“Roman thinks it’ll push old man Vitelli.”

“Roman needs to learn his place.”

“He was right before.”

“I’m meeting with Vitelli Sr. today. He’ll show gratitude for my restraint. My plan is not to incite another uprising like the DeMarco one. It’s to garner respect and, perhaps more importantly, obedience.”

“Power corrupts,” he says.

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I say. “Where do we, the Benedetti family, fall in that? Or do we have no reckoning?”

There’s a pause. “Just make sure you take Eric and at least two more soldiers with you. Roman too.”

“I’ll take the security, but my uncle can stay home this time.”

My father would normally have handled this himself, but I’ve taken over some of the things he would do because with mom’s illness, he’s been preoccupied. As much as I trust Roman’s loyalty to him and to our family, there are moments where he’s ambitious, too much so. He’s not a Benedetti. He’s my mother’s brother. He may be consigliere, but I am my father’s son and successor.

“Sergio—”

“Is mom’s appointment at Dr. Shelby’s office?” I ask, even though I know. Instantly, I feel the shift in mood. Today’s an important day. We find out if my mom’s chemo worked. I know dad’s scared shitless. It’s actually the only time I’ve ever known my father to be scared.

“Yeah. At the hospital.”

“All right. I’ll see you then.”

“One more thing before you go. I want Eric with you 24/7. It’s why I pay him. You want to go fuck some girl, go fuck her, but he stays. I don’t care where or how, but he stays, understand?”

The way he says ‘some girl’ grates on my nerves. “Relax, dad.” I hear a door close on my father’s side.

“Relax, he tells me,” Dad says, but he’s not talking to me. “Your uncle just walked in. Twenty-four fucking seven, Sergio. I’m not budging on that.”

“Fine.”

I arrive early at the restaurant where I’m meeting Vitelli. My men have already checked the place and I’m on my second espresso when Vitelli and two of his men walk in. I haven’t seen him since a wedding eight months ago, but he hasn’t changed much. Maybe a few more gray hairs, but he’s got the same look on his face as always, the one that says he’s owed something simply for the sake of a shared history, and I don’t like it.

After my men are done searching them, Vitelli approaches the table alone.

“Sergio,” he says in greeting.

We don’t shake hands.

“Sit down.” I signal the lone waiter. “What would you like?”

He looks at my espresso and orders the same.

“How’s Joe?” I ask. It’s unspoken who did the damage, but we all know.