Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

MATTEO

I sit in the upper room of La Luna Rossa, one of our many nightclubs. It's quiet at this time of the day.

Vito "The Hammer" Rossi is to my right, a wall of muscle and dark intensity, his presence as unyielding as his grip. Across from me sits Enzo "The Whisper" Moretti, a wiry figure with a sly grin and sharp eyes, his soft voice almost always carrying vital information.

To Vito's left is Marco "The Ghost" Mancini, a lean, pale man who moves unseen and strikes without warning. Finally, Salvatore "The Lion" Di Carlo, with his commanding presence and fierce gaze, exudes a raw power that makes him both respected and feared.

Elio walks in and leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his wild hair hanging down almost across his eyes. It's like he does it intentionally to differentiate himself from the rest of us, who are more classical Italian.

"Nice of you to join us," I say.

"Sorry, bro. I had to pick up a big shipment of TNT from the docks. You know how it is."

"That's not funny," I growl. "The Gallos poisoned our city with that shit."

"You're right. Bad joke. Why the sudden meet, though?"

I gesture to Enzo. "There have been whispers."

Enzo nods. "The other night, when we made certain moves…" Everybody knows he's talking about the fire and the massacre of the Gallos. "It seems we missed a task on our to-do list."

"Yeah, what's that?" Luca asks.

"Orlando Gallo," Enzo says. "Cousin to the Don. He meant little when the Gallos had all their men. He was a low-flier, a bottom-feeder, but now, the few remaining Gallo men are rallying around him."

"What's the evidence?" I say.

"Three TNT overdoses last night," Enzo goes on. "One of my homeless fellas saw three Italians cruising the neighborhood."

"That's weak," Elio mutters.

The Whisper glances at my brother sharply. "That's not all. Check this out." He reaches into his pocket, unfolds a piece of paper, and drops it on the table. Luca wanders over from the wall, and the rest of us lean in.

"Fucking scumbags," I growl.

None of us flinch away from it. Our world is darkness. It's our job to face it, but that doesn't stop a sick feeling from twisting through me.

The photo shows a pale stomach in the camera's flash. The shade of the skin tells me the person is already dead. Dried blood clings to their skin, spelling three words.

Gallo Was Here .

"How do we know this was Orlando and not another Gallo?" Salvatore says in his usual slow drawl.

"It's the only logical person it could be," The Whisper says. "All the others are … indisposed."

Burned to a crisp or with bullets buried in their skulls, he means.

"Could be a copycat," Elio murmurs.

The Whisper nods. "We need to gather more information. But if I had to bet on it, I'd say this is Orlando."

"Do we have any information about what Orlando was doing until last night?" I ask.

"I'm gathering that now," The Whisper says.

"I can visit whatever little hole he was staying in," Vito says sternly, the big man ready for violence. "I will get answers."

I nod. "In the meantime, we need to send a message. Any dealer found slinging that TNT shit loses an arm."

Elio narrows his eyes at me.

"What?" I growl.

All the men turn to him. We're all savages. Elio is, too. He did what he had to do on the night of the fire. He shot, and he stabbed, and he poured gasoline all over the place, but that doesn't mean he's as comfortable with it as the rest of us. Maybe it's his more artistic nature. He's always been more in tune with his emotions.

"Well?" I go on when he just looks at me.

"What if they're coercing the dealers?" Elio says. "Maybe some idiot kid is trying to keep his mom afloat. Mayb?—"

"It doesn't matter," I snap. "We have to shut this down early. Do you have any idea how many drugs were spiked with that shit? How many people OD'd? How many orphans were made? All in our fucking city ."

"I don't disagree that we need to do something," Elio says, "but hell, this just seems drastic. That's all."

"Drastic," I repeat, shaking my head. "This is what's happening. Put the word out. All of you. I want information on Orlando ASAP."

"I'll get to work then," my four main lieutenants say, standing up. Elio lingers behind, his hands stuffed in his pockets and a pout on his face.

"You're not smiling anymore," Elio points out.

"Not much to smile about," I grunt. "The last thing we need is round two with this shit. People will die, E. Countless people."

"So you'll amputate some low-level dealers."

"I'd beat them to death with my bare hands if it meant keeping the Gallos gone. If you ever become Don, you'll understand. Our old man didn't work half his life and sacrifice so much for us to get soft and let this city fall into ruin."

Elio sighs. "The threat could be enough, anyway. Our name means something."

"No," I say because he needs to understand how brutal this life really is. "Somebody will slip. We'll catch them, and we'll have to make good on our promise so that nobody else tries this ever again." I stand up. "You're welcome to resign as my consigliere if you're uncomfortable with this."

"Go fuck yourself," he growls, turning away.

Wait, I'm sorry , I almost say, but I can't make myself say the words. I should, though. Elio has done nothing except support me and the Family. He hates violence even more than I do, and yet he always does what he needs to. He's the best man I know, and he deserves respect.

My head's a mess between Bella playing on my mind and this slice of misery.

Soon, it's time to return to legitimate work at DeLuca Investments. It's our biggest legitimate business—a money-management firm allowing us to launder and earn legal funds simultaneously.

I spend the afternoon liaising with various teams, strategically planning a large transfer for one of our biggest clients. Sometimes, sitting at this desk, I can almost imagine I'm not the Don. I haven't killed people. I can pretend that regular people like Bella wouldn't go running if they knew who and what I actually was.

As the work drags on, I think of earlier, sitting in Bella's apartment and listening to the song they were practicing. It took me a while to place it. It was clear, sitting outside the room, when Bella was playing and when it was Sofia.

Whenever Bella took her bow, I felt a strong urge to push the bedroom door open and watch her again. Taking out my phone, I clench my teeth, feeling like a stupid teenager. After everything I've done, my chest gets tight over a text .

I can't get that Paganini piece out of my head.

Once I click send, I work for another ninety minutes before my phone vibrates. I snatch it up instantly.

Yes, it's quite a piece, she replies. The technicality is impressive, but I've noticed something about how most violinists play it.

There's something impressive about her confidence level and how she feels free to offer her opinion on such a well-respected piece of work.

What do you mean? I ask.

Many performers focus so much on the technical challenges that they sometimes miss the expressive potential. It can come across as cold, almost mechanical.

A smile spreads across my lips. At the same moment, a shaft of sunlight spears into the office. If I were superstitious, I'd almost think the two were connected.

Interesting. So, do you think they emphasize the virtuosity over the emotion?

Exactly! I imagine her bubbling with excitement, maybe causing those ample tits of hers to bounce. It's like they prioritize the flashy parts over the nuances. There's a depth to the music that's often overlooked. The shifts in dynamics and phrasing can convey so much more.

That makes sense. Do you have an example of a performance that does it right?

There are a few, she replies. Some older recordings capture the feeling better, but it's still rare. It's tricky because the piece is technically demanding, but it also needs a kind of … lyrical touch?

My smile widens even more. When I took a serious interest in this, it was always for Sofia. I don't hate the music, but I never loved it either. Yet with Bella, somehow, I care.

So it's more about balancing the technical and emotional aspects? I ask.

Yes, that's it! Again, I can see her glowing with enthusiasm and imagine her body shivering temptingly. There's a sort of storytelling in the piece that gets lost when it's played too precisely. It needs a bit of freedom, a bit of personality.

I get what you mean. It's like they're playing all the notes but missing its soul.

It's like reciting poetry without feeling the words, she replies, and suddenly, I wish she was here. I wouldn't overthink it. I wouldn't care that she's a stranger. I'd pull her into my lap, hold her, and savor her vivaciousness.

I'd love to hear an example of what you're describing. Do you have a performance in mind you could share?

I delete the message, wondering if I should cross this line. So far, we're still within the realms of music. Whatever happens, we have that as an excuse, a get-out-of-jail-free card if things get too … What? Romantic? I almost laugh at myself just thinking about it.

Instead, I write, It sounds like you're the expert, Bella. You'll have to send me a video of you playing it sometime.

After clicking send, I wonder if I've made a mistake. Sofia has finally found somebody who can bring out the best in her. Even after two days, I've noticed a difference in my little sister. If I get close to Bella, at some point, it will erupt, and then Sofia will be back to secluding herself in her room—back to being lonely because of the life she was born into.

I can send you a video later, but I haven't got one prepared and ready to go.

I swallow, my chest thumping. It's innocent, I try to tell myself. Or she's just trying to keep her highest-paying client sweet. Maybe I'm taking advantage without realizing or even meaning to.

I almost want to tell her yes, send a video, but wear the sexiest outfit she can find. Something lacy that hints at the curviness of her body, the fabric fluttering around her thickness, begging me to grab her, to—No, stop.

Record one just for me, then, I text, even if it's against my better judgment.