Page 59 of Born into Mayhem
Sandro gives a low whistle when I turn onto the private drive that leads to the Santoro family villa. It’s no more elaborate than ours, but it’s changed since we were last here. Judging by the wall that now surrounds the property and the armed men by the gate, he’s decided to increase his security.
“This wall was added a while ago,” I say. “No way in fuck is all this because of the attacks on our family.”
“I wonder what else is going on that has old Giuseppe so worried,” Sandro muses while one of the guards walks over.
I roll down my window and say, “We have an appointment with Don Santoro. He’s expecting us.”
The guard nods and speaks into a radio while one of the other guards walks over with a German Shepherd. The dog sniffs along the car, spending a few extra seconds near the trunk before he’s lead away by his handler. When it’s obvious we’re not here to blow the place up,the guard closest nods towards the booth right before the gate starts to open.
“Jesus,” Sandro mutters as I head down the long driveway before parking near the front. “Things have definitely gotten worse, and I’m willing to bet Leonardo is the reason for all this.”
“Maybe.” I eye the house, noticing the armed men patrolling the property, before getting out and walking with Sandro towards the front door. Before we can knock, it’s opened and a man I don’t recognize steps out.
“Please follow me,” he says, and without waiting for a response, turns and leads us into the foyer.
We’ve taken all of two steps before another man joins us, this one is wearing a smile, though, as he looks between me and my brother. He’s several inches shorter than us, but he’s never let his lack of height get to him. Some men let their insecurities boil over into anger, but this man never has.
“Marcello,” I say, giving him a smile and returning the hug and kiss to the cheek he gives me.
He gives Sandro the same warm greeting. We’ve known Marcello since we were kids, and even though there’s always been a restrained sort of respect between all the families, he’s always been friendly towards us.
“I hate to ask,” he says, gesturing towards the small table near the wall, “but you know how it is.”
“We do,” I tell him, making it clear we don’t take offense at being asked to hand over our weapons. We’d be demanding the same thing if this meeting were taking place at our house. Sandro and I walk over, eyeing the large velvet-lined box that’s open and ready for us. We place our guns inside, and I hand over the large knife that’s sheathed along my lower back. When I don’t add in the one that’s at my ankle, Sandro lifts a brow at me but doesn’t say anything.
Just because I understand the custom and would demand the same, doesn’t mean I’m walking into the Santoro house completely unarmed.
Satisfied we’re being truthful, a naive assumption on Marcello’s part, he grins and motions for us to follow him. We make our way further into the home of one of the most dangerous men in all of southern Italy, but nothing is setting off any alarm bells for me. I don’t believe Giuseppe is behind the attacks on our family. My gut tells me it’s Leonardo, and I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years.
We step out onto the wide veranda, and when Giuseppe sees us, he stands and walks over to greet us. Even in his sixties, the man is trim and holds himself in a way that makes it clear he can still hold his own in a fight. He’s always been the kind of man who thinks before acting, and I’ve always respected that about him.
“Don Santoro,” I say, greeting him with the traditional kiss to each cheek. After my brother has done the same, I hand him the box that I’ve been holding. “Mammamade you somepastiera. She remembered how much you love it.”
His eyes light up at the mention of the pie, and when he brings the box to his nose so he can smell the citrusy scent, he lets out an appreciative groan. “I have dreams about this pie,” he admits with a grin. “Please send her my thanks.”
I nod and follow him to the table when he motions for us to sit down. He asks after our parents while one of the house staff serves us each an espresso and a glass of sparkling water.
“They’re doing well and send their regards,” I tell him. “How is Francesco?”
He doesn’t smile at the mention of his only son, but his face softens just enough to give me a hint of the love he feels for him.
“He’s good. He wanted to be here to see you, but he couldn’t get away. He’ll be at the party tomorrow night, though.”
I nod, and after a few sips and another round of polite questions, Giuseppe looks at me and says, “Congratulations on your wedding, Dario. Had I known about it, I would’ve sent you a gift.”
“My apologies, Don Santoro. It was a very small affair, and it all happened rather quickly.”
Sandro gives a good-natured laugh and says, “My brother fell hard and fast. He didn’t want to waste any time making her his wife.”
Giuseppe nods like he understands the sentiment, even though his wife has been dead for years and I’m pretty sure he never loved her to begin with. It was an arranged marriage, like so many of ours tend to be. A marriage is often just a way to secure something advantageous for the family and not because you’ve fallen in love and want to spend your life with someone. Dominic broke the mold when he married Natalya, and I think it stunned him just as much as it did everyone else. He had not been looking for love when Nat had knocked him on his ass.
“I think my Bianca was devastated when she heard the news,” Giuseppe says, and I resist the eye roll I want to give at the mention of his daughter. Bianca has been chasing me since we were kids, and I’m not sure how many times you need to tell someone you’re not interested before they start to believe it, but whatever the number is, she and I haven’t reached it yet.
“I’m sure Bianca has her hands full with suitors,” I tell him, trying to be nice. The truth is she has two traits that men will always run away from. She’s too goddamn needy, and she possesses a jealous streak, even when she has no right to one. If you don’t want a man to run in the opposite direction, then don’t blow his phone up with texts, demanding to know where he is and accusing him of being with someone else. She’s a handful in the worst possible way.
Giuseppe doesn’t comment on his daughter again. Instead, he takes a sip of his espresso and asks, “How is Don Alessi doing in America?”
“He’s doing very well,” I say, “but he wasn’t happy to hear about the recent attacks we’ve had.”
