Chapter seven
342 Words
Don Vittorio, I swear on my mother’s grave—”
“Your mother is alive, Joe. In Florida. You put her there.” Vittorio’s voice was quiet, almost conversational. He opened a drawer and placed a simple kitchen knife on the desk. It was clean, gleaming under the Tiffany lamp. “A million dollars. From my pocket. From the Family’s pocket. You have a daughter in college, yes? Pre-law.”
Joe’s bravado crumbled. “Don Vittorio… please. It was a mistake. I’ll make it right. Double.”
“It’s not about the money, Joe. It’s about the lie. The disrespect.” Vittorio picked up the knife, feeling its weight. It was the same make as the one his own father had used in a similar situation, a lifetime ago. The memory was vivid: the supplicant’s plea, the swift, terrible price, the lesson seared into the mind of every witness. This is the cost.
He looked at Joe’s trembling hands. He thought of Sofia’s laugh over stolen olives. He thought of the medical folder in the locked drawer. He thought of the endless, cyclical violence, the language he had spoken fluently for half a century.
The silence became a physical thing. Joe was crying openly now.
Vittorio put the knife down. The click of the handle on the wood was deafening.
“You will return the money. With interest. You will relinquish your territory in the Bronx to young Ricci. You will go to Florida. To your mother. You will be a son. If you are ever seen north of Palm Beach again, I will not be so… tired. Do you understand?”
The reprieve was so shocking Joe could only nod, stupefied.
“Get out.”
When the room was empty save for Gennaro, his consigliere looked at him with an expression of profound confusion. “That was… mercy, Don Vittorio.”
“It was fatigue,” Vittorio snapped, but they both knew it was a lie. A new, dangerous language was being spoken, and he wasn’t sure he understood its grammar.
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