The pale square of the incoming notification slowly fades to transparent, and a familiar shape takes form on the screen.
My brother’s sharp face.
"Hi, Eliano."
"Fuck!"
I flinch so hard the chair creaks in protest. Even though I try to control it, I can’t stop my hands from clenching, so I quickly lower them beneath the table, out of his sight.
It takes a near-superhuman effort not to jump up and storm out of the room, not just out of fear, but out of the rage tangled up with it.
Damn, how I hate that bastard.
"I have to commend you, little brother," Rocco says, dragging out the syllables in his usual way. His Sicilian accent is even more noticeable than mine. "You handled yourself with the police like a true mafioso. You know when to keep your mouth shut."
I stay silent. What am I supposed to say to him? Our shared blood means very little to him, so he has no right to call me brother.
There is nothing left between us, all is ruined. Words carry no weight here, so I keep looking at his face as if he were a stranger, and the only thing I want is to see him with a bullet in his head.
"But there’s one thing you still haven’t learned after all those years being raised in the mafia," Rocco says through clenched teeth. "There’s one rule with burners.Use it and lose it.And you started using it like a regular damn phone," he snorts with contempt. "Not the brightest tool in the shed, are you?"
I say nothing. I feel almost like a little boy getting his head chewed off for stupid mistakes by an older brother who, technically, is right.
Wait, rewind. Rocco isnotmy brother, I keep reminding myself of that. Looking into his eyes is like looking into my enemy. It makes all the difference.
I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me reacting in any way. There will be no family squabbles here, no playful scolding, no wagging fingers.
This is a conversation with a murderer.
Rocco squints his black eyes. He shares that trait with Ennio. Sometimes I wonder if Uncle Tito raped my dad and was Rocco’s real father too. After all, my dad hated Tito with a visceral, bone-deep hatred.
"You don’t know the day or the night, little brother, the day or the night when I’ll come for you. You and Mauro slipped through my fingers today, but don’t get too comfortable. You can’t stop me."
A disturbing thought flashes through my mind. Did he go after Mauro too?
"Someone will stop you," I say, feeling an icy chill crawl down my spine. "You’ve made one mistake too many, Rocco."
He bursts into a dark laugh.
"You? You threatening me?"
I narrow my eyes. I know what to touch so it hurts.
"You’re a pathetic weak capo, Rocco. Instead of building the family’s strength and arming us against the Russians, you’re playing personal games aimed at the family itself, weakening our influence."
The muscles in Rocco’s jaw tighten as he replies, "You stupid brat. You understand nothing about this business. Before I make my move, I need to restore the family’s good name, the one you dragged through the mud. Power is also about image. Our enemies will know I won’t tolerate… betrayal."
"Careful you don’t take it too far, bastard. Your papa did, with Anzo. And he met his end. Don’t repeat his mistakes."
There’s this very heavy silence at my words. Yeah, I’m not sure if Rocco really is Tito's bastard, but it gives me pure satisfaction to use it like that.
"What did you just say?"
I burst into laughter.
"Yeah, you’ve heard me all right. You’ll run into the wrong wall eventually. Someone will take you down."
"I know one thing," he says through clenched teeth, "it won’t be you." He leans in slightly and points a finger at me. "And relax, soon there won’t be anyone left to warn you anyway."
