Page 4 of Cruelest Contract (Storm’s Eye Ranch)

JULIAN

T en minutes with soap and water is all it takes to erase the acrid stench of smoke and sins. There’s no better modern luxury than a hot shower following a long ride in the rain. My stomach, however, still has plenty of complaints.

My father insists on formality at meal times. Seeing his four sons sitting around the table and looking respectable is one of the few things that make him happy so we don’t argue.

Freshly shaved and towel dry, I tuck a navy blue button down shirt into wrinkle free black pants and run a comb through my hair before leaving the room.

Enzo, the ranch chef, has been busy. The smell of baking bread and sausage is torture as I jog down the stairs.

But I don’t shirk my obligation and my first stop is my father’s study.

A two inch remnant of a recently smoked cigar lies in a horseshoe-shaped ashtray on my father’s broad desk, which is free of clutter. The broad bay window overlooks the corral and the big barn with the peaks of the distant Medicine Bow Mountains rounding out the view.

Turning from the window, I face the huge stone fireplace, which is empty and cold today.

Above the thick wood block mantle hangs my mother’s picture.

The oil portrait of Teresa Castelli Tempesta was painted to be larger than life.

Because it was commissioned after her death, the artist worked from her wedding photos.

My smiling mother is immortalized as a serene princess.

White dress aside, she probably looks much as she did when Cass Tempesta saw her for the first time the day he walked into her family’s restaurant.

He happened to be in New York on business when he was invited to join a mobster poker game in the basement of Gino’s Pizzeria.

She was working behind the counter. I’m not a believer in love at first sight, but I have no other way of explaining what happened next.

Within weeks, they were married.

Nine months after their wedding day, I was born.

A whirlwind five years saw them welcome four sons, one right after the other.

And then it all ended, in the most brutal way imaginable.

Fort was still in diapers when our mother was taken from us. He has no memory of her.

Getty was three at the time. He won’t answer questions about what he remembers.

Tye, eleven months older than Getty, cannot tolerate the scent of lavender because it reminds him of her perfume and the only time anyone will see him tear up is if he hears the lyrics to That’s Amore . She’d sing it often while tucking us in for the night.

As the eldest, I remember more about my mother than my three brothers put together.

If I could give them some of those memories then I would.

She laughed a lot. She danced with her husband even when there was no music.

She loved flowers so much that my father built her a greenhouse and fresh flower arrangements were found in every room of the house.

Sometimes my mind drags me back to my early years and I have trouble believing my father is the same man he used to be.

As the head of a Mafia family, there’s no doubt he had ruthless qualities long before I was aware of them.

But I’m haunted by the sound of him screaming and screaming until his voice was gone.

The day my mother was killed, the light disappeared from his eyes, never to return.

I’ve had too much time to observe the devastating aftermath of a love as intense as the one my parents shared. I’ll never be so obsessed with a woman that I risk the same fate.

Companionship, on the other hand, is worth a hell of a lot. Sooner or later, I’ll be expected to marry and start working on the next generation of Tempesta heirs.

But falling in love? Fuck no. Nothing but a ruinous gamble.

If there’s one unbreakable rule on Storm’s Eye Ranch, it’s that Teresa must always be honored. I make the sign of the cross and gaze up at the portrait for a solemn moment before Getty walks in. We share a nod and I leave him alone to conduct his own private ritual with the ghost of our mother.

Moving through the maze of dark hallways to the dining room is a journey I could take while blindfolded in pitch blackness. There’s no special reason why I should suddenly think of my cousins right now but my thoughts keep wandering.

Every summer while we were growing up, the two sons of my mother’s only brother would visit from New York.

No matter how much time they spent here they were forever in awe of the huge house, the vast ranch land, all of it.

Sometimes I forget how overwhelming this place must seem to people who are used to life in cramped cities.

To me, it’s just home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I never plan to.

The smell of food becomes overpowering when I’m within twenty feet of the dining room. Carmela Fiorello rounds the corner in a hurry and nearly drops a small glazed bowl filled with grated pecorino Romano cheese.

“Easy.” I rescue the bowl when it wobbles in her knobby hands.

“You tell your father the bread is coming,” she says, her old school Brooklyn accent intact. She winks. “You boys better have brought your appetites with you from the hills.”

“There are two things you can count on around here,” I remind her. “Cold winters and our bottomless stomachs.”

Carmela, affectionally nicknamed ‘Mel’ by us boys, laughs and fondly pats my arm before race walking away on her new mission.

She refers to herself as the housekeeper.

I’d say caretaker is more accurate. She passed the age of retirement a while ago.

No one would dare mention this. The widow of one of my grandfather’s New York Capos from the old days, she arrived on the ranch the day of my mother’s funeral.

She never intended to stay. But she found four small children in the care of a man who was too grief-stricken to feed himself.

And with no one waiting on her back in New York, Mel found a new purpose.

“What else am I gonna do with myself?” she used to say with a shrug. “You boys are my family. If I ever leave this ranch, it’ll be when I get carried out on a stretcher.”

Fort is the only one of my brothers to beat me to the dining room. He and my father never have much to say to each other and they wait in silence. I set down the bowl of grated cheese and take my standard seat, to the right of my father’s chair at the head of the table.

“There’s bread coming,” I say, though there’s already enough food on the table to feed every man on the property plus twenty of their friends. My stomach rumbles as I shake out a linen napkin and lay it on my lap.

Table manners are a serious subject around here. No one eats a bite until every member of the family is seated.

Rainwater streaks across the wall of windows. The flickering chandelier lights give the room a medieval castle vibe. Cass Tempesta checks his watch and his brow pleats with a frown.

Getty strolls in here next. His wicked shit-eating grin always dissolves in our father’s presence. Sitting directly across from me, he asks a silent question with a raised eyebrow and I shrug.

There’s a weighty feeling hanging in the air and I doubt it has anything to do with our overnight adventure. That business is done. Nobody needs to hear a play by play.

But I can decipher my father’s moods better than anyone. When he drums his heavily ringed fingers on the table, there’s something significant on his mind.

Mel drops off a basket of sliced crusty bread. Skulking into the room behind her with a platter of sausage and peppers is one of the regular soldiers on our security team. He keeps his head down, delivers the food, and scampers out.

After pausing to survey us with an affectionate smile, Mel silently exits. She’s always welcome to eat with us if she wants to. She never does.

Five silent minutes later, Tye is still missing. Not a shock. Punctuality is a mysterious concept to him. He probably got distracted while jerking off in the shower and then took a nap.

Getty pushes his chair back. “Leave this to me. I’ll go hunt down that prick and drag him in here by the short hairs.”

“Stay where you are, Gaetano,” my father warns. “That goes for the rest of you too.”

Getty returns his chair to the table and exhales noisily. For once, he and I are on the same page. There are days when my father’s controlling rules really chafe on my fucking nerves. This could easily become one of those days.

At last, footsteps shuffle in the hallway and Tye casually wanders in. He’s in the middle of fixing his untucked white shirt and water drips from his hair onto his collar. The scruff on his jaw means he either forgot to shave in the shower or he’s channeling his bearded hockey player days.

But now that Tye has graced us with his presence and dropped into the chair next to mine, the feeding frenzy can begin. Getty’s eyes narrow in a death glare when I’m the first to seize the platter of sausage and peppers. It’s his favorite. Tough shit. It’s my favorite too.

My brothers pile food on their plates like they’re prepping for hibernation. Not that I’m any better. But at least we take the time to cut our food and eat one bite at a time because, “Teresa’s boys will always be gentlemen.”

Another of our father’s edicts.

What a paradox.

Raised to be cowboy Mafia aristocrats. We can ride from dusk till dawn and we’ve been taught to kill our enemies with no remorse. But hell will freeze over if we don’t use the proper fucking forks at dinner.

This irony prompts me to snort right into my water glass.

My father clears his throat and frowns in my direction.

If there are antics afoot, my brothers are always responsible.

I’m the son who keeps the crew in order, not the son who ignites a rebellion.

It’s the burden and the curse of the firstborn.