King of Stars (The Next Generation #2)

7. Matteo

Chapter 7

Matteo

P apà nodded to me as we made our way up to Bertrand Moro’s door. Usually, I would have been behind with my brothers, after my uncles, but Stella was mine to defend, and I knew my placement was symbolic. Someday, I would ascend the throne. Where my grandfather was standing in line, the head, I would too.

Padrino squeezed my shoulder, like he could read my mind, and it seemed as if we both stood a little taller.

Nonno fixed his coat, preparing to do what we came here to do. A brisk wind churned around us, and in the frigid air, I could smell a plethora of expensive colognes and hair gels coming from my family. Before Padrino could even knock, the door opened. After we’d all been welcomed in by Moro’s man, we all raised our eyebrows at the same time.

As far as I could tell, Bertrand Moro got caught in the pirate era and truly believed he was one. All his help wore pirate attire. When he came in looking like an extra out of the movie Hook , hook and all, I could tell Marciano had a million questions. Papà gave me a side eye look, and I could’ve sworn it repeated the same thing but in a different way. Marciano’s head is filled with questions . We all loved water, but it was Marciano who swam the most, and he was dazzled by anything connected to it. Including…pirates.

Moro gave a smile, and his gold teeth glinted when the sideway slanting rays from the sun hit them through the closed blinds. He took a step forward, and it was then I noticed he did it with a slight limp. “ Signore Fausti!” He took Nonno’s hand in a warm embrace. “ Signore Fausti! What a pleasure it is to see you after all these years. If you don’t mind me saying, you haven’t aged a bit! Unlike me. The sun has taken my skin prisoner.” He laughed, and I could hear the nervousness in it. “Oh, that is right! I’ve been out of society so long I have forgotten my manners. Let us dine!”

The man who opened the door for us opened another one, and we were invited to sit at a long, dark, wooden table that was already set with plates, goblets, silverware, and lit candles dripping wax. There were no windows, and the candlelight played off the thick silver plates in front of us. If Moro couldn’t conduct business at night, he was going to pretend it was night, at least.

His staff started to come out with dishes, and Nonno held a hand up. “This is not a visit to celebrate.”

Moro waved a hand, and his staff reversed their steps and left, taking any light with them.

“I see,” Moro said in a solemn tone. “Even if it is not, what do I owe the pleasure of this visit to then? It is always a pleasure to see you Signore Fausti, and your family.”

This guy might have been a pirate who was two hundred years too late, but he was a terrible fucking liar.

The smile Nonno gave in response to that question came slowly, and when his teeth were visible, Moro started to sweat.

“The Nemours.”

“Ahh,” Moro breathed out, reaching for his goblet. It was filled with what looked like blood but was red wine. I could smell it in the air. “For record’s sake, when Olivier Nemours was on the hunt for your daughter, I disappeared. I did not want any part of it.”

Nonno nodded. “If you had, you would have already been dead. But I did not come here to discuss what is already known.” He tapped on the table once, twice, three times with his pointer finger. “How is the leg, Moro? Let me remind you, since the sun can do more than skin damage, that the leg was only business. This is personal.”

Moro had a business deal with my great-grandfather, Marzio, back in the day, and he’d been late on the profits. Great-Grandfather set Nonno after him, and Nonno had a lion back then. He set it loose on Moro in a maze. If Moro could escape, his life was his, but if the lion got to him first…Moro wouldn’t be sitting here. Padrino told me that Uncle Tito had told him that when Nonno gave Moro a head start, Nonno was screaming, “Run, Meat! Run for your life!” Laughing the entire time while the lion went berserk in his enclosure.

“The leg still hurts.” Moro drained his glass. “I still appreciate you allowing me to leave with my life that day, Signore Fausti. Better a maimed leg than no life at all.” He seemed to ponder that for a second. “If you wouldn’t mind… ah … How do I even ask this?” He looked Nonno in the eyes. “The girl…”

“Either I will kill you for not doing what I tell you to, or the Nemours will kill you for intervening, so you are stuck between a sword and a wall.” Nonno summed up Moro’s reservations and spoke them out loud to the entire table. “And to understand the degree of this situation, you want to know who the girl is to us.”

“She is mine,” I said in Italian.

None of the men at the table even blinked at the admission. I’d claimed Stella as mine from the moment I saw her, and I wanted the entire world to know, especially the darkest parts of it. She had a man out there who would fight for her honor.

Me. The man she’d someday call husband.

“Just as the woman you spoke of before is mine,” my father said in Italian. “ My wife.”

“Ahh,” Moro breathed out again. “Lovely dancer.” He hesitated. “Is it true she danced in Sub Rosa again?”

Ahh was fucking right. He might have tucked his tail between his legs and “disappeared” when the first war was going on between the Faustis and the Nemours over my mamma, but he hadn’t cut himself off from the world entirely. Unless he’d seen mamma dance before the two families went to war over her. There was a time she had a contract with Nemours and had honored it.

I’d had enough of the fucking bullshit, and taking him by surprise, I rose from my chair, grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall. He was scratching at my hand, clawing to get free. His eyes started to bulge. Right before he went out, I released him. He wheezed and gasped for air, sliding down the wall and trying to find his breath. He tried to talk, but it took him a second.

His voice was raspy, like his windpipe had sandpaper in it. “I’ve seen her, the girl. étoile is what they call her. She is much, much bigger than the other dancer, in terms of monetary worth to the Nemours.” He took a deep breath in, slowly releasing it out. His eyes were closed, as if he was savoring the taste of air like he was savoring the taste of wine. “She is worth, to the Nemours, another war. However.” He lifted a finger. “Régine Nemours has a new husband, after her last one was killed, of course. The new husband is willing to make a deal. He wants the girl gone, after, ah, after the sudden interest in her.”

My voice was tight when I snapped, “The Russians want to sell her.”

“To the highest bidder.” He nodded. “Or one of them might even kill her. By accident, of course, or it might become a war between the Nemours and the Russians. But whatever you do, do it fast. The Nemours know you want the girl, and that puts her in far more danger than she’s ever known.”