Page 38 of Ivory Crown

“Jesus Christ,” I replied, laughing with him. Marco’s laughter filled the small room, a sound so familiar yet out of place amidst our father’s empire. We laughed until we were gasping for air, our past misdemeanours forgotten for a moment. I walked over to the bed to sit next to him. “I heard you ditched your date when you got jumped.”

“What? No,” Marco said, sounding more offended than confused. “No. She was in on it. I left because she started shouting at them like she knew them and wanted them to stop.”

The light bulb above flickered like a hesitant heartbeat, throwing shadows across the old bedroom where I stood with Marco. The place was a time capsule—model cars and dog-eared comics were strewn about, each a memory we once lived. But there was no more comfort to be had in nostalgia tonight.

“It sucks,” he said. “I really liked her.”

I eyed him, my kid brother—now an adult, which was weird—whose bold stance couldn’t mask the fear I knew gnawed at his gut. A recent brush with death does that to a man, even one made of steel like us Morettis.

“You did?”

“Yeah, she was really nice,” he said. “Not just beautiful, but…sweet. I don’t know.”

“That does suck,” I said. “But you’ll find someone else. Once this all blows over…once you don’t have to be here.”

His eyes met mine, and I saw it—the faint trace of dread he thought he’d buried. No words needed to be spoken; our mother’s safety was on the line. We were raised in the embrace of danger, but this was different. This was too close to home, too close to the heart.

“Yeah, I’ll stay here until I can make absolutely certain no one is watching Mom. I just can’t get over the fact that someone would be foolish enough to go for her. Enzo’s wife? That’s not just a death wish, it’s a…what is it called when someone enjoys pain?”

“Masochism,” I replied, my gaze dropping to the frayed carpet under my feet.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Marco huffed a dry laugh. “Well, whoever they are, they’re a bunch of masochists.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, lost in our thoughts. The air was heavy with the unsaid things between us – fear, anger, uncertainty. But Marco was right; whoever dared to harm our family didn’t know the wrath of Enzo Moretti. They didn’t know the fire that burned within his sons.

“I still can’t believe it,” Marco mumbled, picking at a string on the edge of his faded bedsheet. “I mean... Mom? She’s always been...”

“Untouchable,” I finished for him. Our mother was an enigma wrapped in grace and poise; wife to a mafia don and mother to his heirs, yet somehow removed from the dirt and grime of our world.

“Yeah,” he sighed, his eyes far away. “But I guess we were wrong about that.”

“You being here is good. It helps,” I said. “If they can sense our presence, maybe they’ll back off.”

“Someone’s gotta be the hero, Dante,” Marco shot back. They remained hard, vigilant—mirrors of my own. “If Dad doesn’t know…and if he does know and doesn’t do anything…”

“Always the hero,” I murmured, leaning back to look at the spinning fan. It was always on, though I was never sure why.

“You’re being very flattering for someone who called me useless every day until I was sixteen,” he said.

I smirked. “You’re growing out of it.”

“I should’ve really quit while I was ahead,” he muttered.

“Touché. But this is serious, Marco. I agree. You should stay here,” I found myself murmuring, my voice barely above a whisper as I avoided his gaze, focusing on the scars in the wood.

Marco cocked his head to the side, a familiar skeptical look creasing his brow. “You don’t think dad can?”

The question hung heavy in the air of our childhood room, filled with memories of simpler times when the biggest worry we had was who would win at cards.

“I don’t think Dad knows how much danger she’s in,” I confessed, feeling the weight of the family legacy on my shoulders. My eyes met his again, searching for understanding. “This is our play. I just didn’t expect...I didn’t think it would reach Mom. I would be here too, but…”

My voice trailed off, the unspoken words lingering like ghosts in the dimly lit space. I didn’t need to finish; Marco knew the stakes as well as I did.

“I can’t leave Jade alone,” I said. “Not right now.”

He looked like he was going to ask me a question about it, but he didn’t.

I pushed off the bed, my feet carrying me to the old dresser that had seen better days, just like us. The surface was a mess of nicks and scratches—a map of our childhood mischief. My fingers traced a deep gouge, remembering the day Marco and I had fought over who would take over when the time came.

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