Chapter 3
Not a single chair scraped against the floor. Not a single hand reached for a wine glass.
Twenty-four adult relatives stared intensely at their linen napkins, their fair, rosy skin draining of all color until they looked like corpses seated for a final portrait. The ambient silence was so absolute that the faint, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a sledgehammer striking steel.
Antonio walked slowly down the length of the thirty-foot mahogany table.
Lucas clung to his father's lapel, his small thumb resting against Antonio’s cheek, his hiccups gradually subsiding against the steady, immovable rhythm of his father's heartbeat.
"I asked a question," Antonio murmured, his voice velvety and devoid of human warmth. "Sal? Marco? Beatrice? You’ve been eating my meat for two hours. Surely one of you has the courage to stand behind Damian’s words."
Cousin Sal, a fifty-year-old capo who ran the Brooklyn freight lines, swallowed hard, his hands trembling where they rested on the white linen.
"Antonio... Boss," Sal stammered, his American accent cracking under the strain. "We didn't know the sash was that tight. Lavinia said the boy threw his silverware. She said it was an internal domestic matter."
"An internal domestic matter," Antonio repeated, each syllable spaced with lethal precision. "My son is three years old, Sal. He weighs thirty-two pounds. Did you think he was going to draw a weapon on twenty-four grown adults?"
"No, Don Antonio," Sal whispered, bowing his head until his forehead nearly touched his bread plate. "Forgive me."
"Forgiveness is an ecclesiastical matter, Sal," Antonio said softly. "In this house, we deal in ledgers."
From the head of the table, Lavinia pushed her upholstered chair back. The heavy wood screeched against the floorboards, cutting through the silence. The sixty-five-year-old matriarch stood with her chin tilted high, her diamonds catching the bright light, attempting to summon forty years of family hierarchy to shield her from the predator standing before her.
"Enough of this theater, Antonio!" Lavinia snapped, her voice trembling slightly, though her eyes remained defiant. "I am your father’s sister! I helped raise you after your mother passed! In the old days, children were taught to be silent at the table. Sophia is dead, and you have coddled that boy until he acts like an untamed peasant!"
Antonio stopped two paces from his aunt.
The name of his late wife, Sophia, hung in the air like poison gas.
"Do not speak her name with that mouth, Lavinia," Antonio whispered, his eyes narrowing into twin slits of flint. "Sophia died bringing this child into the world. She gave this family an heir while you spent thirty years trying to engineer a way to put Damian in my seat."
"Damian is a capable man!" Lavinia countered, her hands clutching her pearls. "He manages our northern accounts! He deserves respect, not to be thrown into the corridor like a stray dog in front of our capos!"
"Your son is a parasite who steals from his own nephew's plate," Antonio replied, stepping closer until his towering shadow completely enveloped her. "And you, Aunt Lavinia... you have forgotten whose roof you are standing under."
May you like
Lucas leaned toward his father's ear, his small voice breaking into a nervous whisper. "Dad... Uncle Damian has the black box in his car. He told Auntie they were going to change the signatures tonight."
Lavinia’s jaw dropped. The last bit of color drained from her powdered cheeks.
