Page 88 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
“This isn’t that kind of situation. In which case, I’m still wondering what you’re doing here.”
I make a mental note to change the gate code. While Carmelo has always been the best of the worst in my family, we’re no longer as close as we once were even weeks ago. His inaction and behavior at the recent sit-down dinner made it clear he’s siding with Pa, Coreno and Cristian. At least ideologically. He, too, believes I should give Nevaeh up.
“I came to enjoy some of this celebratory brandy I gave you weeks ago, remember? The joyous occasion of your wedding,” he says, sipping from his drink. “And, also, to pass some news about relations between our family and the Vorones.”
“And, apparently, to raid my liquor cabinet.”
He cracks an easy smile. “You’re not supposed to be drinking. This brandy shouldn’t go to waste.”
“What news do you have?” I move deeper into the room and grab the decanter of brandy he’s just poured from. I’m conservative in the amount I pour. Just enough for a few swallows. After sampling its woody taste, I take up the armchair across from his.
It’s instances like this where we’re opposite each other that our differences stand out—I’m the size of a tank, covered in tattoos with a harsh ruggedness that’s borderline uncivilized. Carmelo’s closer to Nero in the way that he presents himself. A tailor-made suit that highlights his toned arms but hides his chicken legs. Only he’s much less stylized than Nero.
Carmelo always has used his averageness to his advantage.
“It’s about Nero’s intentions,” Carmelo says. His expression’s somber, his groomed eyebrows straight slashes on his forehead. “I’m sure you’ve figured out he’s not giving up his quest to get the ballerina back.”
“I’m sure you’ve figured out I don’t give a shit.”
The corner of his lip spasms into the ghost of a smile. “Cristian and Coreno have a real problem with that.”
“Still don’t give a shit.”
“Pa seems to have resigned himself to our fate. Whatever that may be,” he goes on, then labors a sigh. “Nero’s already put a plan into motion. Have you been upping your security measures?”
“You don’t need to worry about me and my measures, cousin. Be assured that I’ll handle any attempts made against me and what’s mine.”
“Fair enough. I always appreciate your delivery. Straight and to the point. It’s a lot less passive aggressive than the other two.”
“Some would say your neutrality is just as frustrating.”
The ghostly smile returns for a brief second before he disguises it by drinking from his glass. “I’d say that’s probably true. But we don’t all like to be rash and hotheaded. Some of us think things through and consider our options. I’ve done just that, and I’ve made up my mind.”
I glare at him, swallowing another mouthful. “And what would that be?”
“An offer has been made,” he answers plainly, setting down his drink. He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Stick with the losing team or join the winning team. Guess which one I’ve chosen? Nero wants the ballerina, and I’ve promised him I’ll deliver her.”
From inside his suit jacket, he pulls some kind of remote. I rise up from the armchair with my fists curled and my temper ramping up. My heart’s exploded into many fast, painful beats. I’ll knock his teeth out before he can ever push a button.
“Careful, cousin,” he warns. “We’ve got the place rigged. You make one wrong move, you’re going to be blown to smithereens. This can be violent and nasty, or it can be painless and easy. Which will it be?”
“You fucking piece of shit!” I bark at him. I take a large step toward him, about to swing.
He holds up the remote with his finger hovering over the button. “Hand over the ballerina. I’ll leave and so will Nero’s men—yes, they’re positioned all around your estate. Those woods make for a good remote home. But they also make for the perfect hideout for intruders. Cousin, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Give her up.”
“FUCK OFF! You want a fucking fight, I’m about to rip that smirk off your face. We’ll all die if that’s what it’ll come down to!”
“You can’t be this stupid—”
“I’m death, asshole! I’ve got nothing to fucking lose! Press that button. Blow up the place. I’ll still beat your ass. I’ll bash your fucking skull in.”
My threats unnerve an even-keeled, prissy son of a bitch like Carmelo. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple shaky, though he keeps his finger on the button.
Apparently, it’s dawning on him that if he does push this button, he’ll be starting an immediate war he’ll be in the thick of.
“Caelian,” comes a quiet voice from the doorway. “Don’t fight them. I’ll go.”
I’m breathing raggedly as I turn to look at Nevaeh. She’s frowning, the sadness in her eyes perplexing.