Matteo was covered in sweat, and even though he was bone-tired, he did it again, but this time with Amadeo, Rocco’s second-born, who was closer in age to Matteo. Amadeo didn’t like going up against Matteo, because Matteo didn’t show mercy.
He didn’t apologize for who he was or what he could do.
That was me, but that spark when a challenge presented itself, even when he felt he could barely stand on two feet—the acceptance of that was all my wife.
“Again!”
I didn’t hear it from my father, but an echo of the ballerina who had instilled that drive into my wife. Maja.
She’d once told me she’d never encountered another ballerina who not only had the talent to become the greatest ballerina to ever live, but the drive. It didn’t matter how many times she stopped Scarlett, or ordered her to do it, “Again!” Scarlett lifted herself back up and did it again, and with her chin held high.
“We are what we do,” Maja had once told me. “It is not the talent we are born with that makes us who we are—it is what we do with it. My granddaughter. She istheballerina, because every day, she strives to be better than whoshewas yesterday.”
The thought of my wife, how she struggled to breathe, how she struggled to put one foot in front of the other, to walk, every scar, ones seen and not, made the blood inside of me reach a point of no return.
I’d felt the heat from a man’s blood against my cold hand on a mountaintop in Italy, watched as it poured and stained the pure white snow red, felt the pulse of his heart in my hand, watched as steam purled around it from the clash of hot and cold—and that crave, that thirst for retribution would soon be mine again.
It would be an accumulation of years’ and years’ worth of wrongs against me and mine.
The ruthless would be doing this in honor of the romance. Of its better half.
Within seconds, Matteo had Amadeo against the wall, the tip of the wood at his throat. Amadeo breathed heavily, the pulse in his neck twitching like a wounded animal that knows it’s about to take its last breath, but he didn’t close his eyes.
He looked into the eyes of my son.
My son stared back. He recognized that his true opponent was not the male who shared blood with him, but the one he had to figure out how to control within himself.
Then, as if all the fight had drained out of him, Matteo let the sword drop. He took a step toward Amadeo and squeezed his shoulder. Amadeo swallowed hard, then took Matteo’s shoulder and squeezed back. Massimo took Matteo by the other shoulder and squeezed.
My throat felt tight, and when I looked up, Rocco’s face mirrored mine.
I nodded. He nodded. Then, coming across the room, he took me by the shoulder, squeezed, and led me out of the arena.
26
Brando
It was never a sure thing what Luca would say, or do, after he “requested” a word.
His request was only a formality. If he called, it was an order. But since he had this thing about respect, he expected you to show the same by showing up, since he was so kind to phrase it in a way that made it seem like you had a choice.
Of course, we always did. But that choice came with consequences, like all wrong ones do. Fuck. Sometimes right ones did too.
Even if he wouldn’t have requested to see me, I would have been in the same place—sitting in his office, watching as he stared out of the window at the kids on the lawn.
My father and I had something to talk about. Theratto.
He was being held on the property, and Rocco or Donato kept me informed of his status. How he was being treated.
It was just enough food, and then too little or too much.
Just enough blood shed, and then stitches to keep him from bleeding out.
It was the rose I’d sent for him in a wooden casket, with his name and expiration date on a toe tag, that sat next to wherever he was—reminding him of the date he would die.
When he saw my face, though, I wanted him in tip-top shape.
I wanted him healthy.
