Page 68 of Of Grief And Gratitude

Cosimo and I stayed frozen in our face-off, chests heaving with barely restrained anger.

“Now!” Dante’s voice boomed in the small room, and I looked away from Cosimo long enough to see that my big brother was at his limit. Cosimo seemed to reach the same conclusion because we both slowly backed away and took our seats. His even tone returned. “Thank you.”

Niccolò looked down at his phone and frowned. “If we could speed this up, I’d appreciate it.”

Dante nodded and steepled his fingers over the table, focusing on me. “There’s a safety issue.”

“I know,” I said, exasperated. “Security has been up since the bombing. If you’re worried about me traipsing around town causing problems, you have my word. I’ll drink at home.”

“It’s your safety I’m worried about,” Dante acknowledged. “But not because of the bombing.”

I leaned forward, eager to dole out some revenge. “Do you have a lead on who ordered the hit?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But you’re in more danger than the rest of us after that stunt you pulled at the gravesite.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair. “Pops is pissed, huh?”

“Romeo.” The tone of Dante’s voice had me planning the chair’s front legs back on the floor. “He’s called your security back. Didn’t you notice?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess.” Thinking back, I tried to remember the last time I’d seen Dario and Vito. I frowned, the implications dawning on me. “Has he ordered a hit?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Dante answered. “Yet.”

I looked to Cosimo and Niccolò. “You?”

Niccolò shook his head. “He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“He’s ranted,” Cosimo admitted, his mouth snapping shut when Angelo entered with a tray of breakfast fare. The frittata and zeppole didn’t have the same appeal as they might have if I weren’t worried about my father’s wrath.

“Good enough?” Angelo asked when he’d given us our plates.

We responded in a chorus of affirmative thankfulness, and he beamed, tipping his hat and shuffling out of the private dining room, closing the doors behind him. He might be family, but he knew better than to listen in on our conversations. Eavesdropping was bad for a person’s health.

“Go on,” Dante encouraged Cosimo, who was taking his time buttering a brioche roll.

“I’ve talked him down.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I bounced my knee under the table.

“He thought you might benefit from some of my discipline,” Cosimo added, popping the brioche into his mouth. My anxiety ratcheted up as I waited for him to chew and swallow. “I pointed out that we all lose our heads sometimes, and alcohol doesn’t help. Told him you were finally showing a bit of bloodthirsty. Pacified him.”

I doubted he’d used as many words when speaking with our father.

Dante cleared his voice, and I knew I wouldn’t like what he had to say. “I think it would be best if you left town for a while.”

“No.”

“Just until things calm down,” he insisted. Neither twin objected.

“How long do you think that will take?” I asked ruefully, understanding my big brother wasn’t going to back down from his position. “I can’t leave the gyms indefinitely.”

“We’ll cover it.” Dante scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Maybe a few weeks.”

“What!” I nearly tipped my chair over. “I can’t be away for almost a month. I’ll give you a week, maybe two. Then I’ll face whatever’s coming.”

“Fine,” Dante conceded through gritted teeth. “Two weeks. You can go to the cabin down south.”

I sighed, accepting my unwilling vacation. “Are you sending men with me?”

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