29. Davide

Isit silently in my father's study as my brother paces back and forth across the room. His footsteps squeak a loose floorboard every lap and the sound is like the metronome for the anxiety coursing through the room.

"We have options," Father says. He's sitting behind his desk like a king before his court. I'll hand it to the old man, he's got the regal thing down pat, and he's good at keeping his outward expression calm.

But I know him better than that. He keeps fidgeting with a scrap of paper and occasionally clicks his pen without ever writing anything down. His hands can't stay still, not with the amount of nerves rolling along his skin right about now.

Santoro throws everyone off. Nobody wants to admit it, but the scars of what he did all those years ago still linger, nowhere more obvious than on my own damn skin.

"No, we don't," Simon says and pauses to pour himself a drink. It's only the three of us for now and nobody else in the Famiglia knows about this call just yet. "We can't let Santoro do this to us again. There's only one response, and that's to hunt him down and kill him as soon as fucking possible. We don't negotiate with cocksuckers."

"We both know that's rash," Father says, his voice a frustrated rumble, because I know he'd want nothing more than to put a bullet in his former best friend's head. "We're not ready for a war, and going after him right now will all but guarantee blood in the streets."

"Maybe that's exactly what we need," Simon argues, gesturing with his drink. "The only thing that's going to put Santoro back in his place is strength. You have to know that, Dad."

The two of them keep arguing as I get up and walk to the window. I can just make out my house across the street, and a little further on is the guest home. Stefania's safe with Giorgia right now, and I personally made sure Emilio and Bruno were both watching over them, but hearing Santoro's voice again after so long sent me into a minor spiral.

I don't know what I would've done if Stefania hadn't been there. While Santoro talked, I was lost in another panic attack, and she was the one that managed to help me sit down on the stoop. Once he'd made it clear what he was after, I hung up and sat there with my head between my knees while she rubbed my back until I was ready to get up on my own.

It wasn't the most dignified moment of my life. I don't love that my wife had to calm me down because I can't even hear Santoro's voice anymore without losing it. Every time I think I'm over this, every time I think I'm finally moving on, something happens to set me back, and I'm at the point where I wonder if I'll ever get better.

"Davide," Father says, his tone sharp, which means I must've missed him talking to me already.

I turn to face them. My brother's glaring at my father, and my father's looking at me like I'd better fall into line, and I'm not sure which way I want to go.

"At least we know Santoro definitely stole the guns," I say, speaking slowly, because my thoughts aren't fully formed on this yet. "And if he's calling to set up a deal for them, that means he doesn't plan on using them against us."

"We both know that's bullshit," Simon says, throwing his hands in the air and spilling some bourbon on the floor. "Santoro knows we're going to make a move against him eventually. He's not stupid enough to sell us the weapons we're going to use to kill him without some ulterior motive."

"Unless he's desperate to avoid a fight," Father says, banging his hands on his desk. "I know Luciano Santoro better than either of you, and I don't think he's foolish enough to want to go against our family. Even if he's gotten stronger over the years, he's still not a match."

Except Father might be wrong about that. He still sees the old Bianco Famiglia, the undisputed king of the Chicago underworld, except we're not that anymore. A dozen new gangs and crews have sprouted up over the years like weeds in sidewalk cracks, and they've collectively chipped away at our control and our power. We're at the weakest we've been in decades.

"We can't deal with him," Simon says, turning his back to me. "After what he did to Davide?—"

"Simon," Father snaps, his tone warning. "You know better than to talk about that." And he doesn't add, with Davide in the room.

"It's okay," I say and sit back down on the couch. "It's not like I've forgotten." I hold up my burned hand and flex the fingers, stretching the ugly, stiff skin.

"I'm sorry, brother, but it's the truth. We should've hunted Santoro down and killed him when we had the chance." Simon rubs his face, some of the fight draining from him at the bad memories.

"I'm not going to argue about this again," Father says, pointedly not looking at me. "We made our decisions back then and now we have to live with them. The fact is Santoro is a problem, but he's not a real threat. If we can negotiate with him and keep this situation from spiraling out of control, I think it's the right thing to do."

"And I think we have to hunt down every last member of his little Famiglia and kill them all." Simon looks over at me. "Seems like you're the tiebreaker. What do you say, brother? Want the revenge that's been denied you all these years?"

"Simon," Father scolds. "Watch yourself."

But I hold up my hands to stop them from arguing. My head's aching and there's still a low level of adrenaline coursing through my body, making me jittery and on edge.

I can understand both of their positions. War is extremely bad for mafia families; the more violence we commit, the more likely law enforcement is going to make our lives hell. I already have one brother in jail, and I don't need more.

But Simon's not wrong either. Santoro's up to something, and I don't think he'll respond to anything but violence. We don't know how strong he is, and maybe it's better to hit him now before he has more time to consolidate his forces.

"I don't like this any more than either of you do," I say through my teeth. "You think I like hearing from him again after all this time? But he called me because he thinks he can push me around still, and I won't let the bastard have that satisfaction. He says he wants to make a deal, and I'm willing to listen, if at least to figure out what game he's playing."

Simon groans. "Come on, Davide, that's insane. You're not getting anywhere near that piece of shit."

"He asked to meet with me, not with anyone else," I point out, and it's true. Santoro had been very specific. He wants me, not my father, not my brother, but me.

We share a connection, after all.

"You don't have to do that," Father says, leaning forward across his desk. "We can send someone else."

"I'm fine. I can handle it." Although I'm not sure that's true. "Make the calls. Set something up. I'll meet with Santoro and hear him out."

"This is a mistake," Simon says, shaking his head. "This is a huge mistake."

"If it goes wrong, then we'll kill him, just like he deserves." I stand and walk over to my brother. He gives me a grim smile when I squeeze his shoulder. "I know you just want what's best for me, but I need to do this."

"I'll make the calls," Father says, sounding exhausted, and I leave them to their work.

But as I head back to my house, I keep wondering over and over if I'm doing this for the wrong reasons.

Some sick part of me wants to see Uncle Luciano again. Not because I still look at him the way I did when I was a little kid. He was my favorite person in the world back then—always there no matter what, always joking around and playing with us, always willing to play catch when my father was too busy with Famiglia business, quick with a joke and a hug. He meant so much to me when I was a boy.

Which is what made his betrayal so horrifying.

And there's a part of me now that's afraid I'm trying to get those feelings back. Like if I can see Santoro again, maybe he'll be the man he used to be, back before everything went so fucking wrong. Even though I know that's pathetic and impossible, and I hate myself a little bit for it.

But regardless of my motivations, this is my decision, and I have to face my nightmare with my head held high or else succumb to it.