Thank fuck. Another sentiment he kept internal. Matteo’s relationship with his father was none of Dante’s fucking business, but he imagined it must have been difficult to kill the old man. “Condolences.”
Matteo snorted. “Don’t go getting soft on me now, Dante. I have a meeting with Kirill tomorrow morning. If you can get back by then, you can attend.”
“I’ll be there.” He was already moving as he hung up, tossing his stuff back into his suitcase. It took five minutes to book a flight and another two to schedule a ride. He met the car at the curb and started the long journey back to the West Coast.
Through it all, Dante thought about Rose and Romeo. The Capparelli wouldn’t harm her. He was reasonably sure of that. The man had already married Rose’s little sister, so he doubted he’d attempt to reverse that arrangement. But there were a thousand things that could go wrong…
He sighed. Either he trusted his woman, or he didn’t. She was more than a match for some fucking Capparelli, and he couldn’t focus properly on Kirill if he was distracted wondering what the fuck she was up to. She was trusting him to do this, was putting her faith in him, and he’d be damned before he fucked it up.
Dante barely had time to shower and change before Matteo was banging on his bedroom door. He opened to it find his cousin dressed to the nines. He’d always favored expensive clothes, but there was a different aura about him now. Dante narrowed his eyes. “Long live the king.”
Matteo’s icy expression thawed, showing a hint of concern. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You’re ready to be excommunicated for this woman.”
“For my woman. Si. Use that as a bargaining chip to secure Kirill’s agreement not to host the Russian Romanovs while they’re in conflict with the New York branch.”
Matteo went to drag his hand through his hair, but stopped before he made contact. “There’s no going back if you take that step. It doesn’t matter if she dumps your ass. Once you’re struck from our line, that’s it.”
“I know.”
Matteo searched his face. “You’re not going to change your mind.”
“No.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is the right play, and you know it. Remove your father, remove his junkyard dog. Establish your own people.”
“You are my people.”
“Si, and I always will be. But the Verducci family has done nothing for me. Losing it is no loss.” He held his cousin’s gaze. This conversation only had one destination and they both knew it. Matteo didn’t even truly want Dante back. He knew the truth, but for once he was letting his emotions override his reason. “You don’t need me anymore.”
“You’re my fucking cousin, Dante. Like a brother to me. Don’t tell me what I do or don’t need.” He spun on his heel, took three steps, and spun back. “Change your mind. Find another woman or man or whoever. Be my righthand man.”
Dante shook his head slowly. “No. The decision’s been made.”
“Ah well.” Matteo’s shoulders slumped, but he smiled. “It was worth a shot.”
He smiled in response. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”
“Si, si, call it what you want.” His cousin looked away. “It’s time to go.”
“Let’s not keep the Russian waiting.”
They met Kirill at a little diner situated on the border between their territories. The parking lot was full of both Verducci people and Romanov people, all bristling with attitude and enough guns to start a small war. Dante and Matteo ignored them, taking the steps up to the door with the faded Open sign and into the building.
It looked just like one would expect of a diner. Black and white checkered floors. Black vinyl booths. A bar running down the length of it with stools on the customer side and a griddle on the other side. The entire place was empty, except for an old Black woman who ran the diner, Evelyn. She gave him and Matteo a long look. “I don’t want any funny business.”
“No, ma’am.” Matteo gave her his best charming smile. “We’re just here for a chat.”
She shook her head. “Don’t try that with me, Matty. I’ve known you since you were six, so I know better. Go sit down and be polite. I’ll get the coffee.”
They made their way to the only occupied booth back in the corner, out of the way of any windows. Kirill sat hunched over a steaming cup of coffee, his age-spotted hands curled around the mug. His hair had been silver as long as Dante had known him, and it had thinned over the years. He looked like exactly what he was, an old white man well into his twilight years.
He sat back as Matteo and Dante slid into the seat across from him. “Condolences on your father’s death.” His accent was thick and voice low. He smiled slowly. “Or should I be congratulating the new head of the Verducci family?”