Chapter 7 - The Patriarch's Demand
The atmosphere in the formal drawing room was colder than the autumn wind outside.
Salvatore Conti, the head of the Conti Syndicate, stood by the marble fireplace. At sixty-two, he was a silver-haired, immaculate man who wore three-piece suits like armor and carried himself with the absolute arrogance of an old-world monarch. Behind him stood four of his senior capos, their hands folded neatly over their belts.
When Matteo and Isabella entered the room, Salvatore turned around slowly, his sharp eyes assessing the two of them.
"Father," Isabella said politely, stepping forward.
Salvatore didn't embrace her. He simply gave her a brief, cold nod before turning his attention entirely to Matteo.
"Matteo," Salvatore spoke, his voice carrying the deep raspy authority of fifty years in the underworld. "We need to speak. Privately."
Matteo did not move from Isabella's side. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on the small of her back. "Isabella is my wife, Salvatore. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of her."
Salvatore’s eyebrows twitched upward, a flash of irritation crossing his face. "This is family business, Matteo. Syndicate business."
"She is my family," Matteo replied flatly, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "State your business, Salvatore."
Salvatore took a deep breath, smoothing his silk tie. "Jimmy Falcone came to my house in Brooklyn last night."
Isabella felt Matteo's body go rigid beside her.
"Jimmy claims," Salvatore continued, "that you severely beat him in the East Village yesterday afternoon. He claims you threatened to eradicate his family line from the city."
"Jimmy lies," Matteo said coldly. "I didn't beat him severely. If I had beat him severely, he wouldn't have been able to walk to your house in Brooklyn."
Salvatore slammed his walking stick against the rug. "This is not a joke, Matteo! The Moretti family is demanding a sit-down! The five families are teetering on the edge of a full-scale war because you lost your temper over a minor territorial dispute in the East Village!"
"It wasn't a territorial dispute," Matteo said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and low that even Salvatore's guards shifted uncomfortably on their feet. "Jimmy broke into my wife's studio. He put hands on her mentor, and he attempted to lay hands on her."
Salvatore scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "She was not harmed! It was a provocation, Matteo, a test of your boundaries! You should have handled it through the council, not by cornering a capo in a public shop!"
Salvatore turned his cold gaze onto his daughter. "And you, Isabella—what were you doing in the East Village without a full security detail? You are a Rienzi now. Your carelessness almost compromised the entire peace agreement!"
Isabella felt a sudden, hot flash of anger rise in her chest. For twenty-four years, she had taken her father's dismissive, cold treatment without a word. She had allowed herself to be traded like a piece of property to secure his docks.
Before Matteo could speak, Isabella took a decisive step forward, standing between the two syndicate bosses.
"Carelessness, Father?" she said, her voice ringing out with astonishing clarity and strength. "I was at my studio collecting my belongings. Your peace agreement was built on my sacrifice! I gave up my life, my career, and my freedom so you could keep your shipping lines!"
Salvatore blinked, surprised by her sudden defiance. "Isabella, quiet—"
"I will not be quiet!" she demanded, her dark eyes flashing with pure fire. "Jimmy Falcone didn't attack my studio because he wanted territory, Father. He attacked it because he knew you were too weak to protect me! He thought Matteo would be just like you—a man who treats women like chess pieces to be discarded when convenient!"
Salvatore’s face flushed dark red. "You insolent girl—"
"Step back, Salvatore," Matteo’s voice echoed like a thunderclap across the room.
Matteo stepped in front of Isabella, his towering frame completely obscuring her from her father's sight. His amber eyes were fixed on Salvatore with a promise of absolute, merciless violence.
"If you ever raise your voice to my wife again in this house," Matteo said softly, "our alliance ends today. And I will personally ensure the Contis lose every dock from Brooklyn to Jersey Shore."
Salvatore stared at his son-in-law, realizing in a terrifying flash that Matteo was not bluffing. The man didn't care about the territory. He didn't care about the five families. He cared only for the woman standing behind him.
May you like
Salvatore swallowed hard, his arrogance finally cracking under the weight of Matteo's stare. "The sit-down is scheduled for tomorrow night at the Grand Hotel in Midtown," Salvatore said, his voice much quieter. "The Morettis will be there. If you don't show up, Matteo, there will be war."
"I'll be there," Matteo said coldly. "Now get out of my house."
