“Where?”
“Chicago.”
“Well, that’s fine. I’ve always wanted to visit the Windy City.”
With a sigh, I shake my head. This is what I expected, but didn’t want. “No. You need to stay here. I can’t risk taking you with me.”
“Wow. Some fucking date night this turned out to be.” He throws his spoon down, brows pulling together, mouth turning down, and evenI’mnot blind enough to mistake the gathering storm.
“I got the call,” I say simply.
His hand, which was on the way back to pick up his spoon, drops instead to the table. “The call.Thecall?”
“Yeah.Thecall. I have to go to the Commission and…explain myself.”
“But they’ll kill you.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Luca—”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
It would be beyond foolish for me not to front the Commission when called. The Commission, made up of representatives from all the major Italian syndicates of the East Coast, is the closest thing my profession has to a governing body. If someone wants to take out a hit on a made man, for example, they have to go to the Commission first and ask. The Commission is a means to keep peace between the Families, especially in places where there are a number of us jockeying for power.
Members of the Commission include various Families in New York, Chicago, New Jersey, Miami, and a few other state-based organizations. Recently some West Coasters have joined up again after a generation of geographical division, or so the rumors go.
I do know for sure that theCapo dei Capi, the Boss of Bosses and head of the Commission, is Carmine Vicario. The Vicario family is one of the oldest and most powerful in New York City, their Boss highly respected. Tino always spoke well of him, calling him an old friend. Perhaps, if I’m very lucky, Don Vicario might extend that friendship to me, too.
The other thing giving me heart is the setting for this meeting: Chicago. A stronghold of Al Capone in the Prohibition era, it’s always been seen as neutral ground for the New York City Families in particular to work out their issues. Setting Chicago as the meeting place sends a message—toallof us.
Sort out your shit.
Finch opens his mouth to keep arguing, but I raise my hand. “Enough. You said it yourself, I’m the Boss. I’ve made my decision. I’m going to Chicago.”
He picks up the spoon again and taps it against his bowl, rhythmic. “Fine,” he says flatly.
I stand and come around the table to him. He refuses to look at me until I tip his face up. “It’s only two days. I’ll have Angelo and Frank with me, and a couple of others.”
“Take Marco, too,” he whispers. “Please?”
I kiss him again for that. “No, baby bird. I want Marco here with you so I know you’re safe. But I’ll take Nick Fontana and another soldier as well. Okay?”
His eyes study my face for a long moment, and then he sighs in capitulation. “Well, I guess we better go fuck our brains out if you’re gonna die tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
Finch
Luca smiles like I’m joking about him dying tomorrow.
I’m not joking.
Ugh. Thisguy. He drives me crazy, and not always in a good way. I’m starting to see why people call the first year of marriage the hardest. It’s not about him bitching at me leaving my wet towels on the floor, or me snarking about the way he rolls up the toothpaste tube, although we both do those things, like utter sitcom stereotypes.
No. It’s settling into what it means to be a team, but also two individuals.
Marriage ishard, yo.
