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1
MATTEO
I’ve been summoned to this office many times. In the beginning, often against my will. Now I could walk here blindfolded, which is a good thing. One day it will be mine.
I knock on the double wooden door, and it opens almost immediately. A nurse in scrubs ushers me in. She’s holding bagged blood samples in her hand, and I blink. Blood on the floor, on the leather couches, splattered against the walls—any day. Samples like that? Too fucking neat for the Don, also known as my father.
Our eyes meet across the warm expanse of his office and a shiver of premonition runs down my spine. Giuliano Scalera, Boston’s most notorious, most hated, most dangerous Mafia Don, God of his own underworld, has aged a decade in the month I haven’t seen him. The Don drops his gaze to where he’s rolling down his sleeve and I eye the doctor, who is packing away his stethoscope.
I know not to speak until we’re alone. This doctor and the nurse aren’t our usual service providers. The faint scent of medicinal alcohol drifts over as the Don shifts in his seat and stands with effort.
“Matteo Scalera. Mio figlio.”
My son. Countless times I’d wished I belonged to anybody else in the world but this man. Literally anybody else. I still don’t understand how a man could be so cruel to his own son, regardless of his own upbringing and the life he chose to lead. My brothers didn’t escape his cruelty either, but I learned early on to shield them where I could.
The doctor glances up at me as he takes his medical case in hand and gives me a curt nod. “I’ll call you with the results. You’ll have a lot to discuss.”
I step aside as the doctor makes his way out of the office. It’s an old-school gentleman’s study, all wood and leather, with bookshelves lining one wall. They are all just for show. The Scaleras aren’t exactly a scholarly bunch. Center stage is the massive desk that hides built-in automatic machine guns, ready to shoot the place to splinters. Above the massive fireplace hang three sets of moose antlers, each shot at sniper range. Another reminder not to fuck with Giuliano Scalera.
The door clicks behind me and as if he’s only become aware of my entry now, Bruno, my dad’s aged mutt and constant companion, lifts his head from where he’s napping on the Persian rug. Looking at his scruffy coat, you’d think the dog is more coyote than anything else, but his size suggests there’s some pit bull and mastiff blood in him. As a young pup, he was wild and kept chained to the Don’s chair. Bruno was too keen to bite, which was why the Don got him in the first place. Now the mutt blinks in my direction, eyes blind in old age, and rips a massive fart.
“Jesus Christ, Bruno,” the Don says as he sinks back into his leather chair. “Spare us.”
I chuckle, but we’ll need more than Bruno to break the tension in the room. “So, who’s going to kick the bucket first here? You or Bruno?”
My dad shoots me a grimace. “Don’t joke, Matteo. I’ve been given my notice.”
Fuck. I try to summon some sympathy, but that well is empty. That he’s alive and has survived his life to this point is a miracle. But then, if you kill every last person that stands in your path, you get your way.
The last thing I need is the power shift and strife that comes with the inevitable death of the Capo Crimini. As his first-born, I’m the natural heir to the Don’s empire. And I’ll kill to keep it. It’s the only way I know how to protect my brothers. “What’s wrong?” I ask, making a vague wave in the direction of his body.
“Cancer. Stage four. Here there and everywhere.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“When it’s time, it’s time. I’m not going to do chemo and all that shit.”
I nod. There’s no point in arguing with him. He knows what he wants. I also know he’s called me here alone for a reason. All our operations are running smoothly. The Don has been good at handing over the reins, and now just sits at the head of the table, listening to our monthly reports and giving the odd piece of advice.
“When are you going to tell the others?” Everything in Il Consiglio, the umbrella name of our operations, has always run on a need-to-know basis, but I bet my four brothers don’t know the Don is sick. Not that it matters. The last thing the Don can afford is to appear weak. He must be far along if he’s held out until now and is breaking the news to me first.
“Sit, Matteo.”
I wasn’t waiting for his invitation. I’d hoped this would be a quick in and out. With some resignation I sink into one of the wingbacks opposite his desk, and the leather huffs with my weight. Bruno comes over and sniffs where my hand hangs over the armrest, and I stroke his head in greeting. “What’s the plan?” I eventually ask when the Don just watches our interaction.
“I have three jobs I need you to wrap up for me. Business I’ve left unfinished.”
Unfinished? That’s new. Il Consiglio never leaves any job unfinished, and since his semi-retirement I’ve been the one to make sure there are no loose ends. Whatever these jobs entail, I already sense there’s going to be blood.
“Okay.” This is the last chance for me to prove to the Don that I’m worthy of taking over as head of Il Consiglio. Worse is, if I don’t do what he asks, it will be one of my brothers that gets to clean up his dirty business. It took years to get them settled in their niches that don’t require the sacrifices I need to make, and I’m keeping it that way. “Tell me more.”
“Vow that you’ll do this, Matteo. I can’t rest until it’s done.”
A charged silence fills the space between us. It’s one thing to make promises and know what you’re getting into, but making a vow to do something when you have no clue what it is, is dangerous. I have no choice. “I vow to do whatever you ask, Don Scalera.”
He nods. “Good. I need you to go deal with the Sicilian.”
Fuck.
