Two fingers each into the heavy crystal glasses that are arranged on a tray.The amber liquid catches the lamplight as I carry them across the room.
Nico accepts the glass from my hand with a quiet nod, the kind that carries more meaning than most men’s words.The amber whiskey catches the soft lamplight as he lifts it, the liquid turning slowly as he studies it for a moment before taking his first measured sip.
Dario is seated in the leather chair in front of my desk, one ankle resting casually across his opposite knee.The posture looks relaxed, but I’ve known him for too long to mistake it for anything resembling ease.
With a nod, he takes the drink.Then his dark eyes track me over the rim of his glass, thoughtful and sharp in the way they always are when something about a situation refuses to settle cleanly.
No one mentions the wedding.
There’s no reason to.
That part of the day is finished.Whatever anyone thinks of the circumstances is irrelevant.The marriage exists now.There’s nothing left to debate there.
What matters is everything that happened around it.
I settle back behind the desk, the leather of the chair creaking faintly beneath my weight, and take a slow drink from my glass before letting the whiskey rest on the blotter in front of me.
“What’s the temperature?”I ask Nico.
He knows exactly what I mean.
After exhaling slowly, he eases his shoulders back against the window frame where he’s taken up position.
Behind him, the night stretches dark and quiet across the property, broken only by the faint glow of security lights and the distant hum of insects rising from the vineyard rows.
“Hot,” he acknowledges finally.
That’s not surprising, even though I’d hoped today would end calmly.
Then he brings us up to date.
“I’ve spoken numerous times with their consigliere.Following protocol, Giovanni was rushed back to the airport.”Nico turns the glass slowly between his fingers as he speaks.“He was on a plane a few minutes later.”
I nod once.
That matches the information that filtered in earlier.
“They’re saying the wreck was us.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”Dario shrugs.“You have to admit, it looks bad.”
“The same way we believe they had something to do with Don’s death,” Nico adds.
The room goes still.
Not silent.
Still.
Because we all know exactly what he means.
Raffaele.
My father.
The memory settles in the center of the room like a shadow.
When he was murdered, the Russos swore up and down they had nothing to do with it.They insisted someone else had orchestrated the hit, that they had no interest in igniting a war that would cost both families blood and territory.
