As one, we all move forward. Unlike Dante and me, Emilio doesn’t ask Don Luciani to remove any weapons that may be on his person. No doubt, both he andPapáhave a silent understanding between them—from one head to another—that bypasses even the barrier of aged generations.
The table we are seated at is built for eight, but the chairs on either side of the long slat of polished wood have been removed. No one to be seated at any “head.” Damn it. Emilio is more than smart, he’s cunning, and he knows how to make statements without a fucking word. Each silent one is another nail hammered home to back up the pretense that we’re meeting here for peace.
Don Luciani and Emilio Cesari sit first, the two men sitting against the far side away from the door to the sitting room and across from each other. Dante is next, seated alongsidePapá. The doors to the kitchen open, and a tall, wide man with graying temples steps into the room, a large silver platter in hishand. Other than the platter itself, though, it’s clear that he is no servant. He wears dark-wash jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up tanned forearms covered in a smattering of dark hair. One sign. The second? The wickedly violent scar that spans from his left temple down to his chin.
Soldier.
Eyes the color of a dark void bore into mine as the man enters the room and sets the platter upon the center of the table. It’s filled with bread.
“Leon, join me, please.” Emilio’s command is low but no less potent, and the man—Leon—takes his seat to the left of his Don. The chair squeaks under his considerable weight as he lowers himself into it. Once we’re all seated, and our remaining soldiers are stationed against the walls of the dining room—considering the lack of sitting room—more people pour out of the kitchen. Two women with their hair tied back and tucked under white caps set bowls before each setting, and then the butler is there, filling glasses with water and wine.
Don Luciani is the first to speak. “This is a very nice setup, young man.”
Emilio lifts his wineglass. “I’m glad you appreciate my efforts.”
“Your efforts are noted,” Don Luciani agrees with a nod. Then, to my utter shock, he, too, lifts his wine and takes a sip.
Sweat coats my palms as mypapáswallows a mouthful of the stuff. One beat passes and then two. He has no adverse reaction, but that could mean any number of things. Perhaps it could be a slower-acting poison. My insides churn. I’m going to be sick.
Angrily, my eyes snap to Emilio, but his gaze is centered squarely on the man across from him. “How do you know it isn’t poisoned?” he asks. “Your sons seemed to think that was exactly something I would do.”
“You are not your uncle, Emilio Cesari,” Don Luciani replies, and with a wry twist of his lips, he glances at his still mostly full wineglass. “This is a good Cab. What year?”
“1901,” Emilio says. “It was held in my uncle’s cellar, but I thought it was the appropriate time to open old wounds and divest them of their festering.”
“Yes, I would have to agree.” Don Luciani nods. “Though my sons are a bit unsure of you, I have done some of my own research, Emilio. What I have found is that you seem to be a fair man. You do not dispense violence like Vito did, but you are well-respected, especially amongst the younger generations.”
“My friends call me Emil, Signore,” he replies. “I would like it very much if you would as well.” Silence. No one touches the soup in front of them. It simply sits between us all, turning into a congealing mess of potatoes and sausage.
Don Luciani sets his wine down. “Why did you approach my daughter-in-law, Emil?”
It’s an effort to keep my hands from balling into fists. Cool. Calm. Fucking collected. Even if I am imagining ripping his head from his shoulders, draining the blood from his corpse, and sticking his skull on a pike outside of the Luciani Family Estate.
Emilio leans forward and plants two elbows on the table before steepling his fingers and resting his chin there. “I do apologize for any concern I caused,” he begins. “I needed toensure that you knew I was serious about this meeting and that I would go to any lengths to get it.”
“You could have contacted my associates to set up a—”
Emilio shakes his head beforePapáis even finished.
“The mole in your organization made that nearly impossible,” he states. “I knew any meeting I called through them would find its way to him.”
As one, all three of us stiffen. “Who is the mole?” Dante demands.
Cool blue eyes slide away from Don Luciani to him and then me. “I will tell you.” His voice is low, dangerous. Emilio’s focus goes back to Don Luciani. “In return, I would like your word that the rivalry between our Families ends here and now.”
I lean forward, and only by the grace of God and Dante’s arm slamming across my chest do my next words never leave my lips.
“That’s bold of you,” Dante snaps. “To assume that we would trust you.”
“You don’t have to trust me to know that I have no intention of harming any of you,” Emilio states. He looks pointedly at our soups. “You haven’t even tried the food, and I know my girls worked damned hard to cook for you. Yet, have I taken offense?”
“It sounds like you’re taking offense now,” Dante points out.
Emilio sighs and unlatches his fingers, resting back in his seat. “I don’t want to run things as my Uncle Vito did,” he admits. “I only wish for mutual respect between our two Families and territories. I think it would be in your best interests as well.”
Before Dante can say another word, Don Luciani is speaking again. “You still haven’t answered my question, Emil,” he says. “Why Daisy?”
Emilio’s face pinches. “Because you need to know just how much danger she is in. If I can get to her, then so, too, can the mole.”
