Page 8 of Cruelest Contract
“Stay where you are, Gaetano,” my father warns. “That goes for the rest of you too.”
Getty returns his chair to the table and exhales noisily. For once, he and I are on the same page. There are days when my father’s controlling rules really chafe on my fucking nerves. This could easily become one of those days.
At last, footsteps shuffle in the hallway and Tye casually wanders in. He’s in the middle of fixing his untucked white shirt and water drips from his hair onto his collar. The scruff onhis jaw means he either forgot to shave in the shower or he’s channeling his bearded hockey player days.
But now that Tye has graced us with his presence and dropped into the chair next to mine, the feeding frenzy can begin. Getty’s eyes narrow in a death glare when I’m the first to seize the platter of sausage and peppers. It’s his favorite. Tough shit. It’s my favorite too.
My brothers pile food on their plates like they’re prepping for hibernation. Not that I’m any better. But at least we take the time to cut our food and eat one bite at a time because,“Teresa’s boys will always be gentlemen.”
Another of our father’s edicts.
What a paradox.
Raised to be cowboy Mafia aristocrats. We can ride from dusk till dawn and we’ve been taught to kill our enemies with no remorse. But hell will freeze over if we don’t use the proper fucking forks at dinner.
This irony prompts me to snort right into my water glass. My father clears his throat and frowns in my direction. If there are antics afoot, my brothers are always responsible. I’m the son who keeps the crew in order, not the son who ignites a rebellion. It’s the burden and the curse of the firstborn.
I set my water glass down and roll some strands of fettuccine around my fork. Outside, a flash of lightning is chased by a growl of thunder. A sudden outbreak of sharp pings on the roof can only be hail.
My father’s chair creaks as he leans back and lets his eyes roam over each of us before speaking. “Junior Mancini wants to get married again.”
Of all the events in the world that I sincerely don’t give a fuck about, this has to be near the top.
Mancini runs his family out of Seattle. He’s vicious and not too bright but he’s never crossed us, or at least he’s never beencaught. His port connections come in handy when we need someone to look the other way and ignore an incoming cargo shipment. But over the years we’ve done him so many favors by keeping his competition at bay that he’s securely under our thumb.
“Who is he marrying?” I ask, not because I give a shit, but because the answer to this question must be the reason why we’re hearing about it.
“He’s asked for permission to marry Cecilia Grimaldi.”
My fork clatters to my plate. I sure as hell didn’t see that coming.
There was a time when the Grimaldi family was the most powerful on the west coast. Now they’ve shriveled, their dominance reduced to a vague echo of what it once was. But they’re still part of the old guard and the name carries weight. Mancini can’t risk a rift with us so he’s stuck crawling on his knees and begging for approval.
But no one sitting at this table can hear the Grimaldi name without thinking of a summer twilight that was abruptly fractured by rapid gunfire and blood. We never talk about that day. What jumps into my mind is the terrified face of a young girl who saw things no child should ever see.
Mutual respect and a longstanding business relationship added our whole family to the guest list when Matthias, future heir to the Grimaldi family of San Francisco, married Daniela Cascione. The Casciones were based in Philly and the union was strategic, although the bride and groom really did appear to have fallen in love.
The wedding between two high profile Mafia families was a target rich environment but a stretch of peaceful years had turned them complacent. Security was inadequate. By the time the alarm was raised over two incoming helicopters, the bullets were already flying.
The toll was catastrophic. The fierce Benvolio Grimaldi, legendary scion of organized crime, lost all three of his sons. Several of his grandchildren as well. The Cascione family fared even worse. All but wiped out, even the bride.
Not long after that, old man Grimaldi had a stroke. Piece by piece, his empire crumbled until not much remained except a decaying vineyard and partial control of the vital Northern California ports.
I’m guessing this is why Mancini is pouncing on the Grimaldi girl. The old man can’t possibly live much longer. His grandsons will inherit what’s left of the family but the eldest, Matthias, vanished off the radar in recent years and the other two are fucking idiots.
Personally, I don’t like the thought of Mancini getting his sticky fingers over so much west coast port traffic. He’s the type who will take a mile if given an inch so that inch needs to be withheld.
As for the girl, that’s a puzzle. Cecilia can’t be more than twenty-five. Mancini is in his late forties and ugly as sin.
“What’s Mancini holding over their heads to make that happen?” I ask.
My father’s eyes spark with satisfaction that I’ve asked the correct question. “Three days ago the youngest Grimaldi boy had an argument with a Made man in Mancini’s crew. The Grimaldi kid was accused of cheating in a card game so he panicked, pulled a gun, and a wild shot clipped the artery of Mancini’s man, causing him to bleed out within a minute. Now the kid is on the run and Grimaldi is trying to earn a pass for his grandson.”
“By sacrificing his granddaughter,” I finish.
At least now I understand the situation. The jackass who put a bullet in Mancini’s guy is Gabriel Grimaldi, Cecilia’s twin. I remember him as a scrawny clinger, constantly trying to show off his silly magic tricks and always failing to fit in. He was alousy sidekick for his brother Angelo and never seemed to catch on that he was the butt of a lot of jokes.
My impression of Cecilia was brief. Her family called her Cici. She was quiet and well behaved and too young for me to notice much else.
