Page 57 of Dark Romeo

With a snarl aimed at me, Abel pulled out a black Glock and handed it over. “Don’t shoot yourself.”

“I know how to handle a gun.” I took it from him, released the canister, checked it was loaded then clicked it back into place in one swift move. My father had bought me my first gun on my thirteenth birthday and taught me how to shoot. I still held on to those long summer afternoons he spent crouched by my side, teaching me to shoot. They had been some of the rare times I had cherished with my father.

“Do you remember how to aim?” my father said. He shared a look with Abel as if this was a joke they shared between them.

I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Of course, I maintained my shooting skills. Even in Europe, I was at a range every other week. I may not have wanted to be a Tyrell but I wasn’t stupid. I knew my surname was a target on my back.

The limo pulled up to a stop in front of an abandoned warehouse, owned by neither of our families. Neutral property. We sat in the limo, sweat collecting at the base of my spine as we waited for my father’s men to check the area for an ambush. All clear. For now.

We exited the limo and entered the warehouse, my father and me in the center, Abel and four other men flanked around us like a walking shield. My ears were pricked, my eyes darting about me, peering through the shadows and the scattered machinery hanging like rusty skeletons.

Already waiting for us was Alberto Veronesi in the center of four suited men. He was my father’s age, although he didn’t wear his age as well. His belly bulged over his tailored pin-stripe pants, his matching jacket hanging open, and his wrinkles were deeply lined in a pale, puffy face. His once dark hair was now gray.

I scanned the faces of the other men there. I didn’t recognize any of them from the dossiers my father had sent over to me. A prickle scattered over my skin. Alberto’s four sons were missing from this meeting.

I had only met Alberto in person once, at the funeral of my mother. He had been a childhood sweetheart of hers and a friend to my father. She left him to be with my father. This, as well as territorial disputes, caused a bitterness between these two men extending back several decades. My mother had been the prize my father had won. Alberto had never forgiven him.

“I thought we agreed to limit our associates who were to attend this meeting,” Alberto said, eyeing our seven to his five.

“I’m surprised you had the nerve to call this meeting,” my father said.

Alberto’s eyes met mine and a smile crept across his face. “So, this is the new heir to Tyrell’s empire. You’ve been away for several years, my boy. You ready for the games that real men play?”

Before I could answer, my father interrupted. “You do not get to speak to him. You called this meeting with me. You shall address me.”

Alberto stiffened and turned to stare at my father. “We did not order the attack on your son. We would not break the code like that.”

Even as a child my father was always talking about the code. No Made Man was to be killed without consent from the Commission, being the head of the five biggest families in the country. The Tyrell family, however powerful, still bowed to the de Lucas. Sonny de Luca, the current capo, would not have sentenced Jacob to die. Sonny and my father had a long, close history.

Four years ago, Jacob had been wanted for the murder of an informant after his ex-girlfriend turned against him to testify that she’d seen him shoot the poor woman in cold blood. He had escaped and gone underground. There was no reason to order his execution. Not now.

Or was there?

“Why should we believe you?” my father said. “It’s common knowledge that your family has been making plays for more power in this district for years.”

“Do you think I want a full-scale war?” Alberto bristled. “Do you think I am stupid enough to incite one? With you? I do not want a war. It’s not good for anyone’s business.”

“If there is a war, I did not start it.”

“You think I’d be reckless enough to carve a V on your boy’s chest? If you think that, then you’re as stupid as the man who ordered your son’s death.” Alberto growled.

The tension in the room shot up by several degrees, our men and his men eyeing each other, their hands floating ever so closely to their hips where an arsenal of guns waited.

“If you didn’t do it,” my father spat out, “then who did? One of the other families? I don’t think so. They wouldn’t dare. Only you would.”

“You’re forgetting the third option.”

My father stiffened. “Which is?”

“The fleur-de-lis,” Alberto said with a hiss.

The fleur-de-lis? “They’re a myth,” I said. A group of faceless vigilantes hell-bent on taking the law into their own hands.

“Quiet, boy,” my father snapped at me.

“My man, Vinnie Torrito, turned up dead a few days ago. Tortured, shot in the head, and dumped in our territory. Do you deny you killed him?”

“Of course I do,” my father said.

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