Page 19

I gestured to the drinks. “Take these cappuccinos and pastries to them. Maybe that will help lessen the sting over the accommodations.”
My phone buzzed. Lifting the screen, I saw my younger brother’s name. “Pronto,” I answered.
“Ciao, fratello!” Massimo was outside, street noises in the background. “Come stai? How is Toronto?”
“I’m in New York, but it’s the same—fucking cold. How are you? How is Roma? The restaurant treating you alright?”
“I just quit.”
I closed my eyes and prayed for patience. This was his third restaurant in three months. My brother was too impulsive. He never thought anything through. “Why? What happened?”
“Dai, they don’t know what they’re doing. And I’m tired of dicing onions and carrots and celery. All day long, mirepoix, mirepoix, mirepoix.”
I tapped my fingers on the door frame. “Maz, you can’t expect to run your own restaurant immediately. You need training.”
“This is not training, Vito. It’s abuse.”
Enzo wouldn’t like this. When he agreed two years ago to let Massimo work as a chef, it was under the condition that Massimo make a serious career of it. Leaving the ’ndrina was a big fucking deal, not to be taken lightly. And Enzo only relented because his wife had insisted on it. Maz didn’t seem to understand any of this.
“And what of our training with Papà all those years?” I asked. “Was that not also abuse? Don’t be such a pussy. You need to stick this out.”
“Fuck off, Vito. I’ve been doing this forever! You try dicing vegetables every day for two years and see how you like it.”
“If that was the job, I’d do it and not complain.”
“Yes, always the good dutiful brother,” he sneered. “I’m sorry I called you.” He disconnected.
I slammed the side of my fist against the door frame. “Merda!”
“Maz quit another place?” Tommaso asked as we turned into the winery’s long drive.
“Yes. And I don’t want Enzo to find out, so keep it to yourself.”
“You can hardly blame him. It’s a big step down for a D’Agostino prince.”
“But it’s a step he chose. You make the choice, you live with it.”
I should know. Moving to Toronto, away from my family and everything familiar, hadn’t been easy. But I was eager to have something of my own, something I could control, rather than sitting in my brother’s shadow.
It was a chance I couldn’t waste. I wasn’t raised to be a don. I was raised toadvisethe don. For most of my life I had been on the outside, looking in.
Until I left for Toronto.
Now I had power of my own, the opportunity to build a lasting legacy. But the ’ndrina wasn’t enough. The most successful dons had other revenue streams, like Enzo and his fraud business. Fausto Ravazzani had hands in all kinds of global operations. Even Giacomo Buscetta in Palermo had car dealerships. Real estate seemed like a good investment for me, a way to keep my money clean.
Building an empire requires patience, I reminded myself.
I didn’t mind the wait. Patience was my only virtue.
five
. . .
Maggie
The all capstext came in as I was washing my face.
I HEARD ABOUT THE WINERY. I’M COMING BACK