“They’re here,” his father grumbled.
They were sitting at a table in a private room at one of his father’s favorite cafés when Emiliano and Rocco walked in. His father was good friends with the owner, and he usually ate there a few times a week. The private room in the back was always held open for him on the off chance he stopped in for a meal. They waited in silence while his father’s bodyguards patted the Vittore’s down and searched them for weapons.
“They’re clean, Mr. Santonelli,” he announced.
“Thank you, Bruno,” his father said. “You and Thomas wait outside, please.”
Bruno nodded and the two bodyguards who’d been standing silently in the back of the room walked out, closing the door behind them. Rocco and Emiliano took the seats across from Nico and his father. The younger Vittore had a bruise on his cheek and a dark circle beneath his eye, and he stared at Nico with pure hatred on his face. The corner of Nico’s mouth curled upward as he smirked at him and gave him a knowing look.
Nico knew he wasn’t going to say anything. He knew Emiliano hadn’t even told his father the true story about his injuries. He’d probably made up some fantastical story about it because there was no way Emiliano was going to admit that Nico was the one who’d roughed him up. It would make him look weak. And Rocco Vittore was as old school as his own father and knew he held the same opinions about weakness. No, Emiliano wasn’t going to say shit.
A waitress bustled in with a tray bearing coffee and all the trimmings as well as some pastries. She set everything down and then scurried out again without another word. Perhaps she sensed the tension in the air and just wanted to get away from it. Nico couldn't blame her. There was a current of violence saturating the air in the room.
“You called this meeting, Rocco,” his father said gruffly. “What do you want?”
A smug look on his face, Rocco took his time preparing his coffee. Then he took one of the pastries from the tray and took a bite of it, his eyes never leaving Nico’s father’s as he chewed. Nico could feel his father tensing up beside him, the anger coming off him like waves of heat. Nico poured himself a cup of coffee and looked at the man patiently, waiting for him to speak. It was all just a game to him. Rocco knew he was getting under his father’s skin and was enjoying it.
That was one of the biggest differences between Nico and his father—he was patient. He could tell his father was ready to punch Rocco in the face but what he didn’t realize was that he was giving Vittore the power. He was letting Vittore dictate his emotions to him. That gave him the upper hand and his father couldn’t see it. That wasn’t something he could mention to his father though. He would only accuse Nico of being too soft again.
“I thought it was time we talk about the future, Aldo,” Rocco finally said.
“The future?”
Rocco nodded. “It will be here sooner than we all think.”
“Say what you mean, Rocco. Let’s not play these word games.”
“Fine,” the elder Vittore said. “You’re dying. And your son is too weak to hold onto power.”
The blood in Nico’s veins ran cold and he had to fight to keep the churning in his belly from showing on his face. His father’s cancer was a tightly guarded secret. His father had made sure the diagnosis he was given was kept under wraps. Or at least, he thought he had. The fact that Rocco knew about his father’s cancer was more than a little concerning.
Aldo chuckled. “Dying? And where did you hear this?”
“You’re not the only one with eyes and ears all over Venice, Aldo,” Rocco replied.
“Well, I think you better check your sources,” Nico said. “They’re lying to you.”
Rocco turned to Nico and gave him a lopsided grin. “I think we both know the only person lying here is you,” he said. “Regardless, you two are more than welcome to continue playing your games. But we are here to, as I said, talk about the future.”
“What do you want, Rocco?” Aldo growled.
“We’ve come to tell you that your time is over. We all know your son is not fit to inherit your throne, Aldo,” Rocco said dismissively. “I am going to take over Venice. And you are going to give me your blessing.”
“Even if it were true that I was dying,” Aldo said. “Why in the fuck would I give you my blessing? Why would I give you anything but a bullet in the face for making such an audacious statement, Rocco?”
“Because if you don’t, then we will go to war. And I will kill your son,” he replied simply. “And no father wants to bury his son.”
Nico exchanged a look with his father then both returned their baleful gazes to Rocco who stared back at them with an amused smirk on his face.
"I am going to allow you to leave Venice. Both of you. Forever. But you will leave your men and all the inventory you have in your warehouses. We will assume your role as a… reseller,” Rocco went on. “You can both go elsewhere and you, Aldo, can die in peace and luxury… and not have to watch me kill your son. Take my generous offer and you will both live. Turn me down and I give you my word, the canals of Venice will run red with the blood of the entire Santonelli clan.”
Aldo got to his feet and buttoned his jacket. Nico followed suit. His father glared at Rocco for a long, silent moment and Nico thought for a moment his father was going to pull a gun and shoot him in the face. But his father was a true believer in the Code, which said it was illegal to kill a rival under the banner of parley.
“You can take your generous offer and shove it up your ass, Rocco,” Aldo growled. “The Vittore family is done in Venice. Done.”
“So… you choose war,” Rocco said.
Nico followed his father out of the restaurant and when they got to his car, Aldo turned to him, his face tight, his expression dark.