’s changed since I left at sixteen, everything just grew older. I wonder what Martina would think of me if she saw the shithole I grew up in.
Maybe I should have brought her with me. That would be a sure way to kill whatever attraction she feels toward me.
Dim overhead light, peeling linoleum floor, textured wallpaper that’s a few decades out of style, and bulky, worn furniture. Everything here seems to be in a state of decay, including my father.
There’s a photo of me and Mama when I was around eight hanging above the TV with some plastic flowers pinned above it. It’s the only photo in the entire apartment, and it feels like a shrine.
Nino talks about her now as if she was the love of his life, but when she was alive, he certainly didn’t treat her like that. The ways he wronged her…
I swallow and clench my jaw.
He’s had women since Mama passed. The man doesn’t know how to take care of himself. The last one left without a note or explanation, and he complained to me about it until I told him I didn’t give a fuck. Since then, he’s hired a maid to come in and clean up his mess.
He offers me some water, which I refuse since I’m not planning on staying long, and we sit down in the living room. He groans as he settles on the couch.
“How are you, son?”
I ignore his question. “When was the last time you spoke to Sal?”
“It’s been a while since you came by. I told you I’d like to see you more often, haven’t I? The neighbors at the end of the hallway moved out, and now there’s a family with three kids. Those brats never shut up. I’ve been meaning to go over and have a word with them. Maybe they don’t know who I am, being new and all. The previous neighbors knew I liked my quiet, and they respected that, but this couple is young, and I don’t like the way that husband looks at me, as if he’s better than me or something.”
He probably is, Father. It’s not fucking hard.
“I don’t have much time,” I tell him. “Has the don contacted you in the last two weeks?”
He plants his hands on his knees. “Yeah. About a week ago.”
“Why?”
“Your don values my opinion,” he says, a self-satisfied smirk appearing on his face.
Jesus. He’s as delusional as ever. My father is one of the clan’s submarines—men tasked with delivering weekly stipends to the lowest level foot soldiers and their families in a given territory. The positions are cushy and usually reserved for men past their prime, but my father scored the job when he was still relatively young.
He wanted it so fucking bad he was willing to give up the single shred of honor he was born with for it.
“Nice of him to check in. He’s a good man, that one. He pays me respect.”
My eyes widen in genuine disbelief. Is he fucking serious?
It takes him a few seconds to register the expression on my face, but when he does, the smirk melts away, and he rubs his knees awkwardly. “He’s changed, you know? He’s not like he was back then.”
Nino doesn’t actually know Sal, so it’s all bullshit. It’s easy to get into my father’s good graces. Treat him like he’s someone important, and he’ll eat right out of your hand. My father’s pride has always been his most precious possession, and Sal cracked that puzzle three decades ago.
“What was he asking about?”
“Told me about the De Rossi kid.” He scoffs. “They come and go, you know? Arrogant little fucks who think they know better than the man who gave them everything.”
“Did he ask you any questions?”
He throws his hand up. “Sure, Gio. He asked me lots. How I was doing here, the word among the soldiers and their families…” He raises his shoulders. “I might not be in Casal, but I’m well connected here.”
Sal couldn’t give a fuck about these people. The bottom rung is irrelevant and replaceable.
“What else?”
“He asked about how you were doing. Too bad I couldn’t tell him much since you never visit anymore.” He has the audacity to give me an accusing look.
“What did he want to know about me exactly?”
“He asked if I knew where you spent your time these days. I told him his guess was as good as mine. You’ve got a place only thirty minutes away from me, and still you ignore your old man.”
My small apartment on the outskirts of Naples is covered in cameras. No one could have gone in there without me knowing. But Sal could have put someone on surveillance, just to check if I’m ever around, and by now he knows I haven’t been there. Has he done the same at my apartment in Rome? If he’s trained his eye on me, he might already know I’m in none of my known residences, and with that tail he put on me…
My frown deepens. “That’s all?”
“That’s all, son. We talked some more about the word on the street. I told him his support is unwavering here, and then he got up to leave. He thanked me beautifully, Gio.” He jerks his chin toward the floor. “Look.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see a crate of wine bottles. Probably from one of Sal’s vineyards.
“Want to open one?” he asks.
I’d rather drink bleach. I stand and straighten out my suit jacket. “I have to go.”
“Already?”
I’m tempted to just walk out of there, but something pulls me back to look at him. I drink in his aging body, fat and wrinkled all over. He’s pushing seventy. Soon, he’ll be dead.
We lock eyes, and he quickly grows uncomfortable beneath my stare. Shame creeps into his expression. He knows exactly what’s on my mind whenever I look—really look—at him. Anger wraps around my heart and squeezes hard. When I’m done making Sal pay for what he did to my mother, it’ll be Nino’s turn.
“Goodbye, Father.”
I step outside, and shut the door behind me.
