“Good evening,” my father began, and I stood to his right-hand side, showing my silent support. “Thank you for coming.” As he spoke our staff hopped to offering the finest local whiskey around—a distillery we clandestinely owned. Several of the men took a sip, a couple of them raised an eyebrow as if impressed.
“The reason we have asked you here tonight is for one simple reason. The Bonifacios are for all intents and purposes no more.”
“Yeah, and my sources tell me you’re culpable for that,” Costas remarked, a surly look on his craggy old face.
“My son is responsible for that,” my father confirmed, giving me my cue.
“I took Bonifacio personally because he murdered my brother Gianni in cold blood. The bastard deserved what he got.”
“You’re a fucking kid,” Rossi said, hitting his hands to his chest insultingly. I knew he’d been a well-known supporter of the Bonifacios for years, but his shameless disrespect still made my blood boil. “And I don’t believe you. Bonifacio got where he was by not biting the hands that fed him. There’s no way he would’ve risked an alliance by shooting one of the Cavetti heirs. I mean, Gianni wasn’t even a threat to him.”
“It’s what happened,” Angelo piped up, the twist of his lips displaying his disdain for Rossi’s opinion. “I was there.”
“I don’t care if the Queen of England was there. None of this sounds copacetic,” Rossi blundered on.
“I agree with Rossi,” Marino threw in his two cents, and Giordano crossed his arms over his chest and nodded adamantly.
“That’s your position?” I asked each of the three men, staring down all of them in turn.
“Yeah, that’s my position,” Rossi mouthed off, and both Marino and Giordano made noises of agreement.
In my peripheral vision, I caught my father’s hand making a subtle chopping motion and in the space of a couple of seconds Rossi, Marino, and Giordano were all shot dead by me, Marcello, and Savio.
It had been a sudden explosion, and most of the other bosses seemed stunned by it, despite the line of work we were all in. I felt immensely gratified to recount how well our plan had succeeded. Once the dust settled, the three dead bodies were slumped in their chairs. Marino and Giordano hadn’t even tasted their whiskey. What a waste of quality spirits.
One patriarch sat back next to a dead Rossi and took a nonchalant swig. “Damn,” Lastra pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped a splatter of blood from his forehead. “You Cavettis are ballsy. I’ll give you that.”
“Are you saying you’ll stand with us and submit to our rule over Chicago?” Angelo pushed.
“Eh, you wanna wear a crown, I won’t stop you. Long as I’m making the moolah, I’m good.”
“Anyone else have objections to we Cavettis reigning supreme,” I drawled out, enunciating each word with extra deliberation just to be pompous as I casually caressed my nine-millimeter. I’d enjoyed this. It was fun.
“No.”
“Not me.”
“The Romanos stand with the Cavettis,” came the chorus from the others. It was music to my ears. Hearing each and every one of them surrender to us was like watching a string of dominos tumble. Once the first one lost its equilibrium, the rest fell in line. If I’d known taking over the Chicago racket would’ve been this easy, I would’ve popped a bunch of opposing patriarchs in the head a long time ago.
As some of our underlings filed in to take care of the mess, my father did something he’d never done before. He turned in my direction and lifted his tumbler of whiskey in the universal sign of giving a toast. I clinked his glass with mine, and the high-pitched sound resonated off the exposed wooden beams along the ceiling. In unison, we knocked our drinks back, a brief moment of camaraderie in an otherwise frosty father-son relationship.
I glanced over at Marcello and Savio who both looked dumbfounded by this unanticipated sign of near affection, and I inwardly smiled, feeling on top of the whole fucking world.
7
Lucia
In all my time here, I’d never heard a peep when my door had been closed. I could hear knocks on the door and voices in the hall outside when it was open, but never before had I heard the sounds that had just issued from below.
Gunfire.
My heart pounded in paralyzing fear. I couldn’t mistake that noise for anything else. I’d been up close and personal with such a cacophony before and had no doubt about its source. And it hadn’t been only one gun that had gone off, though I couldn’t tell precisely how many. What was going on?
When no one came to offer me any explanation, I’d dropped to my knees again to pray to Mother Mary. It was my last resort. I’d just begun my prayer when the Cavetti’s maid burst into my room, her complexion bone white as she trembled from head to foot.
“What is it, Philippa? What happened down there?” I asked her, pointing at the floor.
“I… I…” she stammered out, then, she burst into tears. I held the girl, rocking her back and forth, and waited as patiently as I could for her crying to subside. Then, when she was calmer, I prodded her again.
