Sweetest Sorrow (Forbidden Book 2) (41 page)

"Daddy!" Gabriella groaned from the kitchen. "He lives here, too, remember?"

"I remember," Alfie said, glaring at Dante as he just stood there, trapped in that void of space between the bathroom and the bedroom, hoping like hell the towel stayed in place as he uncomfortably crossed his arms over his chest. "We're still going to be having a talk about that, young lady."

"I'm twenty-six, you know."

"Talk to me when you're forty-six," he said. "Until then, I don't think it's too much to ask for him to respect you enough to show some restraint. Hell, he at least ought to have enough self-respect to keep his clothes on when you have
company
."

"He didn't know we had company," Gabriella said as she appeared in front of Dante, grabbing him and forcing him past Alfie, shoving him into the bedroom. She slammed the sliding room door closed once they were inside and looked at him, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry, he kind of just… showed up."

"He's your father," Dante said, dropping the towel. "He can visit you whenever he wants."

"Yeah, well, he's not here for
me
."

Dante cut his eyes at her, brow furrowing, as Alfie shouted from the living room, "Put on your best suit, kid. We've got somewhere we need to be."

D
ecades earlier
, eight hundred miles away, a man named Al Capone believed the key to coexisting was
distribution
. The pie was big enough for everybody to have a slice of it. The bosses in New York at the time bought into that theory, divvying up their territory.

Five boroughs. Five families.

They believed it was fate.

And just as it all came to a screeching halt for Capone, the harmony in the boroughs didn't last long, either. Greed set in. Sharing was no longer caring. Everyone, it seemed, wanted Manhattan, staking a claim and nitpicking neighborhoods. The Amaro family had it all first, it had been rightfully given to them, but then the Barsantis and the Galantes swooped in.

As they say, the rest was history.

Some booms, a couple bangs, and a bunch of spilled blood later, Dante found himself again crossing the state line into New Jersey, sitting in the passenger seat of a black Crown Vic, with Alfie Russo steering them toward Victor Brazzi's property. A family meeting, he'd said, one that had been in the works for weeks. He'd called it a last-ditch effort to establish peace within the network, but Dante knew what they truly were heading into: an
intervention
.

They were going to try to stop Primo's reign of terror.

"When you say all of the families," Dante asked, his voice hesitant, "do you mean
all
of them?"

"All of them," Alfie confirmed. "Chicago, New York, and New Jersey."

"I don't think I belong at this thing."

"Why?"

"Because I don't represent the Galante family."

"I know," Alfie said. "You're coming as a Brazzi."

"A Brazzi?"

"Yeah, you got a
problem
with being a Brazzi?"

"No problem."

Dante wasn't sure how the hell that was going to work, but he figured he ought not ask, opting to remain silent. Tension bunched his muscles when they approached the gate in front of the house, two men dressed all in black standing guard yet again, barely detectable, blending into the darkness. It was late, or maybe really early, well past three o'clock in the morning.

The gate shifted open and Alfie drove through, subtly nodding to the guys as they saluted him. Cars lined the driveway, a chain of black sedans. Alfie pulled up near the door, parking.

As soon as they stepped in the foyer, Alfie raised his hands, letting himself be patted down by another guard, hands barely touching him before the guy moved on to Dante. His touch was rougher, the search more thorough. Dante gritted his teeth, standing still, enduring the prodding until Alfie laughed. "At ease. He's okay. He's with us."

Right away, the man backed off, and Dante fixed his disheveled shirt, tucking it back in.

He followed Alfie up the staircase to the same ballroom they had been in months ago. It had been altered, the small tables replaced by larger interconnected ones. Men filled chairs surrounding the tables, sitting around, food spread out in front of them. They chatted and ate, drinking Bloody Mary's as they laughed at each other's jokes. The atmosphere was easygoing, like they were nothing more than old friends catching up, enjoying pleasant company over buttermilk waffles and chopped up fucking fruit, instead of guys who would gut each other in their sleep without an ounce of remorse.

Dante's eyes scanned the array of faces, recognizing most of them, but not finding the one he sought. Primo was noticeably absent, as was everyone else from the Galante family. Barsanti, too, was nowhere to be found.

"Would've been here sooner," Alfie said, waltzing into the dimly-lit room, a smile on his face, "but someone took
forever
to get ready, like he's some broad that needed to put on his fucking face or something."

Alfie motioned to Dante, who lingered near the entrance, all eyes in the room shifting to him.

"Ah, young Mr. Galante," Victor greeted him, waving to an empty chair to his left. "Join us. Have some breakfast."

Breakfast
…
at three o'clock in the morning
.

Dante wasn't going to question it.

He strolled over and sat down, while Alfie helped himself to the food before sitting to Victor's right. Not wanting to be rude, Dante grabbed a pastry, setting it on a plate.

"Something to drink?" a woman in a black uniform asked, approaching them.
Hired help
.

"Bring me a Mimosa," Alfie said.

"A
Mimosa
?" someone called out. Vince Genova, head of another of the five families, the one that stuck to Staten Island, away from the madness. "You got a cunt between your legs, Russo?"

"Oh, fuck off," Alfie said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "I got a cock you can suck, Genova."

"You'd probably like it too much, you little Mimosa drinking bitch."

The men around them laughed. Even Alfie snickered, not offended by the insult.

"And you, sir?" the woman asked, looking at Dante. "Something to drink?"

"Uh, orange juice," he mumbled. "Vodka."

The woman offered a smile before scurrying from the room.

"What, nobody's going to say shit?" Alfie asked. "He practically ordered a Mimosa, too!"

"Don't even try it," someone else said. "The kid asked for a fucking
Screwdriver
, not that bubbly ass pussy shit you suck on."

"Says the schmuck over there drinking homemade Sangria."

"Your
wife's
homemade Sangria," someone chimed in.

A resounding chorus of "
ohhhh
" echoed around the room, guys drumming their hands against the table, creating a ruckus and laughing.

"Alright, alright," Victor said, fighting off a grin. "You guys rib Russo all you want, but leave my daughter out of it."

A few more joking jabs were traded as their drinks were delivered. Dante downed his, swallowing every drop, grimacing as the burn lit up his chest. It was damn near instantaneous, his nerves easing and muscles relaxing. He ordered another drink and took a few bites of the pastry, listening to their conversations.

Dante's eyes eventually fell upon Gavin, sitting at the end of the table, standing in for his father.
The head of the Amaro family
. He sat beside another man, one Dante recognized: Corrado Moretti out of Chicago. They were deep in quiet conversation, there at the table but not entirely present. After a moment, Gavin's gaze flickered Dante's direction.
Nervous
.

"You look confused," Victor said from beside him. "I know this isn't your first family meeting."

"No," Dante said, "but the others weren't this, uh…"

"Casual?" he guessed.

"Yeah." Dante watched in disbelief as Alfie used his fork to fling a strawberry down the table, hitting the boss out of Buffalo with it, interrupting the man's conversation. These guys... they weren't the type to tolerate insolence from others. They demanded respect; they prided themselves on strength. Dante had no idea half of them even had personalities. "They're acting like they're
friends
."

"That's because they are," Victor said. "We've all known each other a long time. Hell, I remember when some of these guys were born. We've worked together, and sometimes, we fight… we don't always agree, or get along, but that doesn't mean we're not friends. You don't have to like people to love them."

"
Love
them."

"Look, when I die, these are the guys who will show up at my funeral, the ones who will make sure I'm sent off with the respect I deserve… the respect I've
earned
. One of them will probably put me there, you know, but the rest will carry my casket, and I trust them to do their part, whatever it might be."

"
Trust
them."

"Yeah, trust them. That's how family is. No one will ever understand you better. Appreciate that. This life is in our blood. We all have that in common. We all want the same thing here. So you know, maybe we'll wake up enemies tomorrow because of it, but today, it's what makes us friends."

Dante shook his head. "I don't know what to say."

"Not surprised, considering your father." Victor motioned around the table. "He has a way of pissing on everyone's parade, if you know what I'm saying. Guy has no idea how to make friends, and on the off chance he does make one, he doesn't know how to
keep
them."

A voice cut through the room then, edgy but somehow still cordial. "Am I late to the party or something? You started without me."

Roberto Barsanti strolled into the room.

"You're always late, Bobby," Alfie said, still eating, "but is it ever a
party
without you?"

"I like to think not," Barsanti said, plopping down into the first seat he came to. The woman approached him, not needing to ask for him to answer her question. "Scotch, straight up. You know what? Just bring me the damn bottle."

"A bit late for a whole bottle, isn't it?" Victor looked at his watch. "Or rather, a bit
early
…"

"Yeah, well, I didn't choose the time. What happened to sundown? We used to do this then. That too late for you now, old man? Need to be in bed by seven so you're up at the ass-crack of dawn for the Early Bird Special?" Barsanti waved all around the table. "God forbid we eat breakfast at normal hours like civilized human beings instead of geriatric
animals
."

"You're sounding awfully bitter, Barsanti," Victor said. "Finally realize you'll never live long enough to enjoy a senior citizen discount?"

Barsanti cracked a smile at that, one that didn't last, as his gaze shifted to Dante. He stared at him in silence as the conversation moved on, downing some scotch as soon as it was brought to him. The atmosphere had again turned casual, laughter surrounding them. Gavin even relaxed, cracking a few smiles, although the man beside him appeared strictly
business
.

Dante had heard that about Moretti, though. He didn't associate with the Galantes, but Primo held a certain respect for him, anyway, appreciating a man who didn't bullshit.

An hour passed. Maybe it was only thirty minutes. As soon as it happened, Dante knew it hadn't been
enough
time. The change was palpable, a charge in the air sweeping into the room. Laughter died on a breath, smiles dwindling, eyes growing guarded as heavy footsteps approached the ballroom.

Dante didn't have to look to know his father was there. A sensation entered with him, foreboding and serious. This…
this
was how the meetings went. No love. No trust. No humor. Dante used to admire that about his father, the way people sat up and paid attention when he appeared. He took it for respect, for admiration, for apprehension, but he realized in that moment that it was none of those. It was revulsion. It was anger.

It was
hatred
.

Foregoing a greeting, Primo slid into the last empty chair, sitting to the left of Moretti and directly across from Barsanti. His eyes scanned the men, stopping when they reached Dante. His stare was a void. There was nothing there. The man was hollow.

"Galante," Victor said. "I'm happy you could join us."

"That makes one of us," Primo said, tearing his eyes away from his son to turn to Victor. "Can we get this over with? I'd rather not be here."

Victor motioned toward him. "The floor is yours, if you want to start. I'm just a neutral party."

"There's nothing neutral about you, Brazzi."

"Ah, I beg to differ."

"You can
beg
any which way you want… it doesn't make a difference. You chose sides long ago. You've insulted my family. You've insulted
me
. Then you have the audacity to call this meeting, to order me here, as if I owe you anything. As if I owe
anybody
anything."

"You want to talk about insults, Galante? Let's talk about them."

Primo flippantly waved his direction as he sat back in his chair. "By all means, get it off your chest. Tell me where the bad man touched you."

"Matteo Barsanti. Enzo Barsanti. My
grandsons
. You insulted me when you targeted them, when you used my daughter's funeral as an opportunity to strike against the ones she loved."

"Careful, Brazzi… you're not sounding very neutral right now."

"It's simple human decency," Victor continued. "There's a mourning period that should be observed. It's a matter of respect. It's how real men act. They don't kick each other when they're down. They wait until their opponent stands up again so they can look them in the eyes, face-to-face, man-to-man, making the fight fair."

"
All
is fair in times of war," Primo said. "I've tried for years to end this, to confront this head on, and I've been shut down every time.
Every
single time! So don't talk to me about fighting fair. Don't talk to me about following unspoken rules. Don't talk to me about respect. Where's the respect for
me
? You lecture me for targeting a man's family, yet where's the rage over what has come of
mine
?"

"We grieve for your losses, Galante," Alfie chimed in, "but more bloodshed isn't the answer."

"Then tell me… what
is
the answer?"

"Forgiveness."

A manic laugh escaped Primo as he threw his hands up. "You expect me to forgive him after what he's done? Forgiveness has to be
earned
."

"He returned your son to you, did he not?" Victor asked, motioning toward Dante. "That's more than we can say about you."

Dante's stomach churned, not wanting to be dragged into the argument, but it was futile. Eyes shifted his direction. Primo regarded his son, staring him dead in the eyes as he said, "Returning something broken doesn't make me whole again. I was better off believing he died with honor than seeing him here today, sitting on the wrong side of this table."

Ouch
.

"There's no
wrong
side of the table," Alfie said. "We're adults. Let's fucking act like it. We talk about leaving the kids out of it, yet we drag them in every chance we get. I hate to break it to you fellas, but there's no honor in killing someone's unarmed son. No honor in blowing them up with a fucking car bomb." Alfie's angry eyes darted between Barsanti and Galante, those words meant for both of them. "Enough is enough. I'm sick and tired of waking up every morning, wondering if today will be the day someone decides to go after my daughter instead of being man enough to come after
me
."