Page 43 of Mafia King: Matteo (Borrelli Mafia #1)

MATTEO

The variance went through as expected. Gio and I are sitting in my office at the warehouse. I pull a bottle of Bourbon out of my drawer. Gio pulls two cigars from his breast pocket.

Niccoló breezes in wearing jeans, a turtleneck, and a winter jacket. He loves military-style boots that lace up to his ankles. He’s been a soldier and a boxer. I set a rock glass for him.

“I’m in training.”

“When has that stopped you?”

“I’m serious—I’m following the rules, and sugar is bad. I never should have stopped working out. This is tough. Fuck, I hurt. I know I’ll hurt more tomorrow.” He sits and rubs his calves.

“I don’t care to do more than my normal routine. I usually work out at home.”

“It’s called age,” Gio says, lighting my cigar, then his own. We both take a puff.

“What about you, old man?” Niccoló says to Gio.

“I’m a minimalist.”

“I’m talking about the gym, not your choice of furniture,” Niccoló banters.

“I’m good. I don’t care to have the shit beaten out of me unless the job calls for it.” He takes another puff on his cigar.

“Just don’t overdo it, kid,” I say. I love my brother, and I would prefer him not to pursue this dangerous sport, but it’s in his blood.

Telling him no is like pissing in the wind.

He’s doing this because he has a death wish.

He needs to recover from his grief, but instead, he’s behaving as if he has nothing left to lose.

I’m sure I’d feel the same if something happened to Alena.

We smoke and drink, and Niccoló becomes less talkative. I should be relieved he’s at the gym channeling his anger.

The week passed quickly. Alena is working.

The wedding invites were sent, and everything seems to be running smoothly— although Niccoló’s presence is a rarity.

Judging from his perfectly made bed, he sleeps many nights at the gym.

I gave him the top floor of the house, so he won’t hear Alena and me fucking every night.

Sometimes, I’m so happy that I feel like I’m rubbing my happiness in his face when I hold Alena’s hand, and he walks into the room.

This weekend began with Alena’s bachelorette party. Bianca arrived at the house this morning. The two hit it off as anticipated. Vito and another guard will take them to pick up Penny and Izzy for a day at the spa.

I have a minute alone with Alena before she leaves. “I love you. I want you to know I loved you from the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re on my mind all the time.”

“I don’t know, Gio. Should they be out?” I watch as the limo leaves the estate.

“It was a backfire last weekend. For all we know, there are no threats. Your father’s debt might have been paid in full with his death.”

“That’s too easy. Old business tends to turn up when it’s not expected. We need answers. Did the syndicate act locally, or did Moretti order it?”

“Moretti is the don. I would assume it would come from the top. However— some men don’t follow the rules.

Whether he knew or not doesn’t matter. It won’t bring Chiara back.

There was a motive behind Chiara’s murder because, without her, we can’t prove who was behind this.

Without a witness, there is no crime.” I’m not too fond of Gio’s answer, but he tells it the way he sees it, and I know we’ve both arrived at the same conclusion.

“She was killed to keep the Cosa Nostra out of this,” I mutter, “and that would mean something is going on. They might be making a move to take us over.” I swirl my mid-morning coffee in the cup.

It’s incredible coffee made from Hawaiian Kona beans, but it turns bitter in my mouth.

War is never good. It takes lives and brings attention to us, and then we’ll have the Italian government and the United States working together to hit our assets and round up men on the wanted list.

Fuck.

I hate the fact that this is coming to a head. The timing is unacceptable. “I hate the fact that someone is watching us. Do you have men on Moretti and his son? The old man is bonkers. He can’t be trusted. We’ve never trusted the Cosa Nostra.”

“That’s true, and the old man is mean from what I hear,” Niccoló walks into the living room. I didn’t know he was home.

“What do you know?” I ask, turning to him as he walks in with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s been using my older Mercedes, as I refuse to take the Lamborghini out of storage in winter.

“I guess so. I only know what I told you. I have no clue why she’s on drugs. It’s a hush-hush thing. She hasn’t left the house in months. There is a rumor she’s not sickly. I say we investigate and find out what is behind his fortress.”

“That’s creepy as fuck,” Gio states.

“What’s up with the son? I think I saw him briefly with Councilman Addler at the gala. I wonder what they are trying to gain with their campaign donation.” Federico pops in with a tray of pastries and drinks. Niccoló eats a chocolate-filled croissant, and I’m relieved he’s eating.

“The son, Vincenzu, is not the nicest man. I get the impression that he’s preferred over his father. He’s smart and has more common sense than the old man. He also likes boxing. I might run into him at some point. Maybe I will suggest we have a Sicilian cookout,” Niccoló says sarcastically.

“We have the house being watched, and Mrs. Moretti has not been seen,” Gio adds.

I receive a text.

“The woman is at Alena’s dress fitting. I turn to Niccoló. Can you investigate Moretti’s wife? We need to confirm the rumors.”

“I’m on it,” Niccoló says as he grabs a water bottle.

“I’ll use your tech company. You say you have the best hackers.

Let’s see what they can do.” He gives me a salacious smile, and I know he’s the man for the job.

“I want to kill the man responsible for Chiara’s death.

I’ll never forget finding her that way.”

I feel for my brother. I’ve seen the crime scene photos, and since she was beaten and stabbed, her death was painful.

The pictures looked like a botched murder.

I’m used to seeing a ton of fucked up shit, but that is a murder where I would have puked.

I’m convinced it was staged to look like a robbery.

She didn’t have anything worth stealing.

Niccoló leaves, taking a guard. Gio and I walk to my study, where I pace.

“You are driving me nuts, Matteo,” he exclaims.

“I’m standing with my hands tied. There has to be something we’re missing.” I move my hand over my chin and tap my lip with my finger as I think. I move to my desk and pull the paper out of the drawer. “I found this in Dad’s papers. Do you recognize the handwriting?”

“No, probably a woman’s,” he says. “Was your father seeing someone?”

“Not that I know of, but the old man was cagey. How can we find one Italian woman in New York City who might have crossed paths with my father?”

“True.”

I received a text from Vito that the women were at the spa. My chest is consumed with tightness—and anxiety. This is something new to me. I pray today goes without an incident.

I checked in with Niccoló for an update, and even though they have hacked into hospital records, he can’t find any records of Santino’s wife, Gabriela, being admitted anywhere in the city.

I ordered him to continue digging and hang up.

This task will keep him occupied, and keeping his mind busy is important.

I’m worried he’s on a path to self-destruction.

I’m hoping the allure of finding the villain will give him a reason to live.

We always deliver justice. An eye for an eye.

It’s the law of our world and the oath we all swear to uphold.

I feel the anger in my chest. Vengeance will be mine.

I know we’re getting closer. I need a few chips to fall into place, and revenge will be mine.

“That’s odd. Why would a woman be medicated if she doesn’t need it?” Gio asks. “She has kids. How could that go on?”

“Is Santino just being cruel, or is there a reason his wife is a prisoner in their home? And the kids are all raised and out of the house. He is in control of what happens in his house.”

“I hope we’re wrong. Either way, he’s an asshole.”

I’m too restless to sit here without Alena. We head into the city and take a guard to drive us. We check on shipments and make sure things are locked down at the warehouses. I need to keep my shit together now more than ever, but the circle of death appears to be moving closer.

Gio and I stop for lunch at a pub in our territory. It was probably not the best decision, considering we don’t know what the Murphys, the Irish mob, own. They have a stronghold in Boston and are carving out their territory with underground boxing and gambling.

We’re at the end of an incredible shepherd’s pie when men enter. Their Celtic crosses and tattoos on their necks show they are part of an Irish clan.

I leave cash at the table, and we walk to the door. On the way to the door, one of the men hollers at me.

“You bloody well don’t belong here, Borrelli. Stick to your side of town.”

“Leave it,” Gio mutters so only I can hear him.

“I didn’t know you owned this joint,” I reply.

“Get a map.” The tall Irishman pushes his sweater up his arms. “And you best take care of your women. Cillian O’Donnell isn’t happy about his son. You’d best be careful. When he’s mad, it rains more here than in Ireland.”

Rain? A metaphor for bullets? He’s threatening me.

“Well, if he’s unhappy, he should go to therapy.”

He stands, causing the wooden chair to scrape as it refuses to slide over the old tile. My God! He’s over six feet tall, and his chest could pull a hand-truck full of milk.

“Get out and don’t come back,” he says with an accent that makes him difficult to understand.

He raises an arm and curls his fingers as if he has a gun in his hand and is ready to pull the trigger. He pulls his fingers back and pretends to shoot.

We leave. I texted Antonio to send more men to the girls, hoping the threat was for me and not them.

“The Irish are stirred up over you.” Gio quickly calls for the G-wagon, which rolls around, and we slide inside, contemplating the situation.

“Call your contact with Cillian. We need a sit-down. Something is about to go down. Is every mob family in a state of rebellion?”

Gio is on his phone and makes the call.

“How do you see this meeting going?” he asks after he’s hung up.

“No clue. One never knows. I assume he wants something from me, and this is his way of communicating.”

“That’s pretty fucked up,” Gio replies.

“They have a fucked-up history of wars,” I reply. Mom would have been proud that I made good grades in school. I liked history the best. “We need to swing by the port. I have a shipment coming in. I want to make sure it’s not hijacked.”

“I can have men do that.” Gio protests us going out of our way, but Alena and Bianca won’t be home for a few more hours, and I feel incomplete without them there.

I instruct the guard to make sure we’re not followed. I have Italians and the Irish crowding me. I wonder what stirred up this shit storm.

The guard and Gio exit the car, making sure it’s safe. I walk into the postmaster we have on our payroll. He says things have been quiet. I walk to our dock and find my men in a small building, drinking coffee and keeping warm.

They are surprised to see me, but that’s to be expected.

I don’t come here often, but today was an exception.

I desire to do things that aren’t necessarily productive, but the ritual of going down my checklist before a war gives me the illusion that I have control over something. And for now, it’s a comfort.

I head back to the car with Gio, and we stop at a bodega because Gio needs some cigars.

This store happens to have illegal ones from Cuba.

He tells me he says a few words in Spanish, and they are pulled from under the counter.

I stretch my legs and walk into the floral store next door.

Flowers for Alena would make her day complete.

I exit the store carrying a huge vase filled with two dozen red flowers.

“Get down!” is what I hear Gio shouting as a gunshot rings in my ears.

One or more, I don’t know. It was so fast that I dropped the vase, and it shattered at my feet.

Gio is on top of me. “Are you okay?” His hands run over my body, and he opens my winter coat to see what the wound looks like.

I hear the wail of police sirens and an ambulance.

“It nicked his arm. Let’s get him in the wagon. We need to get out of here.”

The daylight blurs. My arm hurts like a burn. I’m helped into the G-wagon, and the vehicle lurches forward under the weight of my guard’s foot.

“The flowers,” I mumble.

“She’ll understand that, but she’ll kill me if I don’t get you home in one piece.” Gio is visibly shaken. “Did you see anything, Andre? What kind of car was it?”

“It was a Hummer. I was parked illegally, so I stayed with the car.”

“Fuck,” Gio yells, applying pressure on my arm. The pain is excruciating. “Drive faster!”

I’m dragged into a room, and an IV is in my arm. Then, my head is in the clouds. I fantasize about being on my honeymoon and fast forward to Alena, pregnant with my baby.

I’m at home and in bed, and a few hours must have passed. The pain meds are wearing off. The fog has lifted. Niccoló is sitting in a chair by my bedside.

“You scared us. Thankfully, you’ll be as good as new in no time.” Leave it to my brother to try to cheer me up.

I look at the bandage on my arm. “Fuck, I have a hole in my arm, don’t I?”

“They did a good job. You’re lucky. It could have been your heart.”

* * *