Dante didn't have to look to know his father was there. A sensation entered with him, foreboding and serious. This… this was how the meetings went. No love. No trust. No humor. Dante used to admire that about his father, the way people sat up and paid attention when he appeared. He took it for respect, for admiration, for apprehension, but he realized in that moment that it was none of those. It was revulsion. It was anger.
It was hatred.
Foregoing a greeting, Primo slid into the last empty chair, sitting to the left of Moretti and directly across from Barsanti. His eyes scanned the men, stopping when they reached Dante. His stare was a void. There was nothing there. The man was hollow.
"Galante," Victor said. "I'm happy you could join us."
"That makes one of us," Primo said, tearing his eyes away from his son to turn to Victor. "Can we get this over with? I'd rather not be here."
Victor motioned toward him. "The floor is yours, if you want to start. I'm just a neutral party."
"There's nothing neutral about you, Brazzi."
"Ah, I beg to differ."
"You can beg any which way you want… it doesn't make a difference. You chose sides long ago. You've insulted my family. You've insulted me. Then you have the audacity to call this meeting, to order me here, as if I owe you anything. As if I owe anybody anything."
"You want to talk about insults, Galante? Let's talk about them."
Primo flippantly waved his direction as he sat back in his chair. "By all means, get it off your chest. Tell me where the bad man touched you."
"Matteo Barsanti. Enzo Barsanti. My grandsons. You insulted me when you targeted them, when you used my daughter's funeral as an opportunity to strike against the ones she loved."
"Careful, Brazzi… you're not sounding very neutral right now."
"It's simple human decency," Victor continued. "There's a mourning period that should be observed. It's a matter of respect. It's how real men act. They don't kick each other when they're down. They wait until their opponent stands up again so they can look them in the eyes, face-to-face, man-to-man, making the fight fair."
"All is fair in times of war," Primo said. "I've tried for years to end this, to confront this head on, and I've been shut down every time. Every single time! So don't talk to me about fighting fair. Don't talk to me about following unspoken rules. Don't talk to me about respect. Where's the respect for me? You lecture me for targeting a man's family, yet where's the rage over what has come of mine?"
"We grieve for your losses, Galante," Alfie chimed in, "but more bloodshed isn't the answer."
"Then tell me… what is the answer?"
"Forgiveness."
A manic laugh escaped Primo as he threw his hands up. "You expect me to forgive him after what he's done? Forgiveness has to be earned."
"He returned your son to you, did he not?" Victor asked, motioning toward Dante. "That's more than we can say about you."
Dante's stomach churned, not wanting to be dragged into the argument, but it was futile. Eyes shifted his direction. Primo regarded his son, staring him dead in the eyes as he said, "Returning something broken doesn't make me whole again. I was better off believing he died with honor than seeing him here today, sitting on the wrong side of this table."
Ouch.
"There's no wrong side of the table," Alfie said. "We're adults. Let's fucking act like it. We talk about leaving the kids out of it, yet we drag them in every chance we get. I hate to break it to you fellas, but there's no honor in killing someone's unarmed son. No honor in blowing them up with a fucking car bomb." Alfie's angry eyes darted between Barsanti and Galante, those words meant for both of them. "Enough is enough. I'm sick and tired of waking up every morning, wondering if today will be the day someone decides to go after my daughter instead of being man enough to come after me."
A throat cleared, Barsanti's calm voice cutting in. "If it's any consolation, Alfie, I'd never go after your little girl."
"I appreciate that, Bobby, because I'd have your balls if you did."
Dante's eyes narrowed as Barsanti laughed. He should've stayed out of it. He knew he needed to keep his mouth shut. But damn if his voice didn't chime in on its own. "You didn't have a problem killing someone's child before."
His voice somehow amped up the tension in the room. Expressions turned severe as Barsanti looked at him. "You want to have this conversation again? I'm more than happy to sit here and discuss it if you want, because I guarantee I'm not the only guilty party at this table. I'm not the only one responsible for something reprehensible. I'm not the only one who killed someone's son. So I advise you look deep within yourself, Galante, instead of pointing fingers, before I snap that fucking finger off."
Dante stood, pointing right at Barsanti's face. "I'd like to see you—"
"Gentlemen!" Victor shouted, shoving Dante into his chair. "We're losing sight of the point."
"What is the point?" Primo asked. "Because as entertaining as this is, I've had enough socializing to last me a lifetime."
"The point, Primo, is that you've crossed lines, lines that we can't tolerate being crossed. Certain things you just can't do. There are rules for a reason, rules that keep us all safe, and when you break those rules you endanger all of us. If you want to make a move, you have to consult the others."
"Fine," Primo said, his attention going to the heads of the five families, lingering on Gavin before turning to Barsanti. He stared the man dead in the face, mere feet from him, as he announced, "I call for a vote."
The men grumbled… all except Barsanti, who stared back, straight-faced. "What do you want?"
"Permission."
"Permission to do what?"
"Permission to kill you."
"Have you asked for permission before?"
"At least once a year."
"And what, they all deny you every time you call for a vote?"
"Oh no, they don't all deny me. There's only ever been one hold out."
"Huh…" Barsanti glanced around at the others, considering that, his gaze settling on Gavin. "And am I right to assume that man isn't with us today?"
"Seems he's had an unfortunate accident."
"Ah, yes, unfortunate how he accidentally caught a bullet from one of your men."
"This is bullshit," Alfie said. "We're not here to—"
"No," Barsanti said, stopping Alfie. "Rules are rules. He calls for a vote, and New York gives it to him. So let's do this." Turning in his chair, Barsanti's gaze skimmed along the head of the three families, not giving them a chance to chime in before answering for them. "We've got a yes, a yes, and another yes…"
Genova cleared his throat. "Barsanti, I'm not going to—"
"Oh, don't change your mind on account of me," Barsanti said. "A yes is a yes. No hard feelings."
Genova fell silent, the other two refusing to speak.
Barsanti turned to Gavin. "You can speak for your father today, if you'd like to take on that burden, or I can just answer for him…"
Gavin opened his mouth before closing it again, waving toward Barsanti as he shook his head, clearly not wanting to get involved. Barsanti turned back around to Primo, a grin on his lips as he said, "I guess it's your lucky day, Primo, because today you get a big resounding yes from Johnny Amaro."
Primo's eyes widened. "A yes?"
"Absolutely," Barsanti said. "So, there you go… permission granted, Primo."
Primo slouched in his chair. "I appreciate it."
Barsanti nodded. "I'm sure you do."
Silence overtook the room, nobody sure what to say. Barsanti grabbed the bottle of liquor, pouring himself a bit in a glass before offering it across the table, to Primo. "Scotch?"
Primo shrugged. "Why not?"
Dante ran his hands down his face. "What the fuck is happening?"
"I don't know," Victor said quietly, "but I don't like it."
"Well, then…" Alfie shoved his chair back to stand. "I need another Mimosa."
"O
f course you do, you big pussy," the head of the Buffalo family called out.
Laughter rang out, wiping away some of the tension. The others seemed to relax, but nothing eased Dante's anxiety. He tried to make sense of it, his thoughts jumbled as he watched his father, the man way too complacent, sitting there like he no longer had a care in the world. Every so often, Primo's eyes would shift Dante's way, a flickering glance. It wasn't until the third time it happened that Dante realized the man wasn't looking at him but past him. Turning his head, Dante glanced out the window, down onto the estate. Darkness cloaked everything but through it, he caught sight of a man dressed in all black strutting through the yard.
Victor turned, to look, and groaned. "The incompetence of some is astounding."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because my men know to hold their positions until they're dismissed."
Dante's stomach dropped. He turned back around once the figure was out of sight, again scanning the room, finding his father looking at him… for real that time. Primo picked up his scotch, taking a sip of it, the glass not enough to conceal the smile on his lips. Fuck.
"Something's wrong," Dante said.
A harrowing bang echoed from the floor below, violent enough to vibrate the floor beneath Dante's feet, the chandelier above them wildly shaking, the crystals clattering together. Dante's breath caught as he looked up at it, staring into the orange glow just as another rippling bang echoed through the house, carrying panicked voices along with it, followed by a hail of gunfire strong enough to make Dante's ears ring even from a distance.
There wasn't enough time to stop it.
Dante had seen it before.
He'd watched it happen.
He'd stood there, at The Place, witnessing one of Primo's sneak attacks. You throw the whole gauntlet at them and they don't know how to react.
The doors to the ballroom thrust open, men bursting in, cloaked in all black. They scattered, moving in disarray around the perimeter, as the figure front-and-center headed straight for them. Short, wearing a ski mask, carrying that AR-15. Of course. He jumped up on top of the table, kicking plates out of the way, knocking drinks over as he walked along it, finger squeezing the trigger and letting out a hail of gunfire into the ceiling above them, sending shards flying from the chandelier as bullets struck it. Men ducked from the spray, shielding themselves against the shrapnel, but nobody ran. Nobody cowered away. Nobody begged. They weren't like the men from The Place.
These men faced death every day.
"Gentlemen, it's in your best interest to cooperate," Umberto announced, removing his finger from the trigger when he stopped in front of Dante, staring down at him. "Play nice and maybe you'll get to go home tonight."
Dante caught his eye. "Bert."
"Dante." He nodded in greeting. "I passed along your message."
"I see that."
"Message?" Victor looked between them suspiciously. "What message?"
Alfie cleared his throat. "I told them to tell Galante that his son had nothing to say to him, and if they didn't like it, they could take it up with the Brazzi family."
"So here we are," Umberto said, waving around them as he continued stalking down the table, "taking it up with the Brazzi family."
Victor's angry eyes darted right to Primo as the man downed the rest of his scotch before setting the empty glass on the table. "Galante, you've got some nerve…"
"I do," Primo said. "A lot more nerve than the rest of you."
Primo stood, his hand held out. One of the men in black slipped a gun to him. Primo checked, making sure it was loaded as he strolled around the table, over to where Barsanti sat, pressing it to the back of the man's head. Umberto paced back and forth, watching them, making sure no one tried to intervene. Dante watched as Barsanti's eyes closed, his mouth furiously moving but his words too quiet to hear.
"Are you praying?" Primo asked. "You think that's going to stop me from blowing your brains all over this table? That I'm going to show you mercy?"
Barsanti's eyes opened again, his voice flat. "I don't want your mercy."
"Then what do you want?"
"Eye for an eye," Barsanti said. "Tooth for a tooth."
The second he said that, a gunshot went off, the loud bang echoing through the room as Primo angrily pulled the trigger, a bullet tearing right through the back of Barsanti's skull. He dropped, slamming into the table, but Primo didn't stop there. Umberto skidded to a stop in front of Gavin, damn near tripping as his boss unloaded bullet after bullet into Barsanti's body, unleashing his fury.
Before Umberto could get his footing, before he could pull himself together, someone reacted. It happened fast, the blink of an eye, the movement so instant Dante damn near missed it. Moretti swung, hitting the back of Umberto's knees, making his legs come out from under him. His ass hit the table with a bang, sending plates scattering. Moretti snatched up a steak knife before it clattered to the floor, gripping it firmly, and swung, jamming it right into the back of Umberto's hand when he tried to push himself up on the table. It sliced through his hand, the thrust so hard it pierced the table beneath, pinning him there as blood poured from the wound. A shriek tore from him as Moretti stood and snatched AR-15, slamming the butt of it right into Umberto's face. The crippling blow forced him to let go, to relinquish the gun to Moretti, who swung around, firing off a stream of bullets toward the door, sending the others scattering, fleeing from the room.
Moretti aimed the AR-15 at Primo's face. "You just had to do this when I was here."
Primo stared at him, motionless. "This isn't your fight."
"You're wrong," Moretti said, "because I have a wife to go home to, and anything that tries to stop me from doing that becomes my fight."
Dante's heart raced. Nobody else said a word, nobody moving. Nobody looked surprised, not even Gavin, who sat in the thick of it, watching with a blank expression, like none of it shocked him.
"You've got two choices," Moretti said, "the first being you drop the gun and walk out of here."
"The second?"
"You don't drop the gun and see how far you get," Moretti said. "Choose wisely."
Primo lowered his hand, and Dante relaxed a bit, but just like everything with his father, it changed like the flip of a switch. Primo moved, trying to get the upper hand, raising the gun fast, aiming right at Moretti's face and squeezing the trigger.
CLICK
Moretti just stood there, his expression blank. He looked bored.
Panic flashed in Primo's eyes as he frantically squeezed the trigger.
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK
His gaze darted around, looking for something. A weapon? An escape? A friend? Desperation poured from him in shaky breaths, but Moretti didn't appear sympathetic. Primo lowered the gun, tossing it on the table in a small pool of blood, resignation calming his expression. "Guess I was out of bullets."
"You wasted them," Moretti said, still aiming the AR-15 at him. "I counted."
"Check the house," Victor ordered then. "Find out where they went, how they got in here and why none of my men stopped them."
"I'm on it," Alfie said, jumping up, grabbing Dante's arm and yanking him out of his chair. "Come on, you shouldn't be here for this."
Dante didn't argue, watching over his shoulder as he followed Alfie to the door.
"Anything to say for yourself?" Victor asked, standing up, staring right at Primo.
Primo said nothing.
Sickness swirled inside of Dante, making every inch of him tremble. By the time they reached the stairs, Umberto's voice cried out, begging, a stream of "no, no, no," before rapid gunfire tore through the ballroom. The sound stalled Dante as he doubled over, dry heaving, but Alfie grabbed his arm again and made him keep moving.
The house was still, not a sign of anyone anywhere. Alfie armed himself, getting guns from Victor's office, before motioning out the front door. "Go get some air while we clean this up."
The world was a haze, and Dant
e was in a fucking daze, sitting on the front step of the house in the darkness, trying to breathe but bile burned his throat, making it suffocating. He put his head down, forcing back the sickness and pulling himself together.
A hand clutched his shoulder, Gavin sitting down beside him on the step. He said nothing, just staring off into space.
"No sentimental bullshit?" Dante asked.
"Not today," Gavin said. "Honestly, I'm not sure what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
"But I do."
Men exited the house, starting to leave, to handle business or clean up or do whatever the hell they needed to do to fix what had happened in that ballroom. A lot of bitter, grief-stricken soldiers would be running the streets of Manhattan now without anyone to control them.
Dante tensed when Moretti stalled in front of him. "My condolences."
Unwelcome tears stung Dante's eyes. "Excuse me?"
"Your father," Moretti said. "I gave him a choice, but he didn't take it. He forced my hand."
"You're offering condolences over a man you killed?"
"Regardless of the circumstances, it's always regretful when a son loses his father."
Dante was stunned. "Thank you."
Moretti nodded as he turned to Gavin. "Tell him."
Gavin said nothing in response.
"I'm serious, Amaro," Moretti said. "You tell him or I'll tell him myself, and none of us want that to happen."
Gavin covered his face with his hands, muttering, "I'm going to tell him."
Dante watched Moretti leave, silence surrounding them again.
"Look, Dante…"
Dante got to his feet, wanting to get out of there. "Whatever it is, you don't have to say anything."
"But I do." Gavin stood up. "For one, because if he has to come back and tell you himself, he'll probably shoot me, but more so because I just… I have to. I have to tell you. You deserve to know. Hell, I should've told you a long time ago. I should've let Gabby tell you when she wanted to. But I, uh… I don't know how you're going to take it. I don't know, maybe you'll be happy. You don't have a gun on you, right?"
Dante turned to Gavin. "Just tell me."