Chapter 5
There was no council scheduled for midnight.
But somebody had prepared one.
Mauro discovered it forty minutes later.
The old east salon had been opened.
Dust covers removed.
Twelve chairs placed around the table.
Water.
Wine.
Ashtrays.
Everything ready.
Vittorio stood in the doorway.
“Who ordered this?”
A young steward swallowed.
“Mr. Marco.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did he say who was attending?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
The steward hesitated.
Mauro gave him a look.
He answered.
“He said the boss would be tired by then.”
Vittorio’s face hardened.
“Exact words?”
The steward nodded.
“He said, ‘By midnight, Vittorio won’t be arguing with anybody.’”
Mauro looked at Vittorio.
There it was.
Not death.
Incapacity.
Weakness.
Something that left Vittorio alive enough for the family to hesitate.
But not strong enough to command.
Vittorio walked around the table.
Twelve chairs.
One at the head.
His.
The glass there was different.
Newer.
He didn't touch it.
“Mauro.”
Mauro examined it.
A faint blue trace clung beneath the rim.
Same powder.
Vittorio looked toward the remaining glasses.
Clean.
Only his.
“So they weaken me at dinner.”
Mauro nodded.
“Then give you another dose at midnight.”
“Enough to do what?”
“Collapse?”
“Sleep?”
“Look sick?”
Exactly.
Vittorio stared at the head chair.
A boss dying suddenly would trigger war.
A boss appearing weak could trigger something more useful.
Doubt.
Men choosing sides.
Marco stepped into the doorway under guard.
“You figured out the table.”
Vittorio turned.
Marco smiled.
No fear.
Not now.
“You always were smarter than Celeste thought.”
Vittorio walked toward him.
“Who sits here?”
Marco shrugged.
“Men.”
“Names.”
“No.”
Vittorio stopped in front of him.
Marco leaned closer.
“You think you can beat names out of me?”
His smile widened.
“You’re not your father.”
Vittorio said nothing.
Marco continued.
“Your father never stopped dinner because a maid had sore hands.”
Mauro's jaw tightened.
Marco laughed.
“He’d have told her to scrub faster.”
Vittorio’s face remained blank.
That seemed to frustrate Marco.
“He understood the difference between family and staff.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“Anna has worked in this house twelve years.”
“And?”
“Her daughter was born here.”
Marco shrugged.
“Still staff.”
He leaned against the doorframe.
“People like them should be grateful for what they get.”
“What does Anna get?”
Marco smiled.
“A room she doesn’t pay for.”
“Food you withheld.”
“Only when she needed discipline.”
Mauro looked disgusted.
Marco noticed.
“Don’t act shocked.”
He pointed toward the old east salon.
“This house survives because everyone knows their rank.”
Then he looked directly at Vittorio.
“And lately, you’ve forgotten yours.”
There it was.
The real contempt.
Not over servants.
Over Vittorio.
“You think caring makes me weak.”
“I think making a three-year-old comfortable while capos wait for decisions makes you ridiculous.”
Vittorio stepped closer.
Marco smiled.
“Hit me.”
No response.
“Go ahead.”
He opened his arms.
“Show everyone how emotional you've become.”
Vittorio almost smiled.
“No.”
Marco’s expression shifted.
“You want pain.”
Vittorio moved past him.
“I want names.”
Marco laughed behind him.
“You’ll never get them.”
Then Mia appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Anna hurried after her.
“Mia.”
The child stopped.
She had something in her hand.
A folded black napkin.
Vittorio looked at it.
“What is that?”
Mia held it up.
“I found it where Mr. Marco talks to the angry man.”
Marco’s face changed instantly.
Not fear.
Panic.
Vittorio walked toward her.
Inside the napkin sat a small brass token.
Stamped with a number.
Mauro recognized it.
“So did Marco.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“What is it?”
Mauro answered.
“Private seat marker.”
“From where?”
He looked toward the old east salon.
“Your father used them for closed votes.”
Silence.
Vittorio stared at the twelve chairs.
This wasn't only a secret meeting.
May you like
Someone intended to hold a vote.
And they had already decided Vittorio would be too weak to stop it.
