Chapter 3 Mourning and Conspiracy

Doménico Vescari.

After Don's funeral, my brothers, Vitto, and a small circle of important people my father valued accompanied us to the mansion for the reception. I hate those kinds of gatherings: after a funeral, what the family really needs is silence and time. Time to digest the loss. And this was no ordinary loss. With his death, all the responsibilities of the Vescari family fall on me: the legitimate businesses and, of course, the other ones.

Four days later, Vitto knocked on the office door and left a letter on the desk. The boss of bosses is not a stranger to us nor just a figure of authority: he was my father's cousin... our uncle. The letter had arrived days ago, but only today did I sit down to read it calmly. It wasn't emotional or full of anecdotes. The message was clear:

"May the soul of Don Salvatore Vescari rest in peace, and may his sons find the strength to move forward. Good luck with the vote, nephew."

-

"Are you busy?"

"No. Come in, godfather."

Vittorio sits across from me and rests his elbows on the desk.

"I'll be direct, Dom. In an hour we'll meet for the vote. There are other candidates, but none compare to you. The family will support you." He takes a breath and leans back in his chair. "Your father asked me to back you. Your mother is no longer here, and you don't carry that burden. I'm 90% sure they will choose you, but the others will try to make it difficult for you. And, from what I heard, as a loyalty test, they might ask you to exclude someone close... from the family and the organization."

That's absurd. Those sons of bitches!

"What do you suggest?"

"I'm thinking about Luca. He's the youngest, the least involved. He's still an 'honorable young man,' but not very committed. You know perfectly well they'll try to hit you where it hurts the most. You can't allow it. I suggest you talk to your brothers right now."

He gets up and leaves.

The mourning is over. The family business is moving again, and the meeting with the vote is about to start. I try not to think about it, but I know my godfather is right: if I'm chosen, I have to be one step ahead.

"Fratello." Alessio, Fabio, and Luca enter the office. "Did you call us?"

"In case I get chosen, Vitto warned me that those unhappy with my leadership will push for a tough decision. They'll want one of you out."

Silence. Nobody speaks or interrupts, so I continue.

"Vittorio suggested..."

"I want out of the business." Luca cuts me off.

I'm surprised. I didn't expect him to speak... much less say that.

"I want a different life from this one, to study at the best university and be a doctor. Get me out of the way, I'll thank you."

"Vittorio suggested it would be you, but they won't agree. They'll go for Alessio or Fabio. Because you're the youngest, the furthest from a possible succession line."

I pause. My brothers say nothing but look at me. I know those looks well: anger, sadness, pride.

"I'm not going to choose any of you. I only ask one thing: trust me."

"We never stopped doing that," Alessio says firmly, as if sealing an oath.

Fabio nods silently. No need to speak; his loyalty has been unquestionable as long as I can remember. He was always the rebel, the hardest one, but he never turned his back on us. Luca, though...

Luca looks at me with a mixture of guilt and determination. He's no longer a kid, although sometimes we treat him like one. He has the same eyes as Mom, and that sometimes makes him harder to look at.

"Do you understand what 'being out' means?" I ask, staring at him. "You won't stop being our brother, that will never change. But regarding the organization, the family... you will be exiled. You can't come back. There will be no second chances."

He nods but doesn't look down.

"Yes. I understand. And I want it. This life was never for me. Here they kill. I want to save lives."

I remain silent. The office does too. I feel everyone's eyes on me, but I don't respond.

Luca has made his choice.

"That's all."

Vincenzo Gravano

"Father."

"Come in and sit," he says, direct as always.

I walk to the sofa and pour myself a glass. When he calls me alone and settles into this space of his used for thinking, we all know what it means: there are problems. Or there will be soon.

"Salvatore Vescari is dead. They've already chosen his new capo. I'm tired. Your mother doesn't give me a break, and if I haven't killed her yet, it's because of you five."

He hates my mother.

"Maybe if you hadn't cheated on her with every bitch you crossed paths with and left children all over, she'd be a calmer and more obedient wife."

"I'm not here for sarcasm."

"Neither am I. Want me to find you a nursing home?"

"No. I want you to prepare to take my place. Of all my children, you're the least useless."

The least useless, respected by all. The one who swallowed his pride and cleaned up my brothers' messes. The one who cared for our sister as if she were his own, our princess.

"You can't abdicate. Are you dying too?"

"No," he answers, pulling a paper from his pocket. He hands it to me without looking. "They put a hit on me. And I'd rather die with some honor than fall in a settling of accounts with the Vescari."

I read it. I understand.

"You know I killed the wife of the old Don. And you know that blood won't be forgotten. If you want respect, if you want to be recognized as boss, you'll have to kill the new leader."

He says it without moving a muscle, as if it were something trivial. He takes a long sip of whiskey, the glass empties slowly. When he lowers it, he stares at the empty crystal, as if waiting for the liquid to return on its own. His hand trembles holding the glass, but it's not from the alcohol: it's time catching up, the wear.

With his eyes fixed on his glass, he keeps talking.

"My time is running out, son. And even if I hide it, it's obvious I'm not up for this anymore. I have no one else."

My father is finished, but he refuses to fully accept it. The fatigue of years, the lies accumulated, the betrayals. The body remains, but the man is gone. I look at him and wonder if he was ever the same one I feared, if he was ever someone I admired.

I'm no longer a child, but at that moment I realize I'm not the man he thinks I am either. Deep down, I don't care. I'm not interested in his view of me, nor his idea of power. In the Camorra, it's not just about inheritance, power is taken. And I, unlike him, am not a coward. What the Gravano need is not a boss who lets himself be killed by years, but one who knows that power isn't just maintained, it's also earned, and, of course, never lost.

The Vescari can have their internal war, their rules, their territories. New York is their battlefield. But here, in Brooklyn, things are different. What matters is respect, reputation, and opportunities. And my father's last chance is slipping through his fingers. He won't be the one to keep us standing. But I will.

"Done."

Without more, I turn around, close the door behind me, and walk away from his faded voice.