Page 2 of Mafia King: Matteo
“I’m sorry for your loss, Matteo. I know you don’t give a shit, but he was my brother,” he mumbles.
“I guess you’ll miss him then,” I quip. This lecherous man walks around with butterscotch candy in his pocket and goes out of his way to be around young girls. Even his wife thinks it’s creepy.
My old man had me on the streets from the time I was seven, running numbers, and then it progressed to violence. I loved my time away at college and wish I could have milked it longer. I gave up on a law degree because my father wanted me to have a business background, so I took a few courses. It was pointless. We don’t have to advertise to sell drugs or guns—those who want them know where to find me.
“As a matter of fact, I will miss Luciano. You, however, have never exhibited an ounce of empathy, even as a kid,” he says. “One day, Matteo, you will find someone, and maybe it will make you a better person. Losing someone you love is a terrible experience.”
“I doubt a woman can change me. I’m thirty-one, and I have no plans to settle down. I have my brothers and sisters. That’s enough.”
“Eventually, you need an heir. Otherwise, there will be a power struggle, and the infighting will destroy us.” He gives me a side-eye. He’s right, and he knows it.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Giuseppe.”
It won’t be a fight from my siblings, but it would be a free-for-all for greedy outsiders who want to take us over. This is a legitimate situation that could put a target on my beloved brother, Niccoló’s, back.
He would be next in line to lead if I were to die. To protect my family, I need an heir. History has taught us it’s easier to assume a throne when it’s not contested. There needs to be a direct path to the top. It’s a rule as old as time, and wars have been fought over less.
I hoped I had more time before conceding to the age-old tradition of matrimony. It’s a situation I dread.
“You’re mean-spirited. I don’t know who you got that from,” he says through a mouthful of antipasti he’s eating with his bare hands. I’ve seen five-year-olds with better manners. His creepy personality fits with his ugly mug. He didn’t inherit the family genetics in the good looks department. Like my father, he’s a schemer who always looks for an angle that benefits him. I never trusted him when he made deals with Dad. Whenever a deal went south, somehow Giuseppe came out without a scratch.
My father always bought his bullshit excuses. Before I left for college, I found a missing shipment in an old barn on his sister-in-law’s farm. I’m sure he hijacked the cigarette container in what I refer to as the smoke screen heist. There was no use telling Dad. He would have believed his brother over me.
I didn’t want to attend college with a black eye and split lip. I could have fought him, but it would only anger him more. Maybe Dad knew, and it was his way of throwing his brother a bone after Giuseppe took a bullet for him when they were teenagers running amuck in the streets.
I can’t wait to get to New York City. I’m tired of this island and look forward to a change of scenery. God only knows I’ve screwed every single woman here over the age of twenty-one. Now that I’m older, I no longer go after the young ones who get clingy. The most gorgeous woman here left years ago. Her name is Sophia. We talk from time to time. Maybe we’ll have a fling if I run into her as she works for me.
Marriage has always been off the table. I’m a skeptic, always have been, and always will be. Why would any woman want to be involved in the life I live? My hours are erratic, and my life is complicated, not to mention dangerous as fuck. The moment a woman starts to call or text for anything other than sex, I block her number. I don’t take pleasure in hurting women. I fuck like a buck—hard and fast. There are times when a woman is desired, and she serves a purpose. One purpose only—to get me off. Meaningless sex is safe.
The women in the room flirt with Niccoló. The front door opens, and his girlfriend walks through it. The other women turn their backs in disappointment.
He is a handsome devil. He’s madly in love with Chiara. Her father works the docks for us on the mainland. He turns the other way when our shipments of cocaine hidden in cans of pineapple come in from South America. We open the cans and transfer the cocaine to the inside of old machinery tires that we then transport to other countries.
“You should be happy that he’s gone. You’ve hated him since Mom died. That’s a long time to hate,” Niccoló says softly, watching Chiara walk toward us.
“You were young. You didn’t see how he treated her. If someone treated Bianca like that, I’d kill them. Mom was an angel.”
“That’s one thing we can agree on,” Niccoló says. “I hope you’re still going to join me in New York. You understand.”
“Yes, I do. Maybe we’ll run away and get married,” he chuckles.
“Don’t make any emotional decisions. Think things through. I have to speak with Bianca. We’ll talk later,” I say abruptly as I head to my sister.
She grew up with help from our mother’s aunt. Dad had to have a girl, and Mom had a late-in-life baby that about killed her. I’m not sure about her death, injuries sustained from the fall, or whether she broke her neck. The result is the same. Money gets Dad out of trouble more times than I can count. It’s what we do.
Dad didn’t reserve his drinking for the evenings. As the child who took the brunt of the beatings, I could predict his moods from the number of empty wine and vodka bottles in the recycling bin.
I kiss my sister’s soft cheek. She hugs me.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure, it was bound to happen, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t by your hand.”
“What do you mean?”
