Angelo Morello

Frankie sighed, letting Angelo finish out his words before anything was said. Perhaps he had misspoken then, but he surely hadnt anticipated such a response. 

“There a few Irish worse off thanks to me and some hired hands. Just because I am not committing mass murders int he streets doesnt mean I am not loyal. I have been busy working on forming alliances, Angelo. As for my children- they have their own ideals in mind. Something I have yet to discuss with them deeply.”

He paused, giving a shake of his head.

“You’re not a Mancini Loyalist, Frankie. You’re not with Alessia, I would know if you were. You have no loyalty to us, and making a formal one doesn’t change your goals, nor does it change mine. No doubt you want the Irish. That’s entirely disregarding Alessia’s completely obvious interests.”

A rogue among wolves; if ever there was proof in a line. 

“We’re different animals.” Angelo rode off the metaphor, “Maybe the same genus, but you’re referring to wolves, coyotes, and jackals, not just the one.” They’d kill each other regardless.

Perhaps that made a little more sense; the idea that Frankie grew up in a revolving culture was heartening, Italian men like themselves had much to be proud of, but they had different families, held domain on different regions. Where was this ‘loyalty’ based that the Valastro spoke of; certainly not with him, that was an issue. Largely a minor one, though.

Why did Valastro have any expectations on this?

After a moment Angelo leaned back, contemplating how to best verbalize the things on his mind, the very obvious things. “Tell me,” he started with eyebrows drawn together, “if we’re going pretend a moment that what you said is possible. That we are, could be, a whole. When am I going to see a Frenchman laying in a tomato patch with a dumb cigarette in his mouth because of you? How about a Russian? Have you started going to my church? How about your kids?”

Angelo waved a hand in the air, barely lifting an arm, “I hear you, you mean well,” there was a slight shrug, “but that doesn’t exist. This mass Italian dream, it’s not real.” 

Such a shameful crime, tonight was a good night, indeed. I’ll give it St. Clair’s wife, her speech was impressively pointed. Pity Nicolas wasn’t here to see it.