It took all I had to keep my face a dull mask.
“Each family has been given a sum of money, which you will receive privately upon the end of this reading. Each envelope also contains a contract. If you accept the funds being offered to you, then your loyalty to the Benedetti family is renewed, the bond welded like steel and unbreakable. If you choose not to sign the contract,…well—”
He stopped abruptly to meet every eye in the room. I wondered if my father had given him that instruction too. It would be like him.
“I hope you do not choose that path.”
My father. Franco Benedetti. He was my true father, not Jake Sapienti. Salvatore was right. Henderson was right. I was a Benedetti.
I sat up straighter in my chair.
“My son Salvatore has chosen to leave this life. He chose a different happiness, and I no longer hold that against him. He chose a path I did not. I could and would not. But I respect his decision and his family. My grandchildren shall receive trust funds…”
The attorney named the amount of the funds.
“Salvatore and his wife, Lucia, shall always have the protection of the family.”
But no money.
I glanced at Salvatore, whose own mask stood firmly in place.
“To Roman, my once constant friend. Ah, Roman, my beloved wife’s brother…”
I could almost see Franco shaking his head.
“You know the saying, ‘keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?’”
All eyes turned to Roman, who looked straight ahead.
“Well, friend, you kept me in your pocket, didn’t you?”
Murmurs broke out, but the attorney held out his hand for silence and shifted his gaze to me.
“To my youngest, Dominic. I leave you what you have always wanted. I leave the Benedetti family, your family, in your hands, son. Despite everything, out of all my sons, you are the most like me, aren’t you?”
Roman stood. “This is…”
“Please sit down, Mr. Russo.”
One of my father’s personal bodyguards, a man I’d known to be around since I was a kid, walked behind Roman’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. Roman sat. Two more soldiers loyal to my father approached the desk and stood behind it, their gazes on no one and on everyone.
“Now, on to those contracts. I have each of the envelopes here. When your name is called, please approach the desk. Mr. Benedetti?”
It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me. Once I met his gaze, he continued.
“Your signature is also required.”
He gestured toward the chair behind the desk. Franco Benedetti’s chair. My father’s chair.
I stood, feeling all eyes on me as I made my way forward. I glanced once at Roman and then sat. Salvatore moved toward the door and took up a place where he could see each family as they were called up, their envelopes opened, and contracts placed before them.
I didn’t know if this was custom. If after the passing of the father, old agreements were reinforced, renewed, reminded. I didn’t know if he did it for me, to safeguard my position should anyone ever learn the truth behind my parentage. Should anyone contest my right to this seat.
The first man, Antonio Santa Maria, signed the contract. Antonio was a cousin, distant but powerful. His allegiance to my father had never been questioned. His sons, Gregorio and Giovanni, both in their late twenties, flanked him.
“Your father was a good friend. My loyalties have not before and will not now waver,” Antonio pledged.
“Thank you, Antonio,” I said. I turned to each of the sons and shook their hands, met their eyes, and nodded once. I wondered if they would remain allies or become enemies one day.
