I stop. "The '82?"
"Opened it twenty minutes ago."
My pulse remains steady, but my mind begins to race, cataloging possibilities. My father does not drink the 1982 Barolo for casual conversation. He drinks it for occasions. Births. Funerals. Declarations of war.
"Who else is there?"
"Just him. He cleared the house. Even the staff." Rocco looks at me, and for a second, the bravado slips. He looks worried. "He’s quiet, Ale. Too quiet."
"Quiet is fine. Quiet is manageable."
"Not this kind."
We walk through the foyer. The house is silent. The kind of silence that has weight, pressing against your eardrums. Our footsteps are muffled by the Persian runners. The portraits of our ancestors line the walls—severe men with dark eyes and darker secrets. They watch us pass with judgment.
I reach the library doors. Mahogany. Heavy. I knock once.
"Enter."
My father’s voice is low, resonant.
I push the door open. The library is dimly lit, the smell of old paper and expensive wax polish filling the air. Salvatore Falcone sits in his leather wingback chair by the fireplace, the glass of dark red wine in his hand. He is looking into the flames.
He is sixty years old, but he looks indestructible. He is made of granite and conviction. He doesn't look up when we enter.
"Sit."
I take the chair opposite him. Rocco remains standing by the door, arms crossed, vibrating with nervous energy. He hates these meetings. He hates anything he can't punch.
"The Crespi negotiations?" my father asks, still watching the fire.
"Concluded. We will have the deed by morning. He tried to hide the insolvency, but the tremors gave him away."
"Sloppy."
"Predictable."
My father finally turns his head. His eyes are black, depthless. They are the eyes of a man who has ordered executions between courses at dinner.
"We have a problem," he says.
"The Russians," I say. It’s not a question.
"Volkov." He takes a sip of the wine. "His expansion is aggressive. More than aggressive. It is systemic. He has bought the zoning commissioner. He has leverage on the port authority. And as of this morning, three of our shipments were intercepted by customs agents who were supposed to be on our payroll."
I cross my leg over my knee. "We knew he was moving. We anticipated this."
"We anticipated a turf war. We did not anticipate a siege." My father sets the glass down. "We are bleeding, Alessandro. Not blood. Capital. Influence. Territory. If we continue to fight on two fronts—against the Russians and the Kavanaghs—we will not survive the year."
Rocco shifts by the door. "So we hit the Kavanaghs. Wipe them out. One less front."
"We can't," I say. Rocco glares at me, but I ignore him. "The Kavanaghs are entrenched. They have the unions. You start a war with them now, the city shuts down. The feds get involved. It’s suicide."
"Correct," my father says. "Which is why I met with Padraic Kavanagh this afternoon."
The name hangs in the air. Padraic Kavanagh. The enemy. The man responsible for the scar on my father’s shoulder and the empty seat at our Sunday dinners.
"You met him?" Rocco asks, his voice rising. "In person?"
