Chapter 6 - BLOOD BEFORE LOYALTY
Dean Foster looked worse when Marco brought him upstairs.
His expensive shirt was wrinkled.
One eye was swollen from the struggle.
His wrists were restrained in front of him.
But his arrogance remained.
Massimo waited in the library.
Carla and Nina had been moved to a secured suite with Evelyn.
Only Marco and two trusted guards remained.
Dean looked at the wheelchair.
Then at Massimo’s face.
“You look tired.”
Massimo said nothing.
Dean smiled.
“Didn’t sleep well?”
“Vittorio.”
The smile vanished.
Massimo watched carefully.
“My uncle.”
Dean looked away.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The first honest reaction you’ve shown me.”
Dean laughed.
“You think you understand anything?”
“No.”
Massimo leaned forward.
“That’s why you’re here.”
Dean sat in the chair Marco indicated.
Massimo placed Russo’s phone on the desk.
“He called Vittorio before the attack.”
Dean stared at it.
“You didn’t know.”
Dean remained silent.
“You thought you were running the plan.”
Nothing.
Massimo continued.
“You thought Camille was your partner.”
Dean looked at him.
“She is.”
“No.”
Massimo shook his head.
“She’s my uncle’s.”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
That was confirmation enough.
Massimo almost felt pity.
Almost.
“How long?” Massimo asked.
Dean looked tired suddenly.
“Longer than you think.”
“Start talking.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I send everything we recovered to federal investigators.”
Marco looked at Massimo.
Dean laughed.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“You’d burn half your own organization.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Dean stared at him.
“You’ve changed.”
“You already said that.”
“No.”
Dean leaned forward.
“You really changed.”
Massimo’s expression stayed flat.
Dean studied him.
“Before the shooting, you would’ve killed me before asking a second question.”
“Maybe getting shot improved my patience.”
Dean looked toward the door.
“What do I get?”
“You’re bargaining?”
“Yes.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“I also stopped you from dying.”
“After arranging the attack.”
“Details.”
Marco took one step forward.
Massimo lifted a hand.
“Protection.”
Dean laughed.
“From who?”
“Vittorio.”
That ended the laughter.
Massimo saw it.
Dean was afraid of his uncle.
Good.
“Tell me everything,” Massimo said, “and I make sure Vittorio can’t reach you.”
Dean leaned back.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise he’ll have to get through me.”
Dean stared.
Then smiled faintly.
“Still arrogant.”
“Still alive.”
A long silence followed.
Finally, Dean spoke.
“Your father never trusted Vittorio.”
Massimo frowned.
“They were brothers.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Dean continued.
“Vittorio believed he should inherit half the family operations. Your grandfather disagreed. Your father became boss.”
Massimo knew this.
Old family resentment.
Nothing new.
“Vittorio accepted being consigliere.”
Dean shook his head.
“He accepted appearing to accept it.”
Massimo’s eyes narrowed.
“When your father died, Vittorio expected you to fail.”
“I was twenty-nine.”
“Exactly.”
Dean smiled bitterly.
“But you didn’t.”
Massimo had stabilized the family, modernized legitimate businesses, reduced unnecessary conflict, and expanded into shipping and real estate.
All things Vittorio publicly praised.
“He wanted me dead?”
“Eventually.”
“Why wait nine years?”
“Because killing you directly would divide the family.”
Massimo understood.
“But if Bellandi killed me…”
“Everyone unites behind revenge.”
“And Vittorio becomes temporary leader.”
Dean nodded.
“Temporary leaders have a way of becoming permanent.”
Marco muttered, “Son of a—”
Massimo’s gaze remained on Dean.
“Where do you enter?”
Dean laughed without humor.
“I got tired of being second.”
There it was.
Not ideology.
Not family history.
Ambition.
“You had money.”
“I wanted authority.”
“You had authority.”
“Yours.”
Dean’s voice sharpened.
“Always yours.”
He leaned forward.
“I negotiated deals. I fixed problems. I protected you. I built half the machine people credited to Massimo Rinaldi.”
“And that wasn’t enough.”
“No.”
Massimo nodded slowly.
“At least that part I believe.”
Dean stared.
“Vittorio approached me three years ago.”
“What did he offer?”
“Control after you died.”
“And Camille?”
“Insurance.”
“How?”
Dean looked toward the window.
“She came from old money and no money.”
Massimo frowned.
“The Ashwoods are wealthy.”
“Were.”
Dean smiled.
“Her father destroyed most of it with bad investments. Their estate was leveraged. Their reputation was all they had.”
Massimo remembered Camille insisting on an enormous wedding.
Magazine photographs.
Historic cathedral.
Political guests.
It had never been romance.
It had been restoration.
“Vittorio bailed them out,” Dean said.
“In exchange for her getting close to me.”
“Yes.”
Massimo felt disgusted.
“Did she ever care?”
Dean shrugged.
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“Was she part of the shooting?”
“No.”
“The medication?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know it could cause permanent damage?”
Dean hesitated.
Massimo’s expression hardened.
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more than Massimo expected.
He hated that.
“What happened during the ambush?”
Dean exhaled.
“The shooters were supposed to hit your SUV and leave no survivors.”
“Then why was my vehicle armored?”
“Vittorio didn’t know you upgraded the rear panels two weeks earlier.”
Massimo remembered ordering it after a threat.
He hadn’t told Dean until installation day.
“The first rounds didn’t penetrate.”
Dean nodded.
“Then one shooter changed position. Hit you through the side gap.”
“The spinal shot.”
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to finish me?”
Dean looked at him.
“I was supposed to make sure you were dead.”
Massimo’s fingers tightened.
“But?”
“I couldn’t.”
There was silence.
Dean’s face changed.
For the first time, regret appeared.
“I hated you in that moment.”
Massimo stared.
“I hated that even bleeding out, you asked if I was okay.”
Massimo remembered.
Dean continued.
“I had spent three years telling myself you didn’t deserve the chair you sat in.”
“Then I got shot.”
“And you grabbed my jacket and told me to get down before the second volley.”
Dean laughed quietly.
“You were still trying to save me.”
Massimo’s voice became cold.
“So you saved me back.”
“Yes.”
“And then spent six months poisoning me.”
Dean looked down.
“I made the first mistake when I pulled you out.”
“Saving me was your mistake?”
“To Vittorio.”
Dean lifted his eyes.
“He said if you recovered, I’d have to finish it.”
“So you chose the medication.”
“I chose delay.”
Massimo stared.
“Don’t try to make yourself noble.”
“I’m not.”
Dean’s voice became angry.
“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
Marco stepped forward.
Massimo stopped him.
Dean continued.
“I kept you weak because Vittorio accepted weak.”
“You robbed me of six months.”
“I kept you breathing for six months.”
“You don’t get credit for not murdering me after arranging my murder.”
Dean looked away.
Massimo sat back.
“Where is Vittorio going?”
“I don’t know.”
“The lodge?”
“Temporary.”
“What does he want now?”
Dean laughed softly.
“He wants you angry.”
Massimo frowned.
“Why?”
“Because anger makes you predictable.”
Massimo thought about the attack on Nina.
“Did Vittorio order the child killed?”
Dean looked genuinely surprised.
“What?”
“Seven men entered my house last night.”
Dean’s face drained.
“No.”
Massimo studied him.
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
“Russo called Vittorio.”
Dean whispered something under his breath.
“What?”
Dean looked at Massimo.
“You need to get Carla and Nina out.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Dean leaned forward urgently.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“Vittorio doesn’t kill children.”
Massimo stared.
Dean continued.
“He’s old-school. Twisted, but he has rules.”
“A man came into my house looking for Nina.”
“Then Vittorio wanted something else.”
“What?”
Dean’s eyes widened slightly.
“The girl saw things.”
Massimo waited.
“The pills.”
“Yes.”
“The phone.”
“Yes.”
Dean shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“He didn’t want Nina dead.”
Massimo’s voice hardened.
“Then what?”
“He wanted her taken.”
“Why?”
Dean looked toward the unlocked phone.
“Because children remember things adults ignore.”
Massimo frowned.
Dean continued.
“Where was Nina during your recovery?”
“Everywhere.”
“That’s my point.”
Massimo suddenly understood.
The hallways.
Library.
Kitchen.
Garden.
Staff corridors.
Nina moved through the house invisibly because nobody considered her important.
“What could she know?”
Dean shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Then the library door opened.
Carla entered holding Nina’s hand.
Massimo’s expression darkened.
“You’re supposed to be upstairs.”
“I know.”
Carla looked at Dean.
“But Nina heard his voice.”
The child stared at Dean.
No smile this time.
Dean looked strangely ashamed.
Nina hid behind her mother.
Massimo softened.
“What is it?”
Carla nudged her gently.
“Tell him.”
Nina looked at Massimo.
“The old man.”
Massimo frowned.
“What old man?”
“The one from the sleepy night.”
Dean went completely still.
Massimo noticed.
“Nina, what old man?”
She pointed at a framed family photograph hanging beside the fireplace.
Massimo’s father stood in the center.
Vittorio beside him.
A younger Massimo behind them.
Nina pointed.
“Him.”
Vittorio.
Massimo’s pulse accelerated.
“When did you see him?”
“At night.”
“What night?”
“The night Uncle Dean put medicine in your tube.”
Dean whispered, “Jesus.”
Massimo turned.
“You said Vittorio was in Florida.”
“He was supposed to be.”
Nina continued.
“He came in the little door.”
“What little door?”
“The wall door.”
Massimo remembered the servant passages.
“Where?”
“Your old bedroom.”
Massimo had used a downstairs recovery suite for the first two months after the shooting.
“Did he say anything?”
Nina frowned hard, trying to remember.
“He was mad.”
“At whom?”
“Uncle Dean.”
Dean stared at her.
Nina mimicked an adult voice.
“‘You were supposed to make it look natural.’”
The room went silent.
Dean closed his eyes.
Massimo looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
Dean didn’t answer.
Nina continued.
“The old man said…”
She struggled.
“‘His father didn’t fight this hard.’”
Massimo froze.
His father.
Lorenzo Rinaldi had died nine years earlier.
Official cause: massive heart attack.
He had been sixty-two.
Healthy enough to play tennis three days before his death.
Massimo had never questioned it.
Why would he?
People had heart attacks.
Nina tugged Massimo’s sleeve.
“The old man had a little bottle.”
Massimo could barely breathe.
“What kind?”
She thought.
“Brown.”
Dean’s face had become gray.
Massimo looked at him.
“What did Vittorio mean about my father?”
Dean said nothing.
Massimo rolled closer.
“What happened to my father?”
Dean looked away.
Marco grabbed his shoulder.
“Answer him.”
Dean swallowed.
“I didn’t know until last year.”
“Know what?”
“Vittorio tested the method before he tried it on you.”
Massimo stopped breathing.
Dean looked directly at him.
“Your father didn’t die from a heart attack.”
For nine years, Massimo had lived with one memory.
His father at dinner.
Laughing.
Drinking red wine.
Complaining about the Yankees.
Then collapsing beside the table.
Vittorio had performed CPR.
Vittorio had cried at the funeral.
Vittorio had stood beside Massimo and whispered:
Now you carry us.
Massimo’s hands began shaking.
“What did he use?”
Dean looked toward Nina.
Then back to Massimo.
“A drug that caused cardiac arrest and cleared quickly enough to look natural.”
Carla covered her mouth.
Massimo stared at the old family photograph.
His uncle’s smiling face suddenly looked like a stranger’s.
“No.”
Dean said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Massimo’s eyes became wet.
He hated that Dean saw it.
He hated that anyone did.
Nina walked closer.
Without asking, she placed her small hand on Massimo’s.
He looked down.
She whispered:
“Your daddy’s feet are awake in heaven.”
Massimo shut his eyes.
The words should have sounded childish.
Instead, they broke him.
For several seconds, the most feared man on the East Coast sat in silence while tears ran down his face.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody laughed.
Then Massimo opened his eyes.
The grief remained.
But underneath it was something harder.
Purpose.
He looked at Marco.
“We’re not going to the lodge.”
Marco frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Vittorio expects that.”
Massimo looked at Dean.
“What does my uncle value more than hiding?”
Dean thought.
“Control.”
“What does he fear?”
Dean hesitated.
“Being exposed.”
Massimo nodded.
“Then we don’t chase him.”
He looked toward the family photograph.
“We make him come to us.”
“How?”
Massimo’s eyes moved toward the engagement invitations stacked on a nearby table.
The wedding was scheduled in eleven days.
Hundreds of guests.
Family allies.
Political contacts.
Business leaders.
Every person Vittorio needed to believe the Rinaldi family remained stable.
Massimo picked up an invitation.
“The wedding.”
Carla stared.
“You’re still marrying Camille?”
Massimo looked at her.
“No.”
May you like
A cold smile appeared.
“But Vittorio doesn’t need to know that.”
