I should have fucking stayed in Sicily. My father and his summons be damned. In Sicily, I was my own man. Accountable only to myself and my soldiers. This bullshit?La Famiglia? Where was the so-called Famiglia when my father exiled me? Where was La Famiglia when I scraped my own empire out of nothing but blood, hard work, and cunning? Nowhere near me! That's where.
And now they want me back? Want me toplay ball? I would say fuck this and return to Italy in a heartbeat if it weren't for the temptation of finally getting even with my father. Showing the bastard who is in control will be my biggest victory yet.
So, I'mplaying ball. But bymyrules.
"Marcello, I'm glad to meet you," Matías, the head of a Venezuelan gang out of Los Angeles, Los Conquistadores, greets me.
He's part of the wholeplaying ballcondition.
I stare at his outstretched hand, "This is not a friendly meeting," I remind him. He might have flown across the country to come to New York, but I don't believe for a second that he did it just for this meeting.
He can barely mask his hatred for me with a frown.Good, I don't like you either, asshole.
"Don't be that way, compadre, come, sit, let's have a drink and talk." Matías tries for a smile and waves his hand toward a sofa arrangement.
Matías is nothing but a punk, a low-life street rat who thinks he wields power because he runs a small gang. I ate boys like him for breakfast when I was making my way up in Sicily.
"Yes, let's talk," I agree and grab him by the throat, pushing him against the wall, while Luciano, my second-in-command, and Casimo, one of my bodyguards, draw their guns, aiming them at the three men who came with Matías.
"What are you doing, puta madre, let me down," he chokes out.
"Let's talk about Alfonzo Romano and his wife, the couple yourcompadrestortured and killed, eh?" I watch Matías' face twist in panic.
Alfonzo Romano was—until recently— La Famiglia's accountant.
"I told your boss that these were rogue men. They didn't do this under my command." He tries to feed me the same bullshit line he fed Edoardo Zanello, our Don. For whatever stupid reason, Edoardo chose to believe him. I don't.
"What you're telling me is that a big bad gang banger like you can't control his own people?" I snarl in his face.
"No, no. I'm still looking into it, man. Your boss knows."
Now he's pissing me off even more. He keeps calling Edoardomy boss. Technically, Don Edoardo—our Capo dei Capi—does hold the title, but I never swore allegiance to him. That was my father. Edoardo is a weak man and too young for the position he's holding.
"I paid my dues to your Don. Ask him," Matías' voice is high-pitched now, like a trapped animal.
His words, however, ring true. I ease my grip ever so slightly. "You paid him?"
"Sí! Sí!" He nods frantically.
That, I believe. Edoardo would take the blood money and not say a damn word about it. Probably never even passed it along to the other families.
"I'll pay you too," Matías offers. "How much do you want?"
First and foremost, I'm a businessman. I like power—the kind that comes from, but isn't limited to, money. Lots and lots of money. Paired with ruthlessness and brutality, it doesn't just open doors to power—it drags you right inside. I'm not ignorant or naïve. It goes without saying: a man who runs New York wields a hell of a lot more influence than some old-school boss rotting away in Sicily. But I'll never accept a bribe, especially not from a lowlife rat like Matías.
"This isn't about money," I spit out, flinging him onto the couch he wanted me to sit on earlier. His bodyguards twitch, but Luciano and Casimo keep them in check. "What are you and Edoardo cooking up? Why are you here? In New York? Your territory is in Los Angeles."
"I came to show my respect to Antonio DeLuna, we're sharing territory in LA. I don't want any bad blood because of the bad business with your accountant."
How naïve is this Bastardo? Toni was nearly executed forthe bad business with the accountant. If he thinks we'll just forgive and forget that members of his gang kidnapped, tortured, and killed our accountant to get information on our finances, he is stupider than a jellyfish—no insult to the jellyfish intended.
The LA territory Matías is referring to used to belong to my father. But Edoardo made him give it to the DeLuna family as blood money for killing Toni's father, Jacomo. It pissed my father off endlessly because, according to him, Don Edoardo ordered him to kill Jacomo DeLuna. An accusation he made during a meeting but was forced to recant. He might be telling the truth on this one; he might not. But I fully intend to find out. Not for him, but if Edoardo is playing the capos and their sons against each other, I need to know.
I'm not the only one asking questions. Enrico and Stephano—heirs to two other capos—and Toni are seeing the same cracks I am. Over the past few weeks, we've been digging into Edoardo... and a few other things that don't fucking add up.
That's the real reason I'm here.
Fuck. I rub the bridge of my nose. There is too much politics in La Famiglia for my taste. Compared to this, Sicily was easy. But I'll be damned if I give up my birthright. My place is here, and nobody is going to take it from me.
