“I did. Thank you for the—”
“The fuck is wrong with you, Alessandro?” my father barks.
I look at my brothers, who stare at the table or their hands. Only Antonio meets my gaze. He has a look of compassion in his eyes, but we both know that he won’t speak against my father.
“I got out as soon as possible. There were a lot of strings to tie up.”
“Fucking strings! There should be no strings!” my father thunders, banging his fist on the table. “That city was a fucking bloodbath! I saw the news reports, and all of it is fucking tied to the DeLuca name! No fucking mention of the Colombos except for a brief one. What the hell have you and your goons done? Shooting up a goddamn city that size; the restaurants, the club, and the art gallery! Fucking idiots!”
Clenching my jaw, I dispute, “Father, they bombed my restaurant. Disrespect deserves no respect.”
His eyes narrow as I quote something he taught me many years ago.
“You wanna fucking quote me? Huh? You think you can be me?” he roars, standing up at the table.
“Never, sir,” I say, trying to maintain the respect I’ve always shown my father.
I hate the humiliation he dishes out, but I know I was wrong.
“It’s time for you to learn some discipline, Alessandro. Your mother’s nerves are bad, and she’s struggling with this. Your hot-headed temper doesn’t serve anyone well. Not me, not your mother, not you, not this goddamn fucking family!” he shouts, beating a fist on the table again, causing Marco to jump slightly.
“Sir, with all due respect—”
“Fuck your respect! What happens when they come here, huh?” he asks, angrily biting on the end of his cigar.
Slowly my father takes his seat, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“The Colombos won’t come here, sir.”
“You don’t fucking know that, do you? There was peace until—”
“They bombed my restaurant and killed innocent bystanders. Father, I could not let that crime go unpunished.”
Marco and Massimo exchange a wary look as Antonio shoots me a warning.
I know that speaking back to my father in this manner is not acceptable, but I have to defend myself. He also does not respect weakness in anyone.
While my chest is heaving, I’m struggling to compose myself.
My father gives a slight nod.
“And neither can I let your crime go unpunished. You declared war on another family without consulting the family. And my hands have been tied with cleaning up your mess the last couple of weeks and making things right with the Colombos. You are to remain here in Cagliari. I’ve got things for you to take care of here, back home,” he says, turning to look at Elmo, who consults a notepad in front of him.
“What about my club and my restaurant?” I ask in disbelief.
“Elmo will appoint someone to run them in your absence. Until then, you need to return home and learn some discipline. Besides, we are opening a new club here. You can oversee that to keep yourself busy. And AD Logistics,” he says as an afterthought.
“I thought that Antonio was running that,” I say, looking to my older brother for confirmation.
“I’m expanding into international territories. We need someone to oversee the container terminal now,” Antonio says.
“What about Marco? Massimo? Niccolò?” I ask.
“It is you I have chosen!” my father barks.
I don’t question him or argue with him.
“The Mancini family wants to meet next week. You’ll be in attendance?”