Chapter 6 - BROTHERS OF DIFFERENT FATHERSVincenzo read the note four times.
Bring me my son.
Nothing else.
No signature.
No demand.
No explanation.
He stood alone in Vittorio’s study, holding the paper as though it might suddenly confess the rest.
Dante watched him.
For once, his older brother did not look polished or amused.
He looked lost.
“Did you know?” Dante asked.
Vincenzo did not answer.
“Before tonight.”
“No.”
Dante studied him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“You should.”
Vincenzo turned.
“Why? Because you came home this morning and suddenly the entire city is supposed to rotate around your pain?”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“My pain?”
“Yes.”
Vincenzo threw the note onto the desk.
“You went to prison. Terrible. Unfair. Tragic. Every room I have entered for six years has contained someone whispering that I framed you.”
“Did you?”
“No!”
The word cracked through the room.
Vittorio and Isabella had left after the revelation, each too angry to occupy the same air.
Renzo remained near the door.
Vincenzo continued.
“You know what happened after you were convicted? Father stopped speaking to me except about business. Isabella watched every decision I made like she was waiting for proof I had betrayed you. Half the captains thought I was a temporary replacement. The other half wanted me to kill you in prison so I could stop being one.”
Dante stared.
“Did you consider it?”
Vincenzo laughed without humor.
“Every time you irritated me as a child.”
Renzo nearly smiled.
Vincenzo’s expression softened for a fraction.
“I didn’t frame you.”
“Then who did?”
Vincenzo looked toward the window.
“My father, apparently.”
The word father sounded foreign in his mouth.
At eleven forty-five the next morning, four armored SUVs approached the abandoned Marchetti rail terminal.
Dante sat in the first beside Elena.
She had barely spoken.
Her hands were clasped so tightly her knuckles were white.
Dante watched them.
“He’s coming home.”
“Don’t promise me things you can’t control.”
“I control more than I did yesterday.”
“That’s what frightens me.”
Dante looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
She turned toward him.
“I remember who you were before prison.”
“So do I.”
“No, you remember who you think you were.”
The words landed.
“You were already becoming your father, Dante. You hated the violence, but you accepted the rules. You said you would change things after you took control.”
“I would have.”
“Maybe.”
He looked away.
Six years ago, Elena had been the only person who spoke to him like he was simply a man.
Not heir.
Not weapon.
Not Marchetti.
A man.
He had loved her for it.
Still did.
The vehicles stopped.
The terminal had been abandoned since the nineties. Rusted tracks vanished beneath weeds. Broken windows stared down from a brick administration building.
Dante stepped out.
Vincenzo emerged from the second SUV.
Isabella and Vittorio from the third.
Elena joined Dante.
Renzo stayed ten feet behind.
“Where?” Vincenzo asked.
Dante pointed.
A light had switched on inside the terminal.
They entered.
The vast hall smelled of dust and rain.
At the far end, beneath the old departure board, Marco Marchetti stood beside Matteo.
Dante stopped.
Marco looked like an older version of Vittorio stripped of warmth.
Tall.
Silver hair.
Dark overcoat.
Gray eyes.
Matteo sat at a small table eating pancakes.
Pancakes.
Dante almost laughed from disbelief.
Elena cried his name.
“Matteo!”
The boy jumped down.
“Mommy!”
Marco lifted one hand.
Two armed men appeared on the catwalk.
Dante immediately blocked Elena.
Marco smiled.
“Relax. No one intends to shoot a mother in front of her child.”
Dante’s voice went cold.
“You kidnapped him in front of his nanny.”
“Details.”
Matteo looked at Dante.
“I told him you were coming.”
Dante’s chest tightened.
Marco gestured toward the table.
“He asked many questions.”
Elena shook with anger.
“Give me my son.”
Marco looked at her.
“In a moment.”
Then he turned toward Vincenzo.
“My boy.”
Vincenzo’s face became stone.
“Don’t call me that.”
Marco smiled sadly.
“You have Isabella’s temper.”
“I have no father.”
Isabella stepped forward.
“You lost that privilege before he was born.”
Marco’s eyes moved to her.
“Still beautiful when furious.”
Vittorio moved between them.
“Enough.”
The brothers stared at each other for the first time in decades.
Marco smiled.
“Vittorio.”
“You should be dead.”
“So should Dante, according to the State of Illinois.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Why frame me?”
Marco’s gaze shifted.
“I didn’t.”
Dante stopped.
Vincenzo laughed.
“Convenient.”
Marco looked amused.
“I arranged certain things, yes. The gun. The car. The surveillance gap.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“That sounds like framing.”
“But I did not decide you would go to prison.”
“Who did?”
Marco looked at Isabella.
Everyone did.
She went pale.
Dante turned.
“No.”
Isabella whispered, “Marco.”
He smiled.
“Tell them.”
Vittorio grabbed her arm.
“What is he talking about?”
Isabella pulled away.
Marco continued.
“Dante was supposed to disappear for six weeks.”
Dante stared.
“What?”
“Six weeks,” Marco repeated. “A controlled arrest. Enough to remove him from a business war while I eliminated Carlo’s partners.”
Dante looked at Isabella.
“You knew?”
She said nothing.
“You agreed?”
Her voice broke.
“I thought you would be released.”
Dante stepped backward.
Six years.
Because of a plan meant to last six weeks.
Vittorio looked sick.
“You let them arrest my son?”
“I was trying to protect him!”
Marco laughed.
“There’s that phrase again.”
Dante’s face became deadly calm.
“What changed?”
Marco’s smile disappeared.
“Carlo died.”
“Who killed him?”
Marco looked at Vincenzo.
Vincenzo tensed.
Then Marco said, “Not me.”
Dante’s patience broke.
“Stop playing games.”
“I am not.”
Marco walked toward them.
“Carlo called me because he discovered Vincenzo had been moving money.”
Vincenzo stared.
“I never—”
Marco raised one finger.
“Not knowingly.”
He looked at Isabella.
“She created accounts in his name.”
Vincenzo slowly turned to his mother.
Isabella closed her eyes.
Dante felt something inside him go numb.
Every road led back to her.
Marco continued.
“Carlo thought Vincenzo was stealing. I arrived to explain. Isabella arrived moments later.”
Vittorio whispered, “No.”
Marco’s voice became quiet.
“Carlo threatened to expose everything.”
Dante looked at Isabella.
“What did you do?”
She began crying.
Vincenzo shook his head.
“Mom.”
Isabella looked at him.
“I was protecting you.”
Vincenzo’s face collapsed.
“No.”
She whispered, “I shot Carlo.”
Elena covered her mouth.
Dante stared.
Vittorio staggered.
Renzo caught him.
Isabella continued desperately.
“He was going to tell Vittorio about the accounts. About Marco. About Vincenzo. About Dante’s arrest. Everything.”
Dante whispered, “So you used my gun.”
“I panicked.”
“You used my gun.”
“I thought Marco would fix it.”
Marco laughed.
“I tried.”
Dante turned toward him.
“You planted my fingerprints.”
“They were already on the weapon.”
Of course.
His own gun.
“I moved your car,” Marco said. “But the plan was still to have charges collapse.”
“What happened?”
Marco looked at Isabella.
“She changed the lawyers.”
Dante’s head slowly turned.
Isabella wept.
“I had no choice.”
“You always had a choice.”
“If you were released, Carlo’s allies would have killed you.”
“So you gave me six years.”
“I gave you life!”
Dante lunged.
Vincenzo caught him.
“Dante!”
Dante fought him for one second.
Then Matteo screamed.
“Stop!”
Everything froze.
The little boy stood beside the table crying.
Dante immediately stepped back.
Matteo looked around at the adults.
“Why is everyone yelling?”
No one answered.
He walked toward Dante.
“You’re my dad, aren’t you?”
Elena gasped.
Dante looked at Marco.
“You told him?”
Marco shook his head.
“He figured it out.”
Matteo wiped his face.
“You have my eyes.”
Dante’s knees nearly failed.
He crouched.
“Yes.”
The word came softly.
“Yes, Matteo.”
The boy stared at him.
“Why didn’t you come before?”
Dante’s throat closed.
“I couldn’t.”
“Were you lost?”
Dante looked at Elena.
Tears streamed down her face.
“In a way.”
Matteo considered this.
Then stepped forward and hugged him.
Dante froze.
Five small fingers pressed into the back of his jacket.
His son.
For six years, Dante had imagined freedom.
Nothing had prepared him for this.
He wrapped his arms around Matteo.
Marco watched with an unreadable expression.
Then a red laser dot appeared on Matteo’s back.
Renzo shouted.
“DOWN!”
May you like
Dante threw himself over his son.
Gunfire exploded from the catwalk.
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