Page 78 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
Message after message that was like a stab to the heart.
All this time, I was fooling myself into believingmia bella ballerinawas being honest with me.
The truth is, she can’t stand me.
But the joke’s on her—she’ll still be mine. As I told her on our wedding night, she gets no say in the matter. She’ll adapt and be obedient and live a quality life, or she can be trouble and be punished at every turn.
It makes no difference to me so long as I get what I want in the end.
Ms. Poitier requests to see the text messages. She swears when I show them to her and she reads for herself the things Nevaeh has been texting.
“This doesn’t look good.”
“She didn’t think I’d ever find out,” I say, pocketing my phone. “I’m a heavy sleeper. Particularly with my medications.”
“And she’d know that being at your side every night when you wake up.”
I nod. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s her mistake. Her privileges are gone. She’s stuck with me so long as I’m alive.”
* * *
Pa is surprised when I volunteer to attend his dinner with Nero. He’s bringing along a few of his trustedcaposlike Carmelo and Joey D’Amato. He assumed after our last explosive fight that I wouldn’t be interested—that, or he preferred to leave me out altogether given the fact that we’ve never trusted each other.
Nero hosts us at Vecoli. The fine-dining Italian restaurant is closed for the evening as our families agree to yet another civilized sit-down.
That doesn’t mean the air isn’t tense. That Pa doesn’t bring a slew of guys with him. That I don’t have Matteo with me as my righthand.
The strumming notes of Italian folk musicians like Fred Buscaglione and Renato Carosone play in the background.
Nero’s idea of controlling the atmosphere. It’s his say what music we listen to. The kind of food we’ll be eating and the seats we’ll be taking.
“So glad the Ziccardi patriarch could join me,” he says with his arms opened in welcome. He’s standing at his place at the table in another suit that was probably featured in some recent designer advertisement. His sharp lapels and high-rise trousers give him away. So does the like-new stiffness of his suit jacket. He shakes Pa’s hand before everybody sits down. “It is my hope that maybe we’ll finally be able to come to a consensus. After all, it’s most important that everybody wins. Wouldn’t you agree, Carmine?”
Pa’s skin ruddies. He stammers out an answer, doing his best to keep his speech clear.
But I know better.
I’m tempted to rub my brow like a sudden migraine’s come on too strong. He’s been drinking again.
Everybody can tell, though nobody cares enough or has the balls to call him out on it.
Nero’s condescending smirk grows. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, Carmine. You see, this conflict can come to a very simple, quick end. We can make sure there’s something in it for everybody.”
“Nero,” Pa slurs. “You understand… the cuts on our operation. We’ve gotta… hic… we’ve gotta survive.”
Servers surround the table from all angles. They set down plates of antipasto to start off and fill our glasses to the brim with wine. Pa’s the first to snatch his up for a taste.
I catch Carmelo’s eye. He’s gaping at me like a cat’s got his fucking tongue. His mind is likely full of thoughts of the afterparty. The strippers he’ll fuck and the tables he’ll blow money on at the casinos.
Joey D’Amato is no different. None of the other capos are. Nobody’s going to say a thing. They’re going to sit tight and watch the car crash of Pa negotiating with Nero while belligerently drunk.
I grit my teeth and hate the fact that I give a damn.
“You need a decent cut,” Nero says with a nod. “I would say that’s a fair ask. Wouldn’t you fellas?”
Everybody around the table murmurs their agreement except me.
I’ve moved on from checking for reactions to glaring at Nero. He senses the daggers I’m sending his way, because he purposefully skips me when he consults the table.