It was a haunting rhapsody, the musicians rhyming words to the eerie beat. Somewhere between the lyrics—religion, murder, secrets—the Fausti name was mentioned.
The music stopped there.
Luca opened his eyes, motioned toward the area where the music had been streaming from.
“Is this what we have become?” he said in Italian, the question not really a question at all. “A name in a song?”
None of us replied. We knew better. Only his voice was allowed during a meeting unless we were called upon. We were made to listen, not the other way around. He listened to his father; we were brought into this life to listen to him.
He continued to speak in Italian.
“We all agree then. We are more than an infamous name in a song. We are ancient, we are now, we are the future. Our name is feared as highly as it is respected. We kill when provoked. We have also built churches and libraries, schools and art centers, in our name.
“We must not forget our roots, because from them, our family tree is one of the greatest of time. You, my sons, each have a branch on that tree, roots planted in the soil of our history.
“We are being challenged. No powerful family is immune to this. But we take the hearts from these challengers and thrive on their blood.
“My brother has softened our armor. Lothario’s heart is strong, but he lives on power instead of respecting it. It is time for us to claim back what is rightfully ours and make it impenetrable again. Men who follow the lead of challengers before them will think twice, knowing the fate that awaits them.”
He looked straight at me. “Your wife. Your heart. My daughter. She is being threatened simply because you are my son, and the enemy is out to make a name for himself. A man that kills a Fausti has taken a prize no one can steal from him. His name is forever linked to ours in the books. This has never happened before in our history. Our name overshadows all. It will forever stay that way.”
From there, he went on to discuss some financial aspects of the business. He knew all, but he wanted to go over them again as a free man. He seemed impressed with the business dealings Rocco and I had formed together, with Dario’s architecture firm and Romeo’s security company.
The tentacles of our dealings stretched, though, from the Fausti center into many different endeavors.
Rocco and I went over this weekly, sometimes more, when the need called for it. He and I made a good team; we both had strong instincts. What worked and what didn’t for us.
For the most part, he took care of the small-print details. As a lawyer, he thrived on them. As a man who enjoyed jumping into a freezing cold ocean to swim out to save a stranded family or a shipwrecked crew, I couldn’t keep locked in by the wording in a contract. The sixth sense I had, what felt right and wrong, never failed me.
Though Rocco and I had created what existed between us, as far as business, Luca had to be briefed too. He didn’t seem to care for the fact that any money I made came from my own investments.
Less power he held over me.
Growing up, he offered support only once, but the stakes were made clear. Refusing to be in his debt, I never touched a penny of the money. The fat account in my name still drew interest.
After the conversation had been exhausted, we were close to what I came here for. The situation that presented itself out of the bathroom window while my wife bathed. The only situation I gave a fuck about.
Before he could bring it up, I did.
He stared at me a moment, reclining back in his chair, hands steepled to his chin. Some said he was so good looking he reminded them of the devil. I tended to think it had nothing to do with the physical myself.
“I should have been told,” I said, bending over my legs, my hands mimicking his. It would have been a lie to deny that his hands weren’t the same as mine. Palm to palm, they would be hard to tell apart. “She is my wife.”
He had known about the rat in the camp and had been keeping tabs on him, keeping me out of the loop. Another test, another way to prove that he was the captain of this ship, no matter if my wife’s life was at stake or not.
These were his grounds we were stomping on, and this new threat was no big threat to him. He had the utmost faith that we’d crush Giulio Cesare like he was no more than a bug underneath an expensive Italian shoe.
This was his big comeback, though, and all who assumed that the Fausti family had started to weaken were about to get a sudden shock.
I thought his entire comeback scheme was overkill. Mention the man’s name and people scattered like roaches thrust into bright burning light after being in the dank darkness. I had a feeling he meant to play this differently because of his sons; he wanted our names to be feared as much as his. No more challenges to our potential rule. We were his prodigies.
“Yes, there is no denying she is yours,” he said slowly, watching me. “We knew he would make his move at some point. Pressure can be a motivating factor. He was not out to harm her, just deliver the message—albeit frightening her in the process. In good time all will be set right. Until then, she is safe.”
He sat forward, resting his elbows on the desk, eyes firm on mine.
“Cesare’s behavior has made this personal. It will be dealt with as such.” Backing up a tad so he could rummage in his drawer, he pulled out a black box. The same kind of box Nemours had used to deliver his macabre threats.
This one was different.
