Page 66 of Cinder (MC Fables #2)

A ngelo

“Father, I have an idea that I’d like to run past you.”

I’m sitting at my desk in my home office reading reports when my son sweeps in. He’s dressed in a suit with a crisp white shirt open at the collar and thousand-dollar leather shoes. I know this because they’re the exactly the same as mine.

“Of course, son,” I say, ignoring the familiar stab in my chest every time my son enters a room.

It’s a sharp twist in my gut. Almost like an extreme disappointment I can barely stomach.

But I ignore it because I’m trying to have faith in him, that he will come good now that he is living with me and not his psychopathic mother.

He is my son, and I should feel pride, not alarm bells, whenever I see him .

But it’s hard to do because Luca is an entitled brat who couldn’t organize a blow job in a brothel.

I indicate to the chair across from me, and he sits, crossing his legs and looking proud of himself.

“So what is this idea that has you looking like the cat who ate the cream?” I ask.

He smiles, and a tiny shiver crawls into my spine because it is the same smile as his mother’s. Carolina . One of the most frightening women I have ever known.

We were married only briefly. Six miserable months. She was pregnant, and her father insisted we marry—an insistence I would have ignored if he wasn’t such a dangerous man.

Immediately, the marriage was an unhappy one. When Luca was born, things worsened between us, and I secured a divorce from her with a colossal check big enough to ease her humiliation.

She took my son and left, making any access to him as difficult as possible for me.

Three months ago, she sent him to me, telling me he needed guidance from his father.

And she wasn’t wrong.

The man that showed up on my doorstep was a sniveling crybaby. Impatient and demanding. Prone to tantrums.

And fucking unlikable.

“Viktor Olicheckoff,” he says.

I pause, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t .

“What about him?” I ask, biting back my irritation.

“He’s the pakhan of the Olicheckoff Bratva,” he says, like I don’t know who the fucking pakhan of the Bratva is.

The very Bratva I have been keeping a close eye on, especially in the last few weeks because they’ve been running guns along the east coast. Their route coming too close to our territory.

“I know who he is, Luca. Will you get to your point.”

He leans forward. “A Moretti and Olicheckoff alliance.”

Oh Jesus. My son isn’t just entitled. He’s stupid as well.

“You want an alliance with the Bratva? Why would we form an alliance with them? We don’t need anything from them.”

He scoffs. “They’re running guns. Lots of them. We combine forces, and we can double what they do. Triple it. We don’t run guns. It’s an untapped niche for us. We align ourselves with them and become rich.”

“Take a look around the room, kid. We’re already rich. Some would say filthy rich. The Moretti empire is vast and strong already. We don’t need to align ourselves with anyone, especially not the Olicheckoff.”

“But father?—”

“I see the initiative, son. But you’re new here. Don’t go putting the cart before the horse. Slow down and take it in. You need to learn the business.”

“But these are the kinds of decisions I’ll be making when I take over from you.”

Dio, dammi la pazienza !

God give me patience.

“No, kid, these are not the kinds of decisions you will be making. Because you will not be taking over from me.”

My son is a weakling. He doesn’t have the balls to be the kind of man you need to be if you want to rule a thriving organization like the one I have built. He’s all talk and bravado with no spine to back it up. He’s also demanding and entitled. Hell, the little shit is a spoiled brat.

Last week, I joked with my right-hand man, Santo Elordi, that Ella has more balls than her brother. She definitely has more brains and street smarts.

Unfortunately, Luca overheard me say it and pulled that face he does when things don’t go his way and stormed off.

If it were Ella, she would’ve stood her ground and stuck up for herself. Told me off without disrespecting me, just like her beautiful mother used to do when she was alive and I spoke out of turn, God rest her soul.

“He’s no don,” Santo pointed out. “Who will you have take your place when it’s time to hand over the reins?”

“Ella. She has the smarts. She has the spine.”

“A smart choice, Don Moretti. She will do well.”

Up until now, Luca had no idea that when the time comes, Ella will inherit all of this, with the support of my men.

He sits up straight.

“But I am your eldest child,” he whines.

“But not the most suited to the role. ”

He looks indignant. “But there is only Ella, and surely you’re not grooming her to take your place. That role is mine.”

The indignation and entitlement in his voice grates on my nerves.

“Says who. Not me. And I am the one who decides.”

“But she’s a girl.”

“ She is my daughter.”

“And I am your son.” He launches to his feet and the chair scrapes along the marble. He braces his hands on his hips. “I’m meant to be the next don.”

“You’re not don material.”

Three weeks later, I’m preparing for bed after flying in late from a visit to the old country.

It’s a moonlit night, and I’m relieved to be home.

The house is quiet and after a week of meetings with the family where a lot of passionate discussions took place, I find myself craving the quiet.

I dismiss my bodyguards for the evening, and they return to their living quarters in the guest cottage on the other side of the estate. I am home now. Safe .

I set the alarm and climb the stairs to the second floor.

In my bedroom, I discard my jacket and remove my tie and pour a scotch. I’m tired, and my back aches from hours of travel. Opening the French doors leading out to the small balcony off my bedroom, I stand in the moonlight and look out at the silvery night.

The movement behind me takes me by surprise, and before I can stop it, the plastic bag is pulled over my head and yanked tight against my face. I drop my scotch and the tumbler crashes to the floor.

Struggling, I fight my unseen enemy behind me.

But they pull the bag tighter, so I am suffocating.

I swat at the hands securing the bag in place, then claw at the plastic pressed tight against my lips.

But I am running out of breath. The darkness is coming, and I am powerless against it.

After everything I have endured in my life, this is how it ends?

My lungs burn. My body sags. And as I fall to my knees, I hear a familiar voice at my ear.

“I’m not so weak now, am I old man?”