17. Matteo

17

I wait at the railing where Tasha tried to hide last night as Burley sees the doctor off. Why I'm starting to think of her as Tasha, I don't know. Woke up this morning and my first thought was of Tasha and not ‘Natasha Armstrong, daughter of the crooked politician who got my brother killed.' And now, after being in that room while?—

Burley comes in from the foyer, and I descend the stairs and meet him in the kitchen. "Stan's here?"

"He's waiting for you."

"Her travel documents?"

"They'll be ready by Thursday."

Good. "I'm going to the Don's. Seems I owe you some money."

"Yeah?" Burley nods but he doesn't seem thrilled.

Confirming Tasha's virginity just set our plan in motion. There's no stopping now. "Get Rosalia's contact to bring her some clothes. Pretty things. Underwear. Evening dresses. Ask Rosalia what she'll need and make it happen. Put it on the company card."

"Yes, boss."

I sense his mood. It's foul, but so is mine. Trust the Don to fuck with my life by asking me to tie up his shitty loose ends. No pussy should be any man's loose-end solution. "And feed her. Can't let her lose any weight. She'll be too skinny for most men's liking."

"Yes, boss."

Fuck. When my most trusted bodyguard and friend starts yes-bossing me, I'm two ticks away from blowing a fuse. None of this is negotiable, so I walk away and take the private elevator that has a couple of stops, some of them only accessible with a combination of high-tech security checks. There are perks to owning a building. When I walk into the garage, Stan has already pulled up the SUV and opens the back door for me.

As we drive through Boston and out to where the properties become larger, more exclusive and more like compounds, I go through the list on my phone. My mind is preoccupied by her, and before going into this meeting I need to make sure everything for Sicily is set up as I've discussed with my brothers. This trip isn't exactly going to be a walk in the park. Things could go phenomenally wrong. Once the Sicilian knows I've touched ground, I'll have to move quickly to get the Don's first job done.

The Don.

The exact moment I started referring to my father as the Don, and no longer as my dad, often plays out vividly in my mind. It was the last time I dared say no to him. Sometimes the scars on my back even sting, as if the whip connected with my flesh minutes ago. We went hunting, the one and only time he and I went on a dad-and-son trip. He wounded a deer with the exact intention of making it immobile so I could kill it by hand. I couldn't do it… until I did.

At age twelve I learned to never say no to the Don. After that whipping, I even ate the raw liver he knifed out for me, still steaming from the musky carcass. Warm, raw and iron-rich blood still tingles on my tongue, but over the years, those memories have become mixed with other tastes and smells.

I never defied him again. Not because I didn't want to, but if I didn't live up to his demands, my brothers would have to step in. I'm the first in the line of fire, and to my death I will protect them from him.

When I walk into the Don's office an hour later, Luca, Stephano, Benedict, and Dominic are already there, arguing about some red card handed to a player in a recent NFL game. The situation almost seems normal, as if we're a normal family, and when Bruno farts as I walk past him, I smirk.

"Bruno! Bruno, Bruno," the Don says, raising his hands with each repetition in exasperation. "Don't gas us out of the room, boy." He waves at the empty wingback that's been kept open for me and picks up a can of air freshener and sprays it liberally. "There, breathe easy."

It's quiet for a minute as I try not to breathe and take in my father's face. It's there, all right, the grey color of encroaching death on his skin. He doesn't stand so I don't see if he's lost weight or how weak he's become since our last face-to-face meeting.

"Let's hear your plan, Matteo," the Don says as he leans on the table and laces his fingers together.

"The Sicilian," I start, wanting to avoid talking about Tasha.

"Ah, Emilio Randazzo." The Don sneers with pleasure, finally uttering the dickhead's name. "The time has come."

I exhale slowly, disliking the interruption. "Plans are in place. I've scheduled a meeting with him which his agent confirmed, although fuck knows why he'd want to see me."

"He'll want to see you, trust me," the Don says.

Okay, whatever. "Dominic and I have a team on the ground that knows his location, so I plan to go in guns blazing." What can I say? Standard Mafia plan of action since day one.

The Don grunts. "Maybe take a slower approach. He's meeting you as an equal. As my representative. Do to him as he would do to me."

Meaning torture the fucker. "Noted."

"What's your security like?" the Don asks, as if a request to torture a man to death is par for the course.

"Dominic is putting things in place," I say. "The mole will let us in and out and provide me with weapons once I'm in the compound."

"And my team's already on the ground, scouting," Dominic says. "And we've secured our premises and staff."

"I'm going in under the guise of meeting a realtor to sell the farmhouse. That's the word we'll be spreading."

"Good." The Don nods. "Your exit plans?"

"Getting them off our scent by traveling to Croatia, then taking the jet to Cannes from there."

The Don taps with his forefingers against his lips. "You might get stranded. Cornered. Don Trapani is an old friend of mine. From my school days. He's always told me to come on vacation and use his yacht. It's available to you and might be less conspicuous."

I shift in my chair. As inconspicuous as I'd like to be, using a stranger's yacht isn't exactly top tier safety. "I'll see."

"Understand, Matteo, you can trust Don Trapani. He also wants Randazzo dead."

Fuck. I just want it done.

"What about the girl?" the Don asks. "I hear she's at your place."

Whoever has spoken out of line is getting a bullet in the head. I glance around the room, to see who my dad's informant was, but I'm met with blank but equally shocked faces. Who the fuck is the mole in my house?

"Ah, Matteo. Relax… relax. Peter Armstrong phoned me last night. That's how I know."

I unclench my fists. "Did he? Before or after dinner?"

"What do I care? What are your plans for her?"

A weighty silence hangs in the room before I finally say, "The doc was there this morning. She's untouched, so Luca and Stephano will run her auction. You can go live on your auction site." I glance at my brothers who nod, but don't say anything.

"With our high-profile clientele, we should have bids coming in quickly," Luca says. "One of us will meet with Matteo in Cannes for the exchange. We have regulars that fly in, and Cannes is central. We'll make it easy."

"Excellent," the Don huffs. "To think Armstrong begged for me to have mercy. Mercy for his little girl. From me, who almost lost two sons thanks to him." The Don leans back and laughs, but it breaks into an uncontrollable cough and blood-stained spittle on the napkin he reaches for.

There's an anxious knock on the door which we all ignore. Probably the full-time nurse who is looking after him now. I hope for her sake she didn't hear anything more than his coughing fit.

None of us move to help him. When he finally wheezes in a breath, he stands, and in that moment, I'm reminded of everything I've witnessed in the years I've been this man's puppet. He still has it in him. That cruelty that knows no bounds, of which I've become a by-product, functioning like a robot. Do as I say and do as I do was the Don's motto I was trained on.

"There will be no mercy," the Don hisses once he's fully recovered from his coughing fit. "Twelve years I've waited. Now bring me proof, Matteo. I have no more patience for Armstrong's bullshit." The Don drops back in his chair and waves us off, chest heaving with exertion. I stand and nod. My brothers follow suit. We've been dismissed. We don't talk as we file out of the office and take the broad corridor to the impressive foyer with its double winding staircase and elaborate flower decoration on the center table.

We don't need to talk. Too much blood has been spilled in his name, and not for the first time I acknowledge that I hate him. He killed our mother, the only being that ever cared for any of us. He cut the joy out of our lives intentionally to harden us for his service.

Two more things that I must do for him, and then I'm done.

Whatever the third thing is, I don't fucking care.

He can deal with that himself.