Nico’s expression remains carefully neutral, but his fingers tighten on the photo. “You’re saying Tartarov has been impersonating my people?”
“And ours,” I confirm. “We found evidence of Russian operatives dressed in De Luca colors hitting Moretti targets. Every attack is designed to reignite our war while Tartarov expands into territories we’ve left vulnerable.”
Fed pulls out a map, spreading it across the crate. “Look at the pattern. They’re creating a corridor here, along the eastern seaboard. Small operations, nothing that would attract immediate attention from either of us because we’re too busy killing each other.”
Maximo leans forward, studying the map with a professional eye I hadn’t expected. “Son of a bitch.”
“They’ve been playing us for months,” I say, meeting Nico’s gaze directly. “Maybe longer. While we’ve been destroying each other, Tartarov’s been quietly building an empire in our blind spots.”
Nico’s fingers drum against the crate, the only sign of his agitation. “Why bring this to me? Why not just let us keep bleeding each other dry?”
“Because my wife asked me a question I couldn’t answer,” I admit. “She asked what my alternative was to endless retaliation. More deaths? More funerals?” I pause, letting the weight of it settle. “I didn’t have a good answer, Nico. And I think you don’t either.”
Something shifts in Nico’s expression—a crack in his armor.
“You think I want this for my children?” His voice grows quieter, almost pained. “For my Valeria? She’s in college now—art school. Talented girl. The things she paints...” He trails off, shaking his head.
I notice how his shoulders drop slightly at the mention of his daughter’s name. Maximo stiffens beside his father, clearly uncomfortable with this display of vulnerability.
“Every time she comes home,” Nico continues, “I see how she looks at me. The questions in her eyes. The fear. My daughter shouldn’t have to live looking over her shoulder, wondering if today’s the day her father doesn’t come home.”
My father shifts his weight, and I see understanding cross his face. “My wife said the same thing last night. That she’s buried too many sons of this family already.”
“Three generations,” Nico says, his voice rough. “Three generations of blood over a woman’s choice made seventy years ago. And for what? So Alexei Tartarov can waltz in and take everything while we’re distracted?”
The warehouse falls silent except for the distant drip of water from a leaky roof.
“We’re all just empty vessels, aren’t we?” Nico continues. “Filled with our fathers’ hatreds, carrying out vendettas we inherited but didn’t choose.”
My father nods slowly. “My son has become the head of this family since I retired. Just as yours will after you, Nico. Will they still be fighting this same war fifty years from now? Will our grandchildren?”
“Some legacies can’t be escaped, Antonio,” Nico says, but there’s less conviction in his voice now. “You know that better than most.”
“Maybe not,” I find myself saying. “But they can be rewritten.”
I pull out another document from the briefcase. “This is a financial analysis my wife compiled. Tartarov’s shell companies have been purchasing property along both our distribution routes. He’s been preparing this takeover for over a year.”
Nico examines the papers, his expression growing darker with each page. “Your wife did this?”
“Carmela’s a Bianchi,” Fed states. “She understands this world better than most men I know.”
“A ceasefire,” my father proposes after a long moment, his voice rough with decades of distrust. “Two weeks initially. No moves against each other’s territories, personnel, or interests. We coordinate intelligence on Tartarov’s operations and root out his people from both our organizations.”
Nico’s eyes narrow, calculating. “And then what, Antonio? We shake hands and forget seventy years of blood?”
“No,” I interject. “Then we meet again. Discuss long-term arrangements. Real ones.” I meet Maximo’s skeptical glare. “Find a way to coexist that doesn’t end with Tartarov picking over our bones.”
Nico runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, suddenly looking older than his years. “My capos won’t like it. Some of them have been waiting decades for the chance to destroy the De Lucas.”
“And mine will call us weak for even speaking to you,” my father counters. “We’ve both got battle-hungry men who’d rather die fighting than admit they’ve been played.”
Fed adds, “But those men are smart enough to understand strategy. When we show them this evidence, when they see howTartarov has infiltrated both families...” He taps the photos. “Pride is one thing. Survival is another.”
Maximo leans over the crate, studying the surveillance photos more carefully now. “These tattoos—I’ve seen them. Three months ago, outside one of our casinos in Atlantic City. We thought they were your men casing the place.”
“Probably were Tartarov’s,” Fed confirms. “Playing both sides, gathering intelligence on our routines and vulnerabilities.”
The weight of what we’re proposing settles between us. Generations of hatred don’t disappear with a handshake, but neither do they survive when a common enemy is actively destroying both families.
