In the middle of my senior year, while working hard to finish my degree and get into graduate school, the tables turned. Ivanna had told me all about how the Italians were causing problems, and they really needed Felix to step up as Boss. She took matters into her own hands when one of ours got killed by an Italian, but Felix triumphed in the end.
He always landed on his feet, and that was why I respected him as Boss, if begrudgingly.
The part I had a hard time with was Felix asking us to usetheyandtheminstead ofheandhim. My logical brain said it was hard after a decade and a half calling Felixhim. My rational side said to get over myself and do what the Boss asked. Somewhere in the middle, there was Ivanna’s voice, scoffing at me even questioning what to do.
The less time I spent around Ivanna and Igor while living in the dorms, then with them being sent back to Russia, the more my voice overrode theirs. Still, she had given me direct advice on how to prove myself and move up the ranks faster.Kill an enemy.
Easier said than done.
Sure, I had access to untraceable guns, and I knew a few targets I could pick from. The Italians were at the top of my list. The tricky part was Felix and Maksim’s insistence that the Italian mob had fizzled out in the bay, going straight and dispersing elsewhere with new families in charge. Ivanna said it was all lies, and Felix just didn’t want to fight anyone.
It was true, I’d never seen Felix pull his gun, or heard of him killing a rival. He let his men do the dirty work.
There, on my new bed—that had admittedly wonderful bedding—I pulled out my phone and started researching. Did the Italians have an old man in charge like the Godfather movies? I’d always enjoyed those movies for the romanticized version of the mob. But I wouldn’t learn anything new from something I’d watched multiple times already. What did the boss get called? A Dom?
The search got distracting when I looked up that title, ads suggesting some porn I needed to ignore. It was clearly gay porn, with a fit man on his knees in only a jockstrap, drool leaking out past some kind of metal gag holding his mouth open, while a suited man stood before him holding a riding crop. My dick took notice, and I pressed the heel of my hand into the semi I was sporting from one erotic image.
No one was there to catch me, except Gregor, and he’d recently been going to gay clubs with Felix and Maksim. For all I knew, he was bi, or gay like them. Looking around, I didn’t see a place in the stark concrete ceiling where a camera might be, and the vents were on the floor. I’d have to sweep the room for bugs before I jacked off. Ivanna had used a video of Felix to out the Boss and I didn’t want Gregor or anyone else recording me.
Clicking away from the temptation, I found one picture of an Italian mafioso from Oakland who was in prison for laundering money. No other charges, so he wasn’t important. What caught my attention was who accused him. Giorgio Greco. The name rang a bell, and I texted Ivanna his name and picture.
Tetya Ivanna: Yes! Greco is an enemy. He is the head of the Greco crime family. Kill him and they can’t deny your skills.
Me: I understand. I’ll find him.
How hard could one Italian in the Bay Area be to find?
CHAPTER FOUR
GEORGE
“Oh my god,Papa, what are you doing here?” My daughter exclaimed by way of greeting when she opened her apartment door. I’d set them up with their new Berkeley place early so Angie could do a summer program and her brother could join the track team.
“A father can’t visit his children? Hi Angie,” I kissed her cheek and asked with faux innocence. “Why? Are you doing something I shouldn’t see?”
“No,” Angie rolled her eyes and stepped back to let me in. “It’s just that everyone texts before showing up these days.” She called over her shoulder, “Pino! Papa’s here.”
Guiseppe stepped around the corner while yawning and running fingers through his mussed brown hair. I’d paid for movers, and they had a cleaning service every two weeks, but I hoped I wasn’t coddling them too much.
“Did you just wake up, Beppino?” I asked, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice as I checked the time. “I was going to ask if you want lunch, but maybe breakfast?”
“Ha, yeah,” he shrugged and rubbed his eyes, “Early morning sprints. I conked out after my shower. Starving now, though.”
“Of course, you are.” Chuckling at my little bottomless pit—I swore he had a hollow leg—I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. “Any cuisine in particular?”
“Ooh,” Angie jumped in, “there’s an Afghan place nearby I’ve been dying to try.”
“Not Italian?” I teased, knowing her answer.
As expected, I got another eye roll as Angie reached for her jacket on a hook by the door. “If I want good Italian I’ll go home to Josefina’s kitchen. Plus, I love introducing you to new cuisines.”
“Fine, let’s go.” I opened the door and checked to make sure the coast was clear, an old habit I’d probably never shake.
Beppino grabbed his windbreaker and slipped on flip flops while Angie zipped up her leather boots. One of them cost me a lot more in the wardrobe department.
“Is Afghan more like Indian or Persian food?” I made conversation as we headed out of the building and onto the street, where the fog hadn’t cleared yet. The place I got them was modern, and halfway between the university and downtown. I’d attended college and knew the experience was about more than coursework. So long as they didn’t overdo it, and knew I was always a phone call away.
“Afghanistan is a mix of cultures, so both, plus their own things,” Angie explained. She was hoping for a degree in international relations or political science and loved learning about geography and culture. “Like curry, but theirs is milder. From my research, anyway.”
