Page 149 of Cinder
“Of course, son,” I say, ignoring the familiar stab in my chest every time my son enters a room. It’s a sharp twist in my gut. Almost like an extreme disappointment I can barely stomach. But I ignore it because I’m trying to have faith in him, that he will come good now that he is living with me and not his psychopathic mother. He is my son, and I should feel pride, not alarm bells, whenever I see him.
But it’s hard to do because Luca is an entitled brat who couldn’t organize a blow job in a brothel.
I indicate to the chair across from me, and he sits, crossing his legs and looking proud of himself.
“So what is this idea that has you looking like the cat who ate the cream?” I ask.
He smiles, and a tiny shiver crawls into my spine because it is the same smile as his mother’s.Carolina. One of the most frightening women I have ever known.
We were married only briefly. Six miserable months. She was pregnant, and her father insisted we marry—an insistence I would have ignored if he wasn’t such a dangerous man.
Immediately, the marriage was an unhappy one. When Luca was born, things worsened between us, and I secured a divorce from her with a colossal check big enough to ease her humiliation.
She took my son and left, making any access to him as difficult as possible for me.
Three months ago, she sent him to me, telling me he needed guidance from his father.
And she wasn’t wrong.
The man that showed up on my doorstep was a sniveling crybaby. Impatient and demanding. Prone to tantrums.
And fucking unlikable.
“Viktor Olicheckoff,” he says.
I pause, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t.
“What about him?” I ask, biting back my irritation.
“He’s the pakhan of the Olicheckoff Bratva,” he says, like I don’t know who the fucking pakhan of the Bratva is. The very Bratva I have been keeping a close eye on, especially in the last few weeks because they’ve been running guns along the east coast. Their route coming too close to our territory.
“I know who he is, Luca. Will you get to your point.”
He leans forward. “A Moretti and Olicheckoff alliance.”
Oh Jesus. My son isn’t just entitled. He’s stupid as well.
“You want an alliance with the Bratva? Why would we form an alliance with them? We don’t need anything from them.”
He scoffs. “They’re running guns. Lots of them. We combine forces, and we can double what they do. Triple it. We don’t run guns. It’s an untapped niche for us. We align ourselves with them and become rich.”
“Take a look around the room, kid. We’re already rich. Some would say filthy rich. The Moretti empire is vast and strong already. We don’t need to align ourselves with anyone, especially not the Olicheckoff.”
“But father?—”
“I see the initiative, son. But you’re new here. Don’t go putting the cart before the horse. Slow down and take it in. You need to learn the business.”
“But these are the kinds of decisions I’ll be making when I take over from you.”
Dio, dammi la pazienza!
God give me patience.
“No, kid, these are not the kinds of decisions you will be making. Because you will not be taking over from me.”
My son is a weakling. He doesn’t have the balls to be the kind of man you need to be if you want to rule a thriving organization like the one I have built. He’s all talk and bravado with no spine to back it up. He’s also demanding and entitled. Hell, the little shit is a spoiled brat.
Last week, I joked with my right-hand man, Santo Elordi, that Ella has more balls than her brother. She definitely has more brains and street smarts.
