Page 34 of Bitter Poetry
Ettore is dangerous, of that I have no doubt.
“You understand I would prefer you not to be around Carmela,” he says bluntly, taking another draw on the cigar while subjecting me to a direct, unwavering stare. “You’re a good consigliere. Your brother is fitting in well—a good soldier. Jero speaks highly of him. What happened with Cedro was unfortunate. I know he matched the two of you, thinking to shield Carmela. But that time is over now. I need strong hands holding our concerns formerly under Jimmy.” Another draw on the cigar. Another fragrant cloud of smoke. “And I need my wife to be focused on her husband.”
I don’t fucking blink. In all my time working with Cedro, I never felt nor experienced anything close to a direct threat.
This isn’t an opportunity I can think over, nor can I decline.
I can even understand the stance he is taking. Doesn’t make me any less pissed about it. I was focused on ensuring I didn’t raise his suspicions. Not once did I stop to consider he would be worried about her.
Going down on her, making her come for me, ordering her to wear my necklace: none of that will fucking help her. She’s young and impressionable—she wears her feelings openly.
I have really fucked up.
“Understood. My current work managing the contracts?”
“Find ways to delegate. I would hate to lose your knowledge and want you to continue overseeing that side of the business.”
“And when would you expect me to start this new position?
“Tomorrow,” he says.
Fuck my life.
I’m packing essentials in my home office. Christian is watching me from the doorway, arms folded, scowling.
“What are you going to do?”
“As I’m told. I’m not looking to get offed, and he’s a man with an arm-long set of issues. My mere presence triggers a good number of them. All this aside, I don’t want to cause problems for Carmela. Jealous husbands with inferiority complexes don’t make for happy families. Better if I extract myself.”
The feeling of helplessness is strong, and I don’t like it one fucking bit. I’ve lived a coveted life: one I fucking loved. I watched and learned from my father for many years before I took over the position, one of power and influence, making connections and brokering deals, occasionally stepping in to cool tempers when the strong personalities so prevalent in this world got overheated.
I always stepped back before the blood spilled because a consigliere sat between the worlds and not in them, yet feeling invincible and untouchable because I had the Accardi family behind me.
Now the Accardi family is crumbling. Cedro is broken, his daughter is collateral, and the only person in my corner is Christian… and maybe one other.
“I told her all her firsts would be mine.”
Christian chuckles. “Yeah? When?”
I shouldn’t have said that out loud. My brother has a habit of taking statements I make literally.
“At the house,” I admit.
“Before or after you went down on her?”
“You’re not helping—and I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Well, that’s going to be very fucking difficult now you are moving out of the city.” His brows are bunched together like he’s working out how to make this happen.
“He’s firing blanks,” he continues. “That is going to become pretty fucking obvious soon now he’s got himself a young, fertile wife.”
“His inability to procreate is speculation. And you’re still not fucking helping, Chris.” I toss the file I’m holding back into the cabinet.
Fertile.Why does that word threaten my intentions to do the right thing, the only thing that won’t see me dead?
She was supposed to be my wife.I was happy to wait, to go slow, let her go to college and grow into herself, then we would marry, and the kids would come along.
Now I want to plant my seed inside her womb while she screams my name.
