1
CESARE
The first and golden rule of the Salvatore family was simple.
Famigghia above all.
But the second rule was equally as sacred and the most practised on a day-to-day basis.
Don’t. Get. Caught.
Didn’t matter if it was lifting a Benjamin from yourNonno’s wallet while he dozed in his favourite wingback chair after one too many Scotches or you were smashing kneecaps underneath the Long Island Expressway.
For the most part, I, as the oldest male of my generation of Salvatores, lived by that rule and made sure I enforced it on my younger siblings.
Hell, if we could have emblazoned it in place of the Salvatore name on the family crest that hung on the wall behind my grandfather’s desk without it being fucking obvious, we would have.
I didn’t plan on getting caught today.
So I carefully cycled through my options as I flexed my fingers on the wheels of my Formula One race car on the start-finish straight of the Monza race circuit, for once in my life wilfully shutting out the roar of the adoringtifosi.
‘I asked you a question,’ I snarled into the radio connecting me to the pit wall, blinking away the red haze I could feel descending.
Yes, I had a white-hot temper. And sure, everyone on my crew and in the pit lane knew about it. But I also had legendary control, a trait significant enough that my grandfather, Orazio Salvatore, head of the Cosa Nostra and much-revered Salvatore crime family, had bypassed his own son, my father, to hand me the coveted position of Underboss.
Except it wasn’t a roleIcoveted.
Except it wasn’t a role I could refuse without dire consequences.
My engineer remained silent. Fury built as I crested the apex ofCurva Grande, my eyes narrowing on my target – the car in P1.
Telltale static chirped right before another voice came on. ‘You’ve been given a ten-second penalty,’ Rafaelle, my brother, said.
If he thought he could mitigate my anger by being the bearer of bad news, he was dead wrong. My nostrils filled with rage and internal combustion engine fumes from the cars in front of me. ‘Repeat that.’
A resigned sigh. ‘You heard me, Cesare. The official stewards’ conclusion is that your overtake move endangered another driver.’ There was an edge in his voice that said he too believed the penalty was bullshit.
Added to the great pile of bullshit that’d been shovelled our way with increasing frequency lately, we’d passed the point of it being sheer bad luck.
And that was a situation I intended to do something about.
‘Where’s my engineer?’ I asked my brother, even though we both knew why he’d delivered the news instead of Brazzo, my race engineer.
I wasn’t above shooting or maiming the messenger. And this infraction was right up there with the worst of crimes. A ten-second penalty with eleven laps to go and being in second place would mean my chances of winning had gone from high possibility to zero.
‘I’m here, Cesare.’ To his credit, the man’s voice only shook a little. ‘If you brake later at Lesmo, we can gain a tenth to?—’
‘Don’t tell me how to drive, shithead,’ I seethed as G-forces flattened my helmeted head against the headrest in the steep Parabolica curve. ‘Just give me the tyre life deltas.’
The moment he finished rattling off the data, I stomped on the throttle and breathed out, re-engaging control and letting my wrath recede to the to-be-opened-laterbox at the back of my mind.
Thetifosi– Italian Formula One fans so zealous they’d earned their own moniker – sensing blood, roared when I took half a second off the leader in the next lap.
The thrill of the hunt raised my temperature from simmering to a steady boil.
Another crackle of the radio set my jaw into granite. ‘Do not fucking speak to me unless?—’
‘Cesare,’ a softer voice interrupted. Bibiana, my sister and chief strategist. ‘At your current lap times, you’ll finish 10.5 seconds ahead of fourth place. A podium finish in third place is better than nothing. If you keep your head.’
