Page 36 of Bitter Poetry

“Christian,” he says, motioning to me. He looks like the lord of the fucking manor sitting behind his big ass desk. “Come in and take a seat.”

I take the chair facing him. I’ve never been in here before, but it has the same wood paneling and plush carpet theme going on, and there is a nice view of the gardens through the French doors on the left.

Cedro never spoke to me directly. My father went so far as to tell me to keep a low profile whenever events caused me to grace the presence of the don’s family. That conversation happened around the time I got kicked out of school. Personally, I think I should have gotten some recognition for a job well done. A physical education teacher was giving private and very adult lessons to some of the boys. He messed with the wrong kid whose parents were a friend of a friend of Cedro’s. I probably saved tens of thousands in future therapy bills for the parents, and the school an embarrassing exercise in litigation.

I might have gotten a bit overenthusiastic. Heard the teacher was on a liquid diet for a while. He moved out-of-state as soon as he was well enough to be discharged from the hospital. They needed someone to blame, which was me. Given I was underage, and it was on private property in a private school, I was suspended through to the end of the school year.

It didn’t bother me. I was bored as fuck and had already passed all my exams. Sending me to college was a risk no one was interested in taking. I’ve been working with Jero ever since.

Win-win.

“Your brother has accepted the position of capo.”

Accepted is an interesting word…. “Yes, I heard, sir. He left this morning.”

He nods, leans back in his chair, and steeples his fingers, which I once saw in a TikTok was a sign of superiority.

He’s the fucking don, or close as, so I don’t think he needs to offer any additional cue. But whatever.

“Good,” he says, nodding again. “I’d like you to assume the role of Carmela’s protection whenever she needs to leave home.”

“Yes, sir.” Fuck that. I’m not going to increase my skillset following a prissy mafia princess around.

He smiles. It looks genuine, and that really fucking throws me. “I understand the two of you have had some… clashes in your past.”

“She told me I was a thug in the making after I got blood on her dress. I was fifteen at the time. It was at the summer ball Don Cedro used to host here. I’d just busted the nose of the Mancini’s youngest after he cornered her and tried to stick his hand under her skirt. It was his blood. And it’s not like I had any control over the trajectory of the spray. A thank you would have been nice.” I shrug. My father, and subsequently Dante, have coached me in being less direct. “Also, I liked to think I was a fully-fledged thug at that point. I wasn’t working for the family back then, but Jero let me cut his finger off. I really felt like I’d found my calling, you know.”

He bursts out laughing, like a full, deep, belly laugh.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh, and it’s very fucking disconcerting.

“The late Mrs. Accardi was not an advocate of your methods,” he says when he finally gets his amusement under control. “Carmela is bound to be influenced. Davide will drive. When do you turn eighteen?”

“Next month.”

“Good.” He nods. “She wants to go to some coffee shop she used to visit with her mother. She is your responsibility. Make sure you can see her at all times. If she speaks to someone, I want to know. If anyone bothers her, deal with it.”

I leave his office.

Relieved.

Confused.

But also pissed off.

What’s going to be on the next episode of Ettore fucking with the Barone family?

When I enter the kitchen, the new bane of my life is talking to her sister.

“You good to go?”

Her brows pull together.

“I’ll catch you later, mate,” Jero says, heading out the door I entered through.

“Great! You’re coming with us?” Jessica asks, beaming.

“Not great,” Carmela says, her pert, prissy nose lifting. “You cannot be serious about this.”