Page 85 of Jordan

“The plan is for Vincenzo to take over the Bramante line. He’s married now, and soon enough will be with child. Our bloodline will live on, and the treaties between the four families will continue,” Elio explains calmly.

It’s what we agreed to tell them. Not necessarily the truth, though. My brothers and I have already agreed we would keep my father’s empire going together. The three of us. It’s the only thing that makes sense, but it’s what we tell them because it’s what they’re likely to accept. They don’t want to hear about a family being run by different people. It’s too messy. One hand doesn’t know what the other is doing. Blah, blah, fucking blah.

“We appreciate your speech, Elio, but it isn’t enough,” Maximo explains. He puffs on his cigar, leaning back in his chair. He’s around my father’s age. Slicked back salt and pepper hair. A bit of a classical but hardened look to him. “We need to hear it from your father.”

“He’s right,” Connor, head of the Irish family, says. Of course what I said about one hand not knowing what the other does doesn’t stand for the Irish, since Connor and Sean Kearney are twins who run their family just fine. And they’re younger than me and my brothers. “We don’t do business with you. We do business with your father.”

Fucking ruthless Irish pricks is what they are.

I grit my teeth, tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.

I understand the logistics of it, but fuck, our families have been doing this for generations. Why are they trying to fuck it up now?

“We’ve already told you—” I say.

“He’s ill,” Dario cuts in with a sly smirk. “We know. We’ve been hearing it for a year. But we aren’t so sure.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Marco barks, causing both me and Elio to glare at him.

Marco is the funny one, as most call him. He jokes around a lot, and always has a smile on his face. But he has the hottest temper. Doesn’t know when to keep his cool and shut the hell up.

“It means,” Maximo starts, ashing his cigar in the large amber ash tray. “That the treaties are black and white. We deal with your father or no one. If he is truly ill and this isn’t some kind of farce to usurp our territory, then all we want is proof. It’s simple, boys. We can renegotiate.”

“You’re joking,” I say, looking around the table. “You think we’re the ones trying to take over you? You’re the ones coming at us because our father is too sick to get out of his goddamn bed and meet with you face to face.”

“Can you blame us, boyo?” Sean says in a heavy Irish accent. Fucking Irish and their need to call everyone some bullshit nickname. “What would you do if the tables were turned?” he continues, raising a dark red brow.

“We’d trust you because we’ve worked unproblematically for years. I thought we had more respect for one another than that,” I add as calmly as I can. But I’ll admit, I don’t have much patience left. When this emergency meeting was called, I was already having a bad fucking day because Matteo is a prick with no balls. He has the chance to make things right with his daughter, to make her feel better, yet he can’t do it. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. I can’t stand a man who can’t man the fuck up.

“So much respect you steal my son’s wife?” Dario growls.

I slam my fist on the table and stand, pointing a finger at him as my chair flies backward, slamming into the wall behind me.

“We’ve already had this discussion, Canvani, and I won’t have it again,” I spit out. Elio taps my thigh, but I ignore him. He’s lucky I haven’t leapt across the table and choked him with his stupid yellow tie.

“Relax, Dario,” Maximo says coolly, waving a hand at him. “It’s no one’s fault but your son’s.”

I admit that gives me the smallest bit of satisfaction. At least it isn’t all of them against me. Maximo Gaetano is known for seeing things neutrally, but usually only when it suits him. He looks at me. “Sit down, son. There’s no need for violence.”

Oh, there is every fucking need for violence.

Marco gets up and fixes my chair, so I sit down, all the while glaring at Dario. He’s crossed a line.

“That girl was my family’s debt paid,” Dario adds through clenched teeth.

“And your incipient son ruined it. Now drop it,” Maximo barks. He brings his gaze back to me and my brothers, pointing at us with his cigar.

“There is no disrespect here, to your family or your father, but we need proof.” He stubs his cigar out and stands. “This is business, boys. That’s it. Your father needs to be at the next meeting, or things around here are going to change. Drastically.”

My phone dings with a text.

Guillermo: It’s official.

It doesn’t bring the type of reaction I expected it to. I’m not smiling, I’m not relieved. They’re just two words sent in a text, letting me know a business transaction is complete. It’s official.

Vincenzo Bramante is a married man.

“Stop at the nearest pharmacy,” I tell Rocco, who’s driving.