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I walk into the conference-style room on the first floor of my father’s estate ten minutes before the meeting starts. Tardiness was one of those things he took as a personal offense, and over the years, it morphed into my every day. When the remaining five families show up today will determine their level of respect.
Standing at the head of the dark pine table, I catch Dante’s eye and give him a subtle nod. He unbuttons his suit coat and unlocks the holster so he has quicker access to his favorite gun.
I fold my arms across my chest, the material of my Tom Ford suit pulling taut. I watch the men filter in the room from underneath my lowered brows. I don’t have to look behind me to know that Dante is on edge. I can feel his frenetic energy swelling inside the small confines of this room.
I see him shift in my peripheral vision, and I clench my teeth at his outward display of unease. I know he’s just as torn on the idea of Cherry in the same house as these men as I am, but we didn’t have much of a choice.
Besides, if I’m going to lead them and start implementing some changes, then they’re going to have to get used to her at some point.
Or the idea of her, at least.
Anthony Romano is the last to walk in. He takes a seat, and his son, Tony, trails behind him. I nod to Dominic Marino, and he gets up to close the glass French doors.
I stare at each of the men around the table, looking for cracks in their facade, just one small wrinkle in their defenses. Sweat dotting their hairline, twitching fingers, shifting eyes—anything to help me get a read on who’s going to be a problem.
The remaining heads of the five families all sit with straight backs in their seats, their expressions fairly neutral.
After another thirty seconds, I uncross my arms, unbutton my jacket and sit down in the chair pulled out to my right. Dante remains standing behind me and slightly to the right, the perfect vantage point in this room.
It’s technically a formal dining room with a square twenty-seater table taking up most of the space in the center of the room. A brassy glass chandelier hangs directly over the middle of the heavy wood table.
Like so many of the rooms in this godforsaken house, it’s dark. Dark wood furniture, dark fixtures on the walls and ceiling, and in some rooms, like this one, dark-patterned wallpaper on the walls.
It feels like a fucking mausoleum.
I would just as soon burn it to the ground as I would use it, but since we’re all about appearances right now, here we are.
“Gentlemen. Thank you for coming.”
“Why are we here, Matteo?” Anthony Romano asks.
“And what are we doing about retribution for Angelo? It’s been weeks. Letting it go without bloodshed sends a message that we can’t afford right now,” Victor Gallo says.
“The attacks on our properties and businesses are changing, but they’re not stopping. What are we doing to mitigate the damages?” Dominic Marino asks.
“What about the empty seats? Who’s going to step up now that the entire Vitale line is gone?” Gallo asks.
His question isn’t entirely altruistic. The man has two daughters and no heir. Four months ago, they were trying to edge him out of his seat at the table.
I lean back and let them voice their questions without saying anything. If they get rattled by my silence, then so be it. It only takes a few minutes, but eventually the questions stop.
I look each man in the eye, including their seconds. “Angelo Rossi is dead and buried. A tragic situation of wrong place, wrong time during these times of conflict.”
Marino snorts. “Is that what we’re calling it now—a conflict?”
I lift my brow and look at him before scanning his sons, flanking him. I never had any issue with Dominic or his kids, but I know if I don’t establish respect as the boss right now, I’ll never get it from them. And then, we could have a mutiny.
“Do I need to remind you who I am? And before you answer that question, I want you to think very carefully about your answer.”
The threat doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. The air shifts then, a tangible feeling sliding over my skin and sparking against my nerve endings. My adrenaline kicks in, a steady pump into my veins as I brace.
“I’m the motherfucking boss.”
Dante shifts behind me, and I know without looking that he’s acutely aware of everyone in this room.
Anthony Romano clears his throat. “With all due respect, you can’t be the boss until you’re married. It’s in the foundation of the five families.”
2
