Page 43 of Deal with the Devil
Sofia ducks in almost unnoticed among them, her thick hair disheveled like she’s been up to no good. She’s another one he has a fondness for who I can’t stand. He views her like a little sister while I view her as nothing more than an inconvenient nuisance.
None of the people at this table have ever truly been in my corner. I came into this world alone, rose up the ranks on my own, and I’ll go out the same way.
Why should my reign be any different?
Don Vito is last to arrive. The doors open and he hobbles through, leaning heavily on his cane. He lurches forward like a dying thing, taking only a few steps at a time before a coughing fit attacks him and forces him to stop. He hacks intoa handkerchief monogrammed with a golden B for the family name and then tucks it back into his pocket.
Everybody watches him as he sinks into his chair. They track him like a bunch of vultures waiting for the moment he falls for the last time, even his own daughter.
Yet I’m the only one honest enough to wear my intentions out in the open.
The mask tells everybody who I really am. It reveals I am not here under any sentimental illusion and don’t give a damn about forced social etiquette.
It won’t be long before I handle the situation I came here for, then I’ll return to the empire I’m building in Newport and soon seize the rest of the family too. But that will have to wait until after tonight and after I execute my plan.
Dinner begins with the clatter of silverware and exchange of tense looks across the table. No one dares speak at first as the staff moves between us, putting the final touches on our meal, pouring more wine or fulfilling a special request for extra parmesan.
I forgo the meal altogether for a glass of amaro averna, a dark and bittersweet liqueur served over ice.
Anthony Senior finally grows tired of the tense silence and decides to make conversation, a fork and steak knife in either hand as he chews on his seared tagliata.
“I heard about the new warehouse,” he says. “It seems like a better location than the old place. I’m sure it’ll make things run smoother.”
“The operation is already running smoothly.” I spare him no glance, taking a slow sip of my drink. “Unless you’ve found a problem that didn’t exist before.”
“You and I both know there’s always room for improvement.”
“You’re speaking from personal experience. But for your operations only,” I say plainly. “The fact of the matter is,Anthony, you ran things in Newport a few generations ago. Times have changed. My operation is the most successful one the family has ever seen. I have brought record profit. If anyone is qualified to speak of what is and isn’t running smoothly, it’s me.”
Through the corner of my eye, I can see his large fists clench on the table. The vein in his temple throbs, his wide face reddening. It makes for a jarring contrast with his snow white beard.
But he falls short of thinking up a rebuttal.
So his son decides to fight his father’s battle for him. Anthony Junior wipes at his mouth with his dinner napkin and tosses it on the table, leaning back in his chair like he’s lounging at the VIP section of some club.
“At least when my father was running things, the Tucos weren’t raiding our shit.”
Olivia chokes on the wine she’s drinking, spilling some of the dark red liquid down the front of her satin dress. Sofia stiffens in her chair, her eyes going wide. Even Anthony Senior seems taken aback by his son’s brazenness, glancing over in his direction.
I turn my head slowly, letting my gaze settle on Anthony Junior with the kind of quiet, measured calculation that has made grown men piss themselves in back alleys. “I’ve seen men like you before. Loud mouths with empty heads that always have a lot to say. They never last long.”
He scoffs, his chest puffing up.
“I have a feeling you won’t either,” I finish.
Anthony Senior slams both fists on the table and makes the silverware jump. “Don’t you fucking threaten my son!” he barks, rising halfway out of his seat. “Pensi di gestire le cose dietro quella maschera ma ti sbagli!”
“Pa, I don’t need you to fight my battles,” his son mumbles. He pushes his chair back as if to stop his father from lunging at me. “I can handle my own.”
“Sit down!” Olivia shrieks. “You’re both acting like animals!”
Sofia’s in tears, ever the distressed mafia princess. She wipes away at her face with a dinner napkin and pulls out her phone, presumably to text her latest boyfriend.
And then there’s Don Vito—he watches from the head of the table until another coughing fit takes over and his whole frame shudders. He grapples for his handkerchief, wheezing into the satin cloth like he can hardly breathe. He sounds so weak, like he’s barely hanging on.
I remain where I am, glass in hand. The family implodes around me, supposedly so powerful yet they don’t even realize how they’ve given up control.
I’m already in the driver’s seat.
