It’s almost an anticlimax. As the first sleek black car pulls in through the gates, he emerges from the Fusco boundary to my left.
He barely acknowledges me at all, and my gut clenches as he stands next to Stefano. Even Luc glances at him, surprise flitting across his face.
He looks… like an heir. Impeccably dressed, as we all are, in his black shirt and trousers, open at the neck, he stands with his legs slightly apart, his eyes on the cars. His gaze clear.
As if… as if nothing has happened at all.
My mind clouds with confusion, but I purse my lips as Paul Morelli climbs out. Another car pulls in, then another, as Luc heads forward to greet his father. Paul claps him on the shoulder, the murmurs between the two men too soft for the rest of us to hear.
Salvatore Asante is next. I meet his eyes as he gets out, before they drop to the bandage covering his hand. A small smile curves my lips, and I let it happen, let him see it.
I have not forgotten my threat. Nor will I.
His face tightens, fury washing across his expression, but he ignores me as Stefano blocks my view, turning his attention to his son.
Frank V’Arezza is next, his head turning as he frowns. I glance over my shoulder, searching for Dante, but he’s still not here. When Frank looks at me in question, I shrug helplessly. “I haven’t seen him today.”
I glance over my shoulder at Domenico. “Have you heard from him?”
He shakes his head, and concern builds in my chest as a final car pulls through, a solid, silver vintage.
I can’t think about him now.
The door opens, and I suck in a breath as Matteo slides out first.
His dark glasses hide his eyes, his blonde hair shaved close to his head as he steps back, clasping his hands in front of him. The picture of a dedicated mafia man.
Cunt.
I can’t help flicking my eyes to the side, but Gio gives no impression that he’s even noticed Matteo’s presence. He just… stands there. And I wonder where Carlo Fusco is.
But my father is getting out, straightening his jacket and striding over to me. “Carissimo.”
He kisses me first on one cheek, then the other. But his greeting feels cool, perfunctory. “Greet your cugino, Caterina. Do not be rude.”
I’d rather swallow one of my own knives than be cordial to Matteo for a single fucking moment. But I force my head to turn. “Matteo.”
He strolls up to me, pulling off his glasses. His lips stretch out, wide and wet, into a grin, teeth gleaming with the platinum caps he had fitted especially, flashing in the morning light. I try not to cringe as his damp mouth meets my cheek, lingering for longer than necessary. “Looking a little battered,cugina.”
“You should see the other guy,” I return swiftly. My father barks out a laugh.
“Excellent. Let us go in, then.”
He doesn’t mention Dante’s absence, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Carlo?”
“He will not be attending.”
Gio gives nothing away, his face empty as he turns, following us.
As we walk, my father leans in. “The Fusco girl?”
“Handled.” My voice threatens to crack, and I clear my throat.
I sense his surprise as he glances across at me. As if he wasn’t expecting my answer. “I see.”
We reach the main hall, and I fall into step next to my father, Matteo on his other side. My heels, black today, click loudly on the marble as we walk in.
They acted quickly to clean up the carnage left behind last night. Rows of chairs face the front, all of them filled. This is not a voluntary meeting.
