Page 72 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

Three years later

The convoy of black cars rolls to a stop near the rusted docks of Red Hook, Brooklyn. The salty air off the harbor mixes with the stench of oil and decay, and gulls circle like vultures in the distance.

We step out one by one, shoes crunching against broken glass and gravel as we approach the hulking shape of an abandoned warehouse.

This is Irish territory, which makes it the perfect neutral ground for a meeting of this nature. Still, nothing about this feels right.

“I don’t like this. Not one fucking bit,” Gio parrots his concern over to my father, his eyes scanning the shadows.

“You worry too much,” Dom shoots back, his voice flat, steady.

“Not worrying enough is what got us into this mess,” Gio grumbles, annoyed that his best friend isn’t taking his concerns seriously.

“If they wanted one of our kids, they would have found a way to get them.”

“And if the sky were made of shit, then we’d all be covered in filth whenever it rained. Is that you’re fucking point, Dom?”

Dom just chuckles, seeing Gio flustered, since it’s usually the other way around with them. As the two continue to bicker, neither my father nor I utters a word, needing to keep sharp for what’s about to go down.

I fucking wish Jude had come with us as we previously had planned.

Leave it to Stella to pull a stowaway and hide in the back of our private plane before we took off.

She’s been beside herself since Annamaria was taken from us, not thinking clearly or making good choices.

She’s more of a liability right now than an asset.

Hence why my father’s bodyguard, Bruno, is here with us instead of my brother.

Jude had to stay behind just to ensure Stella doesn’t go on a fucking killing spree and end up ruining any chances of us bringing our sister home safely.

I’m glad my Izzie stayed back in Chicago with Mina to care for our distraught mother. If she were here, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, too preoccupied with keeping her safe in this den of vipers.

“ Basta, ” my father orders the second we cross the threshold of the warehouse. It’s enough to silence Gio and Dom and get their head back in the game.

The heavy silence around us is broken only by the sound of our footsteps echoing against the empty walls as we venture deeper into the abandoned warehouse to meet the Donatos.

It’s been a whole week since Raffaele snatched Annamaria, right from under our noses. Once we learned the Donatos were behind the kidnapping, we flew straight to New York and demanded this sit-down.

They’ll give my sister back. One way or another.

Up ahead, Carlo Donato Senior stands arrogantly tall, flanked by his sons Matteo and Niccolò.

Four other men linger just behind the trio—broad and expressionless.

They are nothing but muscle, their sole intent to intimidate, since weapons are forbidden in these conferenzas.

A set of binding rules must be adhered to for this type of parley to be possible.

The first rule is that no weapons of any kind are allowed.

This is quickly followed by stipulating that no blood can be spilled during negotiations.

Finally, the same number of participants who enter the conferenza must be equal to those who walk away from it.

But fuck the rules. The rules also say that we don’t go after women or children.

As I see it, the Donatos don’t deserve the courtesy or the respect of us following the mafia rulebook to the letter. They sure as hell didn’t think twice to break every rule in the handbook when it suited them.

One of the Donatos’ men walks over to us before we can reach them, my father signaling Bruno to do the same and walk over to the other side of the warehouse.

I bare my teeth at the Cosa Nostra scum as he pats me down just to make sure I don’t have any weapons on me.

He does a piss poor job of it, since he misses the dagger Stella hid in my boot before I left to come here.

Once he’s patted us all and Bruno is satisfied that the Donatos are also clean, both families bridge the large gap between us so we can finally enter negotiations.

“Caro Vincenzo! So happy you came,” Don Carlo says smoothly, as if this were a routine capo meeting instead of a hostage exchange.

“Spare me your pleasantries, Carlo. Where is my daughter?” my father growls, while I discreetly scan the shadows for any movement, keeping my guard up.

“First, let me explain. I had no knowledge of what my son was up to. I swear to you, Vincenzo. This is all one big misunderstanding, and I’m confident that we will part tonight as the great friends that we are,” Carlo says, completely delusional.

“I do not care for stories or excuses. Raffaele will pay for his treachery. But I repeat… where is my daughter?!”

“Where she belongs.” Matteo steps forward, lips curled into a menacing smirk.

“I beg your fucking pardon?” Gio snarls, stepping forward as if he were about to rip Matteo’s head off with his bare teeth.

Not wanting this meeting to start off any worse, Dom quickly extends his arm over Gio’s chest to keep him away from the fucker in front of us. It wouldn’t help us in any way to kill these bastardos before finding out where they are keeping Annamaria.

However, even faced with such open hatred, Matteo doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as blink. He just looks right through Gio, as if he were nothing. As if he didn’t even exist.

“Easy, Giovanni. There will be plenty of time for bloodshed… later. However, since this is a meeting of equals, you must forgive me if you’re not the man I want to talk with. I prefer to speak with the Capo Dei Capi himself, rather than waste my time on his consigliere. ”

“Stay in your lane, boy. Let the grownups do the talking, cazzo, ” Gio snaps back, his voice dripping with venom.

Matteo only laughs.

‘This is a trap. We need to leave. Now, ‘ the voice in my ear cautions, and I’m inclined to believe him.

Nothing about this meeting feels right. Nothing.

I scan the warehouse again, letting my gaze drift upward to the ring of catwalks on the second floor, hanging over the open space like watchtowers. When I don’t see any movement whatsoever, my hackles rise.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

I’m about to say as much when my father takes a deliberate step forward in Matteo’s direction.

“I wasn’t aware, Don Carlo, that you had left your role as boss of the Cosa Nostra for it to be led by children.”

Carlo fidgets, his gaze flicking nervously to Matteo, gesturing his fear for his own son.

“Things have changed since we last saw each other,” Don Carlo says, carefully measuring his words.

“What my father is trying to say,” Matteo cuts in, voice slick with disdain, “is that things have changed since the day we watched you kill my brother.”

“He was a traitor,” my father replies coldly. “And for that, he paid the price.”

“Ah, yes,” Matteo laughs, the nefarious sound grating on my nerves.

“Because none of you here have ever betrayed the famiglia in any way, have you? Tell me, Don Vincenzo, ” Matteo continues, mockingly.

“Is it only the Outfit or God Himself who condemns any man who shares his wife with his two brothers?”

My father’s expression is carved into stone, giving nothing away, even if Matteo’s rant did strike a nerve. “Rumors. You bring me hearsay? You’ll have to do better than that to get my attention, boy. ”

“Proof, Vincent.” Matteo’s sardonic grin chills the room. “I brought you proof.”

With that loaded grenade in his armor, Matteo tilts his head to Niccolò, who throws a manila envelope to the ground and slides it over to my father’s feet.

Unwilling to let my father bow down to any of these men, I pick the envelope up and rip it open.

Inside are birth certificates, along with DNA records and paternity test results.

At a quick glance, I see exactly the proof this bastard has uncovered.

The documents prove that Jude and I are my father’s biological sons, while the twins are Giovanni’s, though none of us needed a piece of paper to tell us that.

As for my sisters, both were fathered by Dominic.

I look up at my father, and in that one glance between us, he reads the truth in my eyes. This fucker can end us with a snap of his fingers if these documents ever see the light of day. Rage sears my chest as I tear the papers to shreds.

“Rip all you want,” Matteo sneers. “I have more copies. It took me years to get your DNA, to prove the whispers right. But now that I have it, tell me… how long do you think your loyal capos will let you wear that great big crown on your head, Vincent?”

My father doesn’t falter and instead surprises Matteo when he steps closer to all three Donato men.

“Maybe as long as your capos will remain loyal to you,” my father counters.

“Let me remind you, Matteo, of your own illegitimacy. If memory serves me right, aside from Carlo Junior, you, Niccolò, and Raffaele were all born out of wedlock. Furthermore, you were born of your father’s mistress.

He may have been forced to marry your mother after Carlo Junior died to ensure his legacy, and pretend you have a legitimate claim to his throne, but mafiosi have long memories, Matteo. They never forget a bastard.”

Matteo’s nostrils flare, rage flickering hot across his face for the first time since we walked into this godforsaken warehouse.

“Call me that again,” he growls, low and dangerous, “and I promise those will be your dying words.”

“Spare me the theatrics,” my father replies, unshaken, “and just tell me where my daughter is.”

“Why should I even tell you when she’s nothing to you?” Matteo says evenly, pointing at Dom to make his case clear. “She’s your enforcer’s daughter. Not yours.”