Page 125 of Dangerous King
"You know Edoardo's going to bait you again," he warns, arms folded as we exit the vehicle. "He's losing grip on the DeLunas and the Orsis. If he can't hold your family, he's done."
"I know," I mutter, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket. "But he's already lost me. I just haven't said it out loud yet."
He smirks. "You planning to today?"
"I'll play it how the ball falls."
We approach the elevator, which is guarded by four burly men. With all the families gathering here today, security is tight. They were already notified of our arrival when we passed through the gate, and the elevator was waiting for us. The doors open, and Silvano and I step past the guards into the empty cab.
"Let's walk it through," Silvano suggests. "Giordanos are leaderless. Giovanni's dead. Roberto's posturing, but no one is backing him. And his father's sins still stink up the walls."
"Carlos wants that business," I say.
Silvano nods. "The Contis are watching. Stephano's sharp. Gustave's old-school, but tired. If we want an ally, Stephano might be the better bet."
"And Toni?"
"He'll never follow Edoardo again. Not after Jacomo."
"That leaves Carlos and Marcello," I state the obvious.
"Marcello hates his father's guts, has ever since he was exiled ten years ago," Silvano reminds me.
We reach the top floor. The elevator opens, and I feel the shift in air pressure. The subtle scent of imported cigars, the hush of guards communicating through earpieces. Just about everyone has already arrived. I can feel the weight of every name in that room waiting for this meeting to start.
Showtime.
I push through the doors without knocking. The guards step aside instinctively. This is the Capo dei Capi's building; Edoardo's by default, but everyone knows his hold is fragile at best. The Don's title is inherited, but a Don can be toppled; it wouldn't be the first time in the years the Six Families have been in power. It won't be easy, but it can be done.
The conference room is already filled with smoke and tension. I stride past the buffet table, ignoring the trays of cured meats and espresso. Marcello is already here, straightening his tie, looking the part of belonging, even though I know he'd rather be anywhere else than this glass-and-gold box in the sky with his father.
"You didn't ride with us," my father says as he approaches me. I swear the old man can smell it from miles away when I'm up to something.
"I had something to do on the way," I lie smoothly, hating myself for it.
"Hmm, I?—"
Stephano's father, Gustave, interrupts our uncomfortable conversation before I have to lie more.
"I need a word."
My father gives me thethis is not the end of itlook and follows his old friend to the table. The waiters clear out, as do the bodyguards. The meeting is about to begin, and I take my seat next to Stephano, who sends me a nod. "Sartori."
"Conti," I reply, keeping up the appearance of friendly mafia capo's sons who haven't been conspiring behind our fathers' backs.
"You're late," Edoardo says without looking up when the door opens and Toni struts in.
"Traffic," he deadpans, but I know he flew in. I can't help myself.
"You flew in," I smirk. He shoots me a glare that could cut steel. I shrug. Play the part, DeLuna.
I catch Marcello across the table, eyeing his father like a predator assessing wounded prey. Carlos looks smug, overfed, like a pig fattened for slaughter. Roberto is glaring at me as expected. Gustave Conti sits upright and guarded, while Stephano slouches just enough to suggest disdain without outright disrespect.
The room stills when Edoardo raises his glass of whiskey—his usual nine a.m. poison—and begins the meeting.
"Since we're all finally here, let's begin."
And so begins the usual farce.
