Page 112 of Mafia Darling

Another older don said, “What happens if it turns into a conflict like the ’80s? We all barely survived.”

“That is a good point,” another don said. “We cannot afford to draw the attention of the Guardia or lose our soldiers.”

“I promise to keep the violence limited to Napoli. You have my word, on my oath, it will not bleed out into any of your territories.”

That seemed to satisfy the room. Borghese nodded. “We are in agreement, then. Ravazzani and D’Agostino will settle this amongst themselves. Let’s move on.”

“Wait,” I said, remaining on my feet, using my cane for balance. “I have two more related items of business.”

“Related to D’Agostino?”

“Yes.” Borghese gestured for me to proceed and I nodded my thanks. “It occurred to me,” I said, “as these things unfolded that D’Agostino could not be working alone. Enzo, he is ambitious but he is not smart, capisce? There had to be someone older, perhaps wiser, giving him advice. Convincing him I would make the perfect target. After all, I control the most here at this table. And in the end this was really about money, not my wife.”

Every eye tracked me as I began limping around the table. “So I began to think. Why would someone help D’Agostino? Who needed more money? Maybe someone was in debt from too much gambling or had an ex-wife demanding too much alimony? Or maybe a wife that constantly overspent her allowance.”

When I was directly behind Mommo, I said, “One thing my father taught me was never trust the friend who comes to you wearing a smile during a crisis. Because he is plotting your murder behind your back.”

Mommo froze, cigar half-way to his mouth—and that was when I pounced.

With a whoosh, I pulled my cane apart to reveal a thin blade, which I shoved directly against Mommo’s throat. Chairs scraped and a scuffle behind me signaled that Marco was holding back Mommo’s man. Ignoring everyone else, I kept the sweaty fuck in my grasp, the steel at his windpipe. “It was you, Mommo, my father’s friend, who turned against the Ravazzanis to help that miserable piece of shit.”

“I would never betray you,” Mommo choked out.

“Cazzata. You did—and the man in my crew, the one D’Agostino was blackmailing, confirmed it.”

Mommo tried to look at Borghese. “Let us settle this amongst ourselves. Let Ravazzani and I speak privately.”

“No,” I snapped, then leaned to whisper in Mommo’s ear. “Remember when you advised me not to let a woman make me weak?”

“Fausto—”

“But you let your wife make you weak, Mommo. She spends more than you make, doesn’t she? It’s never enough and you don’t have the balls to tell her no. So you decided to join with D’Agostino to steal from me, kidnapping my woman to distract me. Allora, does that sound like something a strong man would do?”

“You are a fool,” Mommo hissed. “Fucking that whore in your father’s house.”

“That is the difference between us, you miserable pig. My woman doesn’t make me weak. She makes me stronger, so strong I am willing to slit your throat right here in front of all these men.”

I jerked my arm and sliced through his throat, making certain to cut both carotid arteries. Dark red spurted out all over my hands and the table, a fountain of death, but no one moved as Mommo slumped forward. No one came to try and save him. They knew better.

Blood pooled onto the floor as I put my cane back together. Mommo’s gasps grew fainter as I returned to my seat. By the time I sat down, Mommo was dead.

Borghese’s eyes were big and round. “Ravazzani, you can’t—”

“Mommo and D’Agostino were working together, which means Mommo knew of the attempt on my life. That makes us enemies. And let me say this now, any other man who betrays me will be dealt with in a similar manner.”

The room was silent, except for the dripping of blood onto the old stone. Clearing my throat, I said, “I have one more matter for discussion, then I must return to Siderno.”

“You are not staying for the rest?” Borghese asked.

“No. However, I have something to tell all of you.” I forced myself to relax. “My son, Giulio, is gay.”

Disbelief stared back at me from every angle. Some of the expressions quickly turned to pity, because they knew what my revelation meant.

I continued, “He has chosen to leave, to live a life outside of our world. Though I continue to love him very much, he is no longer my heir, and has nothing to do with my family or our business. I ask that you all let him go freely, safely, to build a life he can be proud of.”

The men shifted uncomfortably. “Sì, sì,” one mumbled, while another said, “Certo.” Round and round it went, with every man agreeing to let my son live free of the ’Ndrangheta.

Borghese came to his feet and addressed the room. “I think we can all agree that times are changing. No one at this table should cast a stone unless they can be certain their house is not made of glass, eh? And besides, the business is what really matters.”

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