Page 11 of Deception

“For fuck’s sake, Alessandro, you sound like a maudlin old man…” I mutter to myself, turning away from the view from my luxurious hotel suite window.

It’s one of ours, this and so many other hotels across Europe. It’s a source of revenue, and handy for when I need to travel. Especially when I need to stay undetected, untraced.

My ping-ponging retreat across the globe on my way to my temporary hiding spot is exhausting.

All so I can go hide my head in the sand like a fucking coward. A necessary evil.

It goes against every fiber of my being.

As does the act of pampering and reassuring our allies in every city along the way. Coddling these so-called leaders of industry, these made men serving our enterprise, who need me to hold their hands and tell them everything will be alright.

Many, however, are distant relatives, true members of our family from generations back. Sworn to the Diamantes and our way of life.

Meeting with them cements our ties and ensures support. Like my meeting today, with my aunt’s cousin. Or maybe he’s my cousin’s uncle-in-law?

Regardless, it serves two purposes, meeting with Beto Salvatori and his daughter.

At 39, I’m the oldest single don to take over the family. I couldn’t really care less about it, and age shouldn’t matter to do my job as our leader.

Except that it’s also part of my job to appease the elders.

To wed, produce an heir, continue the Diamante bloodline.

It’s tradition. It’s our legacy.

And it’s fucking annoying.

Uncle Giancarlo hammered our culture and traditions into us growing up—the importance of maintaining our way of life. I understand all too well the significance of family, surrounding yourself with your blood.

Nothing can touch you when you’re shielded with that kind of loyalty.

Unless one of them turns.

A knock at the door pulls me back to the issues at hand, away from my seething rage toward Domenico Vipera. My fingertips press into the bridge of my nose, relieving the headache already forming behind my eyes.

“Come.”

"Alessandro Diamante, my boy! My friend,mio fratello, my cousin, how are you?”

Beto Salvatori storms into the room, his girth and presence warm and boisterous. He was always a jolly man, making all of us kids laugh growing up.

“Zietto, so good to see you again.” We shake hands, hug, then he bows to kiss my ring.

“Too long, my friend, too long. Not since you were just a littlebambino, I have not seen you.”

“And since you had far less gray hair!” I prod, and he claps me on the back, chortling.

“You used to be such a jokester, a littlepagliaccio. Teasing your father, your mother,Diorest their souls.”

Some of these traditions, like meeting with family I haven’t seen in years, still sting. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t speak of my parents ever again.

Mamma, Papa. Catalina.

Just scars that fester. But they give me anger and drive me to do what must be done.

“Let us go sit in the parlor, have some espresso, and get down to business,” I deflect, gesturing.

“Ah, there’s the stern, serious Don Alessandro I’ve heard so much about.” Beto settles down on one of the love seats, taking up most of the couch by himself. “Business, business, but what of the matters of love? I think you will be very impressed with my daughter. She is a true beauty. One that will captivate your heart.”

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