GIO
Millie found herself sprawled across the luxurious lounge chair on the rooftop terrace, savoring the initial warm caresses of spring. The days had unfolded into a delightful rhythm, albeit within the penthouse walls, as her unmistakably rounded belly now demanded her careful attention. This secret held her captive within the confines of the penthouse, a hidden cocoon where only a select few were privy to her pregnancy her closest kin and a loyal cadre of soldiers.
And I, for my part, had no intentions of altering this arrangement. Mathias, his existence shrouded in obscurity, had withdrawn entirely from the public gaze since the birth of his son, a stretch of six months past. With the exception of minor forays against Pittsburgh and the fallout from that notorious photograph, Mathias had remained concealed, veiled in a shadow that hinted at calculated motives, perhaps linked to his children, or perchance plotting something grander.
“Why the furrowed brow?” Millie’s voice, a hushed whisper, reached me as I lingered by the entrance to the rooftop terrace. My gaze locked with hers as I stood in silent contemplation.
Shaking off my reverie, I approached her, responding, “It’s nothing.”
Her brow furrowed in response, curiosity woven into the fabric of her expression. Seating myself beside her, she shifted slightly to accommodate my presence. “You needn’t bear your burdens alone, Gio. Pregnancy doesn’t render me fragile.”
A bittersweet smile curved my lips. Fragile she was not, yet vulnerable she remained. A target, undoubtedly, for any adversary seeking a breach in my defenses. And adversaries abounded not so much within the Famiglia, not since my recent purges, but a plethora still loomed. Sebastian and I, alongside our devoted cohort, had embarked on a spree of bloodletting over these past months, leaving an indelible stain upon my conscience. Yet, for each life extinguished, a new foe materialized in the wake.
A sudden tension gripped us both, mirroring each other’s unease. Her fingers shot out, capturing my hand and directing it toward her abdomen. There, pressed against her skin, I discerned a flutter, an intimate rhythm that pulsed through my fingertips a kick.
My eyes fluttered shut; the notion of fatherhood still an inconceivable reality, an implausible dream. The conduit between Millie and I, this unborn life, pulsed with a vitality that stirred emotions within me I struggled to articulate.
“Have you given thought to names?” Her words, a hushed whisper, coaxed my eyes open. Millie’s gaze, so profound, held me captive even now, after nearly five years. It eternally beckoned me.
A name, a memento of legacy and strength, conjured the memory of my grandmother. “Maria,” I confessed.
Her blonde eyebrows arched, curiosity kindled. “Named after Mars, the god of war?”
Bending down, I graced Millie’s stomach with a tender kiss, then claimed her lips. “Our daughter shall be resolute. She shall never submit to a man. Fear shall never shadow her path.”
“Maria,” Millie breathed, her voice thick with emotion. That gaze of hers, an intoxicating allure, remained as potent as ever.
Yet, as if on cue, the spell was broken by my cell’s intrusive ring. Frustration tugged at me couldn’t my soldiers manage a single matter without my intervention? Glancing at the screen, Romeo’s name loomed. Without hesitation, I answered, already aware that this was no routine update. “What’s amiss?” This call, untimely and urgent, forebode ill tidings.
“Mathias has received a message from Roman Bianchi.”
“What?” The growl leapt from my throat, a visceral reaction to a name laden with implications.
Millie sat up, her eyes wide, yet I turned away, shielding her from the storm brewing within me. “When?”
“Several days past. Bianchi seeks assistance. His power wanes, eroded by his perverse and erratic methods. He desires a truce with the Outfit.”
Should such a truce materialize, the war’s conflagration would engulf New York’s heart, not just its periphery.
“How did Ruberti respond?”
“Distrust prevails; he’s spurned any discourse.”
“Will he reconsider?”
“Perhaps, but it’s doubtful. I also stumbled upon a whisper from my sources in England, a whisper concerning Bianchi’s progeny.”
“His son?” I recollected faintly that the head of the De Fiore boasted several offspring, but my knowledge was cursory; the De Fiore had never claimed my interest.
“His firstborn, Alonzo. A seventeen-year-old who vanished alongside his siblings from their boarding school. As of yet, Las Vegas remains unaware. Bianchi’s silence seeks to contain the scandal.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Because Alonzo Bianchi appears to harbor intent to end his father’s life and seize dominion over the West.”
If Alonzo’s vendetta against his own father consumed his energies, then perhaps he posed no imminent threat beyond his filial battle.
“Do I need to anticipate trouble?”
“Indeterminate, but rumors suggest Alonzo’s holidays were spent in bloodletting, his allegiance divided between filial duty and sadistic pleasure. An innate killer, if ever there was one.”
As though my roster of anxieties required further augmentation. “Should his vengeance preoccupy him, he may remain a localized peril.”
“Conceivably, yet if a new Capo arises in Las Vegas, the De Fiore could regain their prior strength, unified under his leadership.”
A conundrum, indeed. “I shall entertain the prospect of confronting the De Fiore, yet for now, we mustn’t provide incentive for their alliance with the Outfit.”
“Understood.”
“Maintain vigilance, Romeo.”
“Absolutely.”
The call ended, and as I pivoted, I found Millie at my heels, her hand resting upon her belly, trepidation etched onto her features. With effort, I mustered a smile. “No cause for your worry.”
Her head tilted, a knowing expression in her eyes.
~*~
As Sebastian and I made our way out of the Sphere, the vibrant pulse of the club’s atmosphere slowly faded, replaced by the anticipation of returning to our awaiting wives. It was then that my attention was unexpectedly drawn to a figure at the bar a young man, his hair as dark as his intense gaze. There was an aura about him, an unsettling blend of self-assuredness and a barely contained undercurrent of violence. His eyes locked onto mine, an unyielding stare that seemed to pierce through any facade. Despite his youthful appearance, those eyes held a depth that hinted at experiences far beyond his age.
Our steps faltered in unison, Sebastian and I, as if an invisible tether had caught us in its grip. The air around us seemed to grow still, charged with an energy that demanded attention. My hand instinctively moved toward my Beretta, a reflex honed through years of navigating treacherous territories.
I glanced at Sebastian, his expression mirroring the wariness etched across my own features. We exchanged a silent query, both of us unsure if this was a familiar face from our world of dealings. His response was a subtle shake of his head, his hand discreetly finding its way beneath his jacket, where he surely kept a weapon close at hand.
The young man’s lips curved into a smile, a smile that seemed to contort unnaturally, revealing a darkness that matched the scars that marked his arms and brow. With deliberate deliberation, he rose from his seat, his gaze never leaving mine. A challenge hung in the air, an unspoken invitation to engage. And then, just as suddenly as his presence had captivated me, he turned and left the confines of my club.
Sebastian and I exchanged another glance, our shared curiosity pushing us to follow this enigmatic figure into the night. As we stepped out onto the dimly lit street, the cool night air brushed against my skin, a reminder of the world outside the club’s walls. Gripping my gun tightly, I scanned the shadows, my senses on high alert for any sign of movement.
A voice, smooth yet carrying an undercurrent of steel, broke through the quiet. “Gio Merante.”