A faint smile touches my mouth.
He is not wrong.
“Bellandi has been a thorn in our side since we came to Chicago,” I say. “Small things at first. Pressure on suppliers. Whispers to city inspectors. Attempts to sway men who had already agreed to work with us.”
“Attempts that failed,” Matteo says.
“Yes,” I say. “But attempts nonetheless.”
Tomasso’s fingers tap once against the table. “And now he wants friendship.”
“He has wanted friendship since he discovered we were not tied to Atlantic City.”
The room stills at that.
Atlantic City.
Even now, the words carry weight. Not only because of who rules there, but because of what our father left buried between Naples, Chicago, and the Jersey shore.
“We established ourselves here,” I continue. “We grew stronger than they expected. They know there is no alliance between us and our Atlantic City relatives. They know we operate separately. They know Luca Conti has no reason to protect our interests. Bellandi believes that creates opportunity.”
“By opportunity,” Diego says, voice flat, “you mean he wants us to help him take them down.”
“Yes.”
Dante’s eyes narrow.
Alessio mutters something under his breath in Italian, disgusted.
Edoardo looks toward his father, but Lorenzo’s attention remains on me.
“Bellandi made enemies of Atlantic City when they attempted to expand into the northeast region, and now they are pushing for us to stand with them,” I say. “A friendship. Their word, not mine. They want to stand beside us against the Atlantic City Contis. They believe we share a common enemy.”
Tomasso’s expression hardens. “Do we?”
The question earns him a look from Alessio, but Tomasso does not look away.
He is not wrong to ask.
That is why we are here.
“That is what we must decide carefully. Not tonight, not with emotion, and not because Emilio Bellandi thinks he can whisper poison in our ear and make us act against our own blood.”
I lean back in my chair.
“There may come a day,” I continue, “when we have to face our cousins.”
“Brother,” Tomasso interrupts.
The room goes utterly still.
No one dares to breathe too loudly.
My eyes move to him.
Tomasso’s face is tense, but not uncertain. He looks at me with the same stubbornness I know will make him a great don. People may look at my oldest and see a quiet man with his nose buried in the books, but I know better.
There is steel under his silence. Fire under his restraint. A sense of right and wrong that will make him harder to bend than any man who rules by temper alone.
