bit late for a whole bottle, isn't it?" Victor looked at his watch. "Or rather, a bit early…"
"Yeah, well, I didn't choose the time. What happened to sundown? We used to do this then. That too late for you now, old man? Need to be in bed by seven so you're up at the ass-crack of dawn for the Early Bird Special?" Barsanti waved all around the table. "God forbid we eat breakfast at normal hours like civilized human beings instead of geriatric animals."
"You're sounding awfully bitter, Barsanti," Victor said. "Finally realize you'll never live long enough to enjoy a senior citizen discount?"
Barsanti cracked a smile at that, one that didn't last, as his gaze shifted to Dante. He stared at him in silence as the conversation moved on, downing some scotch as soon as it was brought to him. The atmosphere had again turned casual, laughter surrounding them. Gavin even relaxed, cracking a few smiles, although the man beside him appeared strictly business.
Dante had heard that about Moretti, though. He didn't associate with the Galantes, but Primo held a certain respect for him, anyway, appreciating a man who didn't bullshit.
An hour passed. Maybe it was only thirty minutes. As soon as it happened, Dante knew it hadn't been enough time. The change was palpable, a charge in the air sweeping into the room. Laughter died on a breath, smiles dwindling, eyes growing guarded as heavy footsteps approached the ballroom.
Dante didn't have to look to know his father was there. A sensation entered with him, foreboding and serious. This… this was how the meetings went. No love. No trust. No humor. Dante used to admire that about his father, the way people sat up and paid attention when he appeared. He took it for respect, for admiration, for apprehension, but he realized in that moment that it was none of those. It was revulsion. It was anger.
It was hatred.
Foregoing a greeting, Primo slid into the last empty chair, sitting to the left of Moretti and directly across from Barsanti. His eyes scanned the men, stopping when they reached Dante. His stare was a void. There was nothing there. The man was hollow.
"Galante," Victor said. "I'm happy you could join us."
"That makes one of us," Primo said, tearing his eyes away from his son to turn to Victor. "Can we get this over with? I'd rather not be here."
Victor motioned toward him. "The floor is yours, if you want to start. I'm just a neutral party."
"There's nothing neutral about you, Brazzi."
"Ah, I beg to differ."
"You can beg any which way you want… it doesn't make a difference. You chose sides long ago. You've insulted my family. You've insulted me. Then you have the audacity to call this meeting, to order me here, as if I owe you anything. As if I owe anybody anything."
"You want to talk about insults, Galante? Let's talk about them."
Primo flippantly waved his direction as he sat back in his chair. "By all means, get it off your chest. Tell me where the bad man touched you."
"Matteo Barsanti. Enzo Barsanti. My grandsons. You insulted me when you targeted them, when you used my daughter's funeral as an opportunity to strike against the ones she loved."
"Careful, Brazzi… you're not sounding very neutral right now."
"It's simple human decency," Victor continued. "There's a mourning period that should be observed. It's a matter of respect. It's how real men act. They don't kick each other when they're down. They wait until their opponent stands up again so they can look them in the eyes, face-to-face, man-to-man, making the fight fair."
"All is fair in times of war," Primo said. "I've tried for years to end this, to confront this head on, and I've been shut down every time. Every single time! So don't talk to me about fighting fair. Don't talk to me about following unspoken rules. Don't talk to me about respect. Where's the respect for me? You lecture me for targeting a man's family, yet where's the rage over what has come of mine?"
"We grieve for your losses, Galante," Alfie chimed in, "but more bloodshed isn't the answer."
"Then tell me… what is the answer?"
"Forgiveness."
A manic laugh escaped Primo as he threw his hands up. "You expect me to forgive him after what he's done? Forgiveness has to be earned."
"He returned your son to you, did he not?" Victor asked, motioning toward Dante. "That's more than we can say about you."
Dante's stomach churned, not wanting to be dragged into the argument,