I did.
“You are not in control of this family.” He pointed to his chest. “I am. Now let us start this meeting.”
Leandro came in hot. He stood, pacing the room, discussing all that had happened since the switch of power. He was throwing serious accusations around aboutZioLuca, and after, they started to discuss what had happened on the “Bridge of Fists.”
Valerio had already spoke to Aristide and me about it the night we went to Galileo’s Club ROME. I believed Valerio’s accounts more than I did Leandro’s. He had a habit of taking the truth and making it seem much more appealing to my father—whether it was in my father’s best light or not.
If not, Leandro knew it would anger him. Mamma did the same.
It was not even bending the truth but having a talent of being able to strengthen it by their words.
My father’s eyes lit up when Leandro said thatZioLuca had been wounded, but it went out some when he found out he was still alive.
He sighed. “My brother has his fist around this family’s neck.”
“Fists can be broken!” Leandro shouted.
“Calm down, son,” my father said in Italian. “Now is not the time to exhaust yourself with anger. We are at a crossroads. We cannot just rush down one without planning.” He looked down at himself and sighed again, and I thought I heard him say, “least of all me.” “We must take into consideration the family’s support. I am assuming after what happened to me, most of them are in support of Luca.”
Leandro stopped in front of my father’s bed and hung his head. “Sì, Padre.”
Even though my father did not move, it seemed like he sat back in bed and allowed it to almost swallow him whole. His eyes went distant for a second before they came back to us.
“We should—” Leandro started.
My father held a hand up.
“Fight the entire family,” I suggested in Italian.
My father’s eyes snapped to mine. Aristide narrowed his eyes at me in a way that clearly saidsilence is worth your peace,no matter how much it costs, and Leandro did a slow turn toward me, his eyes full of hate and anger. He always was a hotheaded bull, even as a kid.
Leandro held a hand towards me. “You think this is a joke! You are making a mockery of our family, our ways. You are over there pouting like a baby!” He drew his hands into fists and rubbed them against his eyes, makingwaaa waa waasounds, like I was crying. When he pulled them down, they were still balled into fists.
“You have never taken your role as first born seriously. Neither has he.” He raised a fist toward Aristide. “This is because he follows a fool! You sit there and add nothing of worth to this conversation. All because you are hooked on one woman. What are you pouting for? You are getting two for one. A gorgeous wife and a—”
I flew out of the seat and grabbed him by the collar, crashing his back against the window. We hit a vase on a table. It cracked, and releasing one hand, I snatched a sharp-edged piece and held it to his throat.
“One more time,” I seethed in his face in Italian. “Disrespect her once more and you will challenge me.” I touched the glass to his chin, ready to spill lifeblood.
I would never fight Leandro. I would just kill him. As young men, we would sword fight, and I knew what a vicious opponent he was.
A few seconds ticked by, and since he didn’t move, I took it as his surrender.
He might have been merciless with a sword, but I was fast and smart. Those qualities bested impulsive any day.
“Meeting over,” my father said, his voice sharp and full of command.
I dropped the glass and backed up, fixing my suit. When I turned, I had an audience. Mamma and Elettra stood close to the door. Aristide’s eyes were hard on the wall. My father’s were hard on me.
He shook his head, and as I left, he said, “My son is the same as my father.” He sighed long and hard. “Such a waste.”
TWENTY-SIX
NAZZARENO
I am seven years old,and my name is Nazzareno Piero Fausti. My father is Lothario Leone Fausti, and his father is Marzio Piero Fausti.
Today, I pick up a sword and learn how to use it.
