Page 70 of The Don

“And he told you what?”

The room is so quiet that I can hear Carlo’s dry gulp. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Why are you looking at him?” Piemonte shouts.

Carlo and Aldo jump.

“If he didn’t tell you anything, who did he report to?”

Tommaso is staring a hole into the side of Carlo’s face.

“Aldo.”

“Figlio di putana!” Tommaso shouts as he twists his body and shifts his gun from the back of Pedro’s head to Carlo. The shot hits him dead center in the forehead.

Impressive.

But I’ll congratulate him on that shot later; there’s still so much work to be done.

“If you take another step, I’ll empty this clip into your knees. Happily,” I tell Aldo. He’s shaking like a leaf, but I watch as thoughts of running away fly from his head.

“I just wanted to protect myself,” Aldo says, staring at the barrel of my gun but pleading with The Board.

“Then you defend yourself like a man,” Salvatore roars loud enough to make everyone jump, the palm of his hand slamming onto the table.

“Salvo,” someone says in a placating tone.

“Shut up,” he scowls.

“Who are you speaking to—” Lazio asks, but the rest of that question is drowned out by the boom of a gunshot and the high-pitched wailing of the man as he falls from his chair and crawls away toward death.

Aldo’s red face is covered in sweat, and his eyes are sharp pinpoints of fear. I spare a glance at the conference table. Everyone has turned to stare at Salvatore, his father’s Beretta in his hand, a look of contentment softening his face.

“Nowwe can get down to business. Shall we?” he asks, standing from the table.

“Si, padrino,” I say happily because I canfinallydo something more than just watch and listen and talk. I fucking hate that.

Salvatore nods at me, and I squeeze the trigger twice.

Aldo crumples to the floor, grabbing his ruined knee. His cries are music to my ears.

* * *

Salvatore

Plans change, but ambition never dies, and it’s never too late to get revenge.

I stand from the chair, the gurgling sounds of Lazio dying mixing with Aldo’s pained cries to create a grating soundtrack at the back of my brain. If I listen too long, they will give me a headache, but I don’t plan for this meeting to last long enough for that to happen.

I tuck my chair under the table and cross my hands over the headrest. “Do you know the last thing my father said to me?” I ask. My eyes settle on the gun, heavy and ready for action in my hand. My brain and heart are full of memories of my father cleaning it, a glass of whiskey at hand, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“He asked you a question,” Giulio says calmly. Still, those words are a threat.

“No.” I don’t have any interest in deciphering who said that. I’m beyond caring.

“I had just gotten in trouble for…something — I was always in trouble. My mother had forbidden me from playing football at the park with my friends for a week. I spent all day waiting for him to arrive because I knew he would override my mother. Iknewthat he would tell her that a boy needed fresh air and football or something.” I shrug, remembering that day with the kind of clarity that can only come from grief. “And so, of course, he didn’t do that at all. He told me that the sign of a man was the ability to own his mistakes and take responsibility for his actions.”

“Your father was a thief.”

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