When I shut off my phone, I set a chain of events in motion that would terrify a lesser man.
Dad was not happy that I cut him off. I shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when he showed up at my penthouse door twenty minutes later, with Javier in tow.
Tito Mangione has been chewing my ass for a solid hour with no end in sight. Javier just sits and watches, looking a bit bored. There’s really no reason for him to be here—I’d never attack Dad, no matter how angry I might be—but I assume the big man’s presence is meant to intimidate me.
Joke’s on Dad with that one. Javier is my best friend’s dad; I don’t find him intimidating in the slightest. Sure, he’s big, bulky, and tatted up, with the kind of muscles that pop even in the designer suits he wears, but that doesn’t scare me. I grew up around gangsters and guards.
Bring it on.
Of course, if I was a smart man, I’d be intimidated by Dad’s rampage alone. With hisGodfathervibes—think if Al Pacino wastaller, more attractive, and built like a Mack truck—and enough signet rings on each hand to count as very expensive brass knuckles, Dad could lay me flat in no time. I might be fit, but there’s no doubt that Dad has me beat in the muscle department. Add in an extra twenty years of experience and enough fury to burn the city down, and I should be quaking in my designer shoes.
So why am I more annoyed than anything?
When Dad finally pauses long enough for me to get a word in, I open my mouth and get ready to light my own fire.
“Are you done yet, Tito? Because I’ve got things to do.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Dad’s face gets even redder with that remark. I think I just found his last nerve, and I stomped it into oblivion.
This may have been a mistake, but I’m already committed. No turning back now.
I expect more screaming. Some furniture being thrown, maybe a few punches in the mix, none of which I can’t handle.
What I don’t expect is for Dad to dismiss Javier.
When Aron’s dad leaves on my dad’s disturbingly quiet order, I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life. Dad never does anything without Javier or another trusted guard by his side. If he’s going to do something so terrible that he doesn’t even want Javier to see … I’m screwed.
Tito Mangione wouldn’t kill his only begotten son, would he?
I guess I’m about to find out. As the door closes on Beto and Javier in the hallway, Dad rounds on me, rolling his sleeves up like he’s really getting ready to throw down.
There’s a brief pause before the chaos begins.
Dad starts by making the sign of the cross over his chest, muttering, “Forgive me, Father,” mere seconds before the first gut punch of the night.
I could have braced for it, but I suspect that Dad would get even more pissed if I tightened my abs against the blow. Better to let it hit fill force and bend like a good little punching bag. The air vacates my lungs immediately, leaving me wheezing in front of him. My hair falls loose from its styling to hang in my face, and if I'd had any thoughts of talking back again, they’re crushed by the damage to my diaphragm.
“I don’t want to do this, Matteo, but you give me no choice.”
I could point out that there’s another option: not beating his grown son. However, I still can’t get enough air to get a word out, and then there’s the tiny matter of making things worse if I start up with the snark again.
This is going to hurt.
For the next twenty minutes, Dad’s merciless. The only grace he allows is beating me below the neck and above the belt, essentially saving my pretty face and any chance of fathering those grandchildren he wants so badly. But my ribs, my abs, my shoulders, my back? Those get no relief.
When he’s done, he leaves me groaning in pain on the floor. Dozens of cuts from his rings grace my torso, and I’m pretty sure a couple of ribs are broken. Nothing permanent, nothing that I can’t push through for the sake of the Syndicate, but I’m going to have an agonizing time healing from this.
I watch Dad stride out of my penthouse from my vantage point on the floor. He doesn’t say another word, but I’d bet good money if I call one of the physicians on our payroll to fix any of this, I’ll be in for another beatdown.
This is intended to be painful. I’m meant to suffer through it. No doctors, no help.
After waiting a full hour to be certain Dad’s gone, I crawl to the couch and pull myself up onto the cushions. I grab my beer, which is now long since warm and flat, and take a swig. I’ll be self-medicating for a while, I suspect.
I finish that beer and move on to harder stuff. There’s a bottle of Dad’s favorite vineyard, a good vintage at that, one he’s insisted I save for when my first son is born.
I drink that fucker down in minutes.
Tossing the empty bottle on the floor, I open up the next primo bottle of wine. Everything Dad’s ever told me to set aside gets downed as my drunken rage grows and morphs into a stupor. I keep drinking until I get a call from Javier, who informs me flatly of Dad’s next command.
