Page 14 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
“What else do you think it’s about, you fucking donkey-faced motherfucker!?”
“Are you done? I don’t have time for this. I have other important matters.”
I can almost see the heat steaming out of his ears as he explodes into a fit of curse words. I set the phone down so I won’t be forced to watch his tantrum unfold.
It won’t be the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.
Pa has been losing his grip on Zinc Co., the Ziccardi pharmaceutical company for years now. It started with his ill-fated, short-sighted partnership with Nero Vorone, where he struck a distribution deal in hopes the bottom line would ultimately enrich him and the Ziccardi name.
From there it snowballed into Nero encroaching more and more on what was supposed to be Pa’s territory. In more recent times, it’s morphed into Nero demanding more ownership of the company to square some of Pa’s other debts with the Vorones.
He’s spent years making a mess and expects me to find a magical means of bailing him out. Unsurprising in every sense of the word.
“You realize what’s on the line, stronzo fucker? What part of our survival don’t you understand?” Pa asks.
“If it was so important, then why couldn’t you go?”
“I’M THE FUCKING BOSS! I CALL THE SHOTS!”
“Then call me when you’re sober.”
I hang up on him, sliding my phone into my pants pocket.
Pa is a walking contradiction—he puts on a front as if he cares about the future of the Ziccardi family, and then turns around and chooses self-preservation at every opportunity. It’s a wonder he ever managed to claw his way up the hierarchy in the first place.
I won’t be fixing his mess this time. I’m taking a page from his book—my wishes come above everything else. My final stage won’t be spent worrying about the family; it’s going to be spent how I deem fit, which is what tonight’s all about.
I check the mirror one last time before I leave the bedroom. The same room I’ll soon be sharing with my angel.
Nevaeh sits in tears when I find her. Only she looks beautiful when she cries.
She’s seated at a vanity table in a simple robe as Ms. Poitier readies her for the ceremony. Her dark hair’s been styled in waves that spill down her shoulders. Ms. Poitier dabs some powder onto her cheekbones as I come to stand in the doorway.
“Don’t fuss,” she says. “If you cry off this make up, we’re starting over.”
Nevaeh sniffles, then closes her eyes as though it’ll prevent the tears.
My head tilts to the side. Watching her has quickly become an enjoyable pastime. The girl is a stunning beauty, even more captivating than in my dreams. Thoughts of all the ways I’ll make her mine fill my head. She has no clue what she’s in for.
If she did, she’d know her tears are more than justified.
I leave the two to finish getting ready. The rest of my staff have spent the evening piecing together last minute arrangements. The ceremony is more of a formality than anything, but I’ve instructed them to make some effort.
It’s in the more barren half of my house, the east wing where most rooms are decorated with cobwebs and sheets over the furniture.
For this occasion, all eye sores have been cleared out. Some flowers have been put up for display. A plush rug rolled out for Nevaeh to walk down.
Umberto approaches with a bottle of brandy to inform me my cousin Carmelo’s on the phone.
“He sent this as a gift. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it.”
I oblige by taking the phone. I wouldn’t if it were anybody else (I had my fill of family bullshit earlier with Pa). But Carmelo and I have always gotten along. He’s the only family member I allow to visit my estate, who has the code to surpass the gate. It’s no wonder he’s the one who bothered to send a wedding gift.
“Congratulations, cousin,” he says on the phone. “I heard you have finally chosen a bride.”
“You’ve heard correctly.”
“You purchased her from the dance company?”