Page 20 of Bitter Poetry

I’m thinking about a lot of things. But he’s right. Not one of them points to the Russians.

I’ve been trying to ignore the itch at the back of my neck like a target has been painted there. Maybe I’m reading this wrong—maybe it’s other outside unknowns and not the internal power play I suspect.

“You’re not arguing with me,” he says. “I’d bet money that Ettore is behind this.”

“You don’t have money to bet with,” I point out, turning to face him. What he has is a significant trust fund for when he's twenty-five. My father gave him a moderate allowance, saying he couldn’t be trusted with money. He can’t be trusted with a lot ofthings, including knives and guns, but someone in their infinite wisdom decided to let him loose with both.

I don’t even want to consider the material he watches on the dark web.

Even though he’s still classed as a minor he’s on his second beer, the epitome of relaxed with his suit jacket tossed over the back of the couch and his tie undone.

In some circles my responsible adulting techniques would be frowned upon.

He killed his first man when he was thirteen… I’ve given up worrying about the alcohol damaging his brain development. That ship has well and truly sailed.

“Exactly,” he says, pausing to tip the beer bottle to his lips. “I don’t need it. That’s a guaranteed win. I don’t trust the fucker. Neither do you. Word is Ettore was pissed when he heard your engagement to Carmela was to be announced. Cosmo was all up in his ear saying how he should marry her.”

“Cedro won’t give her to Cosmo.” What he’s done isn’t much better in my opinion.

“Don’t worry, I’d take Cosmo out in a heartbeat if Cedro gave that idea credence. But you need to push for your place in this. Bring the wedding forward. She’s turning eighteen soon. Fuck it, she’s hot.” He tips the beer bottle to his lips again as if to taunt the societal constraints.

Maybe I should be pissed that my brother thinks the woman I was destined to marry is hot. Jealous even? His words barely get a rise when I’m still seething after watching Ettore put his hands on her today like a fucking showman, making sure everyone saw him help her out of the car and escort her to Cedro. Sowing the seeds for what is to come.

“What are you going to do?” Christian demands, reminding me of the belligerent teenager, which he is but rarely acts.

I haven’t told him yet that the wedding is off, nor about my conversation with Cedro.

I need to.

Only I don’t know how he will react. Chris is not always predictable.

“Something’s happened,” he says, sitting up and fixing me with a level stare.

I take another drink of the whiskey, letting the burn roll down my throat and into my gut.

“Tell me he’s not handing the reins over to Ettore.”

I shrug.

“Fuck everyone. I’ll back you up,” Christian says, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees.

I don’t soften my words. “Even in this world, you’re still a kid.”

He quirks one eyebrow at me. “I paid my dues. I did whatever I was told to. And didn’t lose any fucking sleep over it.”

My rage softens as I stare into my brother’s eyes. “I don’t think of you as a kid.”

“What about Carmela?”

“Marrying Ettore.”

“What the actual fuck! He must be like fifty?”

“Forty-three.”

“And you’re not pissed about this?”

“Of course I’m pissed,” I snap.