Behind us, calla lilies covered Dominic’s mother’s and Sergio’s graves. I didn’t miss the look either brother gave those two headstones.
Salvatore and Lucia stood in the same line and beside them, Roman, looking more anxious than grieved. My gaze traveled over the soldiers circling the gathered mourners, but when I heard the familiar sound of Angus Scava clearing his throat, I turned to look up at the older man.
“Gianna.”
He took both of my hands in his, making a point of turning them over.
“Mr. Scava,” I said. He’d always called me by my full name.
“You look well.”
His gaze momentarily landed on Dominic before he touched my ring finger.
Did he think we were engaged?
“So soon after James’ death,” he added.
“James died two years ago, Mr. Scava.”
“Scava,” Dominic said from beside me, his arm circling my waist. “Where’s your nephew?”
Angus Scava’s face hardened. “He had to take care of some business.”
“He took care of some business close to home, and I don’t appreciate it,” Dominic said, tugging on the cuff of his shirt.
“No. Nor do I. He will be dealt with.”
“He kil—” I started, anger rising.
“I’ll do the dealing,” Dominic said, cutting me off.
They were talking about Mateo’s death, about my kidnapping, like it was nothing.
Scava looked at Dominic. They stood the same height, eye to eye, two powerful men unafraid of battle. Beside them, Salvatore watched, dark and dangerous.
“Gentlemen,” Roman began, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Now is neither the time nor the place.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened as he turned his face to his uncle. He no longer tried to hide his resentment of the older man.
Mr. Scava watched the confrontation, a small smile playing along his lips.
“What time is the reading of the will, Uncle?” Dominic asked through gritted teeth.
Roman checked his watch. “Within the hour. We should go.”
Dominic nodded then turned to Scava. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“Certainly not,” the older man said. “Gianna, pleasure to see you looking so…recovered.”
Dominic’s fingers dug into the skin of my arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Mr. Scava watched Dominic lead me away, the look in his eyes so different to how he’d looked at me before.
“Was James like his father?” Dominic asked as we climbed into the SUV, Salvatore and Lucia taking the backseat.
Why did it feel like a taunt? “James was nothing like him.”
Dominic turned to face me. “He would have been boss of the family had he survived.”
I shook my head, perhaps being naive. I didn’t care. “He wasn’t like his father.”
“I’m like him,” Dominic said. “Ruthless. Cold. Merciless.”
I held his gaze, knowing he used his words as a warning. Knowing I would be smart to heed him.
“Not to me,” I said instead. “Not anymore.”
Dominic’s surprise at my words showed up on his face. It was the slightest change, but I didn’t miss it.
“Are you ready, brother? Roman is not going to be pleased,” Salvatore said.
“He knows how to behave. I think he’s very good at it in fact.” With that, Dominic turned the SUV around and drove out of the cemetery and back to the house. We sat silent. Except for Lucia, who spoke with her sister on the phone, asking about the kids. When we arrived back at the house, I was surprised to see so many vehicles there. Had so many family members been requested to attend the reading of the will? It seemed strange to me. But then again, I’d never been to something like this. Funerals, yes. There was no getting around that in the line of work my father had chosen. But those who died around us didn’t have the money to require a will.
Dominic parked the SUV and drew in a long breath, steeling himself, then nodded to Salvatore.
“Let’s go.”
“What’s going to happen?” I asked, clutching his arm. “You know something.”
“I’m going to be named head of the family,” he said flatly.
My hand slid off his arm, and he and Salvatore walked away from Lucia and I and into the library, where about a dozen men had gathered. Two men stood outside. One of them reached to close the door, his jacket falling open, light bouncing off the pistol hidden in its holster.
21
Dominic
The attorney executing the will, Mr. Abraham Marino, a man who had worked for the Benedetti family for more than two decades, stood behind the desk. He addressed the collected family members requested to be in attendance, going over preliminaries. Roman stood beside him as if he owned the fucking place. Salvatore sat to my right. Two guards stood just outside the doors and two more at the back of the room. I wondered how they would all react once the will had been read, and I was named as head of the family.
I recognized all the people in the room. They ruled their own smaller families within the larger Benedetti umbrella. Some I hadn’t seen since my youth, and some attended every event.
Realistically, Roman could attempt a coup. Hell, depending on how many men chose loyalty to him, he could win. My father was dead. He could force his way in. Although, without money and the accounts held in the Benedetti name, he’d struggle to pay them. In all my years both in and out of life within a crime family, I’d learned one thing: in most cases, loyalty was a flimsy thing. Money ruled. Loyalty generally leaned toward the side of cold, hard cash. And after the reading of the will, it’d be my cash. This house would be my house. The car my uncle drove would be my fucking car.
He’d hired my birth father to kill Sergio and attempt to kill Salvatore.
He’d betrayed my mother, his sister. He’d betrayed his nephew. He’d betrayed Franco. He’d betrayed the entire Benedetti family.
How in hell did Salvatore sit beside me now, revealing no emotion at all, not confusion, not even hate?
I’d been in my twenties when Sergio had died. For a moment, I wondered why Roman hadn’t ordered my assassination too, but then I realized. He’d been playing my father all along. I was a bastard. My father already knew it. Roman banked on the fact that when Franco learned it was the man whose blood ran in my veins who had taken his sons’ lives, he’d disown me, at the very least. Hell, maybe he even counted on Franco killing me.
I thought of Henderson’s words: “Old age makes us see things differently, son.” He’d said it didn’t matter who my blood father was. I was a Benedetti according to my birth certificate. I was raised a Benedetti. There was some small part of me, something deep beneath the wretchedness, that smiled at that. That felt more happiness at that than I probably should.
Did Franco really regret that night? Did he feel sorry about what had happened? About telling me like that? Had he tried to find me? Roman had known where I was some of that time. At least in the beginning. Had he kept that information from Franco, knowing the old man wanted to reconcile? Had he wanted to reconcile?
I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyes.
I’d never know. That was all there was to it. I had to take it at face value. Franco Benedetti named me as his successor. He accepted me as his own in his final act. He was about to give me what I had wanted for so long—the rule of the Benedetti family.
And I felt heady with power.
Salvatore cleared his throat beside me, his gaze falling on me.
I straightened.
“Mr. Benedetti made a few changes to his will in the last days of his life.”
Mr. Marino glanced at me.
I kept my face expressionless, but noticed Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“This is his final will and testament, and it was his wish that no one should contest those changes but that they would be honored.”
A murmur fell among the crowd. The attorney
cleared his throat. Roman took a seat as the reading began. Mr. Marino went through mundane things first, small inheritances, moneys changing hands, debts being forgiven or passed on, mentions of family members, of children remembered. Then came the rewards of past and future loyalty.
“It was Mr. Benedetti’s wish that I read this next piece as he wrote it, as if he were speaking to you now.”
Salvatore and I exchanged a look.
“I realize in a family such as ours, there will be differences. There have been differences. But family is family, and for the Benedetti, family is first. It is our motto. It is our path. In life, I did my best for my family, for all of you. I know it didn’t always seem that way, but I did. In death, I hope to amend mistakes I could not be forgiven in life.”
It took all I had to keep my face a dull mask.
“Each family has been given a sum of money, which you will receive privately upon the end of this reading. Each envelope also contains a contract. If you accept the funds being offered to you, then your loyalty to the Benedetti family is renewed, the bond welded like steel and unbreakable. If you choose not to sign the contract,…well—”
He stopped abruptly to meet every eye in the room. I wondered if my father had given him that instruction too. It would be like him.
“I hope you do not choose that path.”
My father. Franco Benedetti. He was my true father, not Jake Sapienti. Salvatore was right. Henderson was right. I was a Benedetti.
I sat up straighter in my chair.
“My son Salvatore has chosen to leave this life. He chose a different happiness, and I no longer hold that against him. He chose a path I did not. I could and would not. But I respect his decision and his family. My grandchildren shall receive trust funds…”
The attorney named the amount of the funds.
“Salvatore and his wife, Lucia, shall always have the protection of the family.”
But no money.
I glanced at Salvatore, whose own mask stood firmly in place.
“To Roman, my once constant friend. Ah, Roman, my beloved wife’s brother…”
I could almost see Franco shaking his head.
“You know the saying, ‘keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer?’”
All eyes turned to Roman, who looked straight ahead.
“Well, friend, you kept me in your pocket, didn’t you?”
Murmurs broke out, but the attorney held out his hand for silence and shifted his gaze to me.
“To my youngest, Dominic. I leave you what you have always wanted. I leave the Benedetti family, your family, in your hands, son. Despite everything, out of all my sons, you are the most like me, aren’t you?”
Roman stood. “This is…”
“Please sit down, Mr. Russo.”
One of my father’s personal bodyguards, a man I’d known to be around since I was a kid, walked behind Roman’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. Roman sat. Two more soldiers loyal to my father approached the desk and stood behind it, their gazes on no one and on everyone.
“Now, on to those contracts. I have each of the envelopes here. When your name is called, please approach the desk. Mr. Benedetti?”
It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me. Once I met his gaze, he continued.
“Your signature is also required.”
He gestured toward the chair behind the desk. Franco Benedetti’s chair. My father’s chair.
I stood, feeling all eyes on me as I made my way forward. I glanced once at Roman and then sat. Salvatore moved toward the door and took up a place where he could see each family as they were called up, their envelopes opened, and contracts placed before them.
I didn’t know if this was custom. If after the passing of the father, old agreements were reinforced, renewed, reminded. I didn’t know if he did it for me, to safeguard my position should anyone ever learn the truth behind my parentage. Should anyone contest my right to this seat.
The first man, Antonio Santa Maria, signed the contract. Antonio was a cousin, distant but powerful. His allegiance to my father had never been questioned. His sons, Gregorio and Giovanni, both in their late twenties, flanked him.
“Your father was a good friend. My loyalties have not before and will not now waver,” Antonio pledged.
“Thank you, Antonio,” I said. I turned to each of the sons and shook their hands, met their eyes, and nodded once. I wondered if they would remain allies or become enemies one day.
They walked out of the room.
The next man approached. Then the next. Each of them pledged allegiance. Each man signed. I took note of those who glanced in the direction of my uncle. These men knew to refuse to sign meant their death. I had no doubt Roman had supporters among them. No doubt they planned mutiny. But today, I would send a message. Today, my first day as head of the Benedetti family, I would send a very clear message.
Finally, almost an hour later, all the contracts were signed and only the attorney, four soldiers, Salvatore, Roman, and I remained.
The attorney packed up his papers, each of the contracts placed neatly into his briefcase. He then turned to me.
“I hope we will continue to work together, Mr. Benedetti,” he said, extending his hand. “I look forward to being of service to the son of my friend.”
Friend. Funny. But he was loyal. I extended my hand and shook his.
“Thank you, Mr. Marino. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He glanced once at Roman, then, without acknowledgment, moved toward the door, shook hands with Salvatore, and left.
“Make sure the house is cleared of guests,” I told one of the men, my gaze falling on Roman.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I want Gia in here.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Salvatore asked.
“Get her for me, brother.”
Salvatore’s disapproval clear on his face, he walked out the door and returned a few moments later with Gia at his side.
She looked at the assembled men, her face betraying no emotion to those who did not know her. But I knew her. And I felt it coming off her.
She stood at the wall near the door by Salvatore’s side.
I opened my father’s top right-hand desk drawer. I’d been through it before, a hundred times, and I knew where he kept his pistol. Taking it out, I stood. I found the silencer deeper in the drawer and attached it to the barrel of the gun. I did this with a strange sense of calm, of peace. Like finally, for the first fucking time in my life, it was right. I was right.
Salvatore questioning whether bringing Gia in here was a good idea was a valid one, but she needed to see this. She needed to see justice for her brother, for herself. But she also needed to see me for who I was. I was not good. I would never be good. She needed to have no reservations, no hopes, no illusions. That last part, it was strange, but I knew who I was now. The clarity of it, of all of it, was undeniable. And Gia was part of that clarity. I knew what I wanted, and she was it. But I owed her truth, and what she’d witness today would be an absolute truth.
“Dominic—”
Roman started talking when I moved to the side of the desk and stood leaning against it, facing him.
“Silence, Uncle.”
The guard behind him placed his hand back on Roman’s shoulder.
Power. Fuck. A surge of it pumped blood through my veins.
“You hired Jake Sapienti to assassinate Sergio.”
Roman flinched.
“Did he know who Sergio was? Did he know the mark?”
It took Roman a moment, but the cocking of my gun got his lips moving. “No. He only knew the license plate of the car. He felt…remorse…when he found out who he’d killed.”
“But you didn’t.” My uncle sat silent. “You would have killed Salvatore that same day had he been where he was supposed to be. You wormed your way into the heart of the Benedetti family to take what did not belong to you.”
“Dominic, you and I, we’re
real family—”
I shook my head. “You are a traitor, Uncle.” Distaste curled my lip. “You betrayed my father. You took his trust, his confidence, his friendship—he believed you to be his one true friend, but you never were anyone’s friend, were you?”
“It’s not—”
“You had his beloved son, your own nephew, murdered. Shot down like a fucking dog.” A hot rage fired my words, and my chest tightened. “You used Sapienti to assassinate him. Why? Why would you do that? Why hammer another nail into an already sealed coffin? Why?”
“It was a mistake, Dominic. Just a mistake.”
“You don’t make mistakes. I know that.” I paused, checking the chamber of the gun.
“Please, Dominic—”
“Where did your balls go, Uncle?” I looked at everyone assembled in the room. “What the fuck happens to these ‘powerful’ men when they sit facing the barrel of the gun rather than cocking it in the face of their enemy?”
No one answered.
“You’ve learned over the last seven years what it’s like to exist just outside, Dominic. To not quite belong. To feel an utter impotence while standing beside the hand that rules the world. You now know what it was like for me all those years. You can’t deny that you know.”
“I have no reason to deny it. You’re right. And you know what, it felt like fucking shit. But I didn’t betray my family over the shit cards I’d been dealt. You played us. You played my father. For years.”
“He’s not your real—”
Someone cocked his gun. I turned to find Salvatore stepping forward, his angry gaze on my uncle.
“You listen, old man. You listen now, and show respect. Sergio didn’t get to see his baby boy. He never got to say good-bye to his wife. To any of us. You took that away. You killed your own nephew,” Salvatore said, rage slicing through the calm. “Now, you listen.” The words were forced through gritted teeth.
Roman swallowed hard, his eyes glistening. Did he feel remorse?
Did it fucking matter?
“Before I kill you,” I said, drawing his attention back on me, “I want to know your involvement with Victor Scava.”
“Let me walk away, leave town, leave the goddamned country. I’ll tell you everything, just don’t—” His voice broke.
Dominic: a Dark Mafia Romance (Benedetti Brothers Book 2) Page 18