Aron chides me for buying such a huge property right out of the gate, but hiding is a sign of weakness. Let Javier see that we’re not as decimated as he hoped we’d be. The traitorous asshole probably thought he’d wiped us clean when he emptied the accounts he could access. I’d wager he didn’t count on Dad’s paranoia splitting our funds to protect the Syndicate from his eventual betrayal.
Word of the purchase reaches our allies, and they trickle in a handful at a time, some injured by the scattered attacks but most healthy enough to help.
Javier was gracious enough not to attack the doctors on our payroll. No hospitals were hit, so the men who were injured gettaken care of on the spot. We have to raid a few pharmacies for supplies and antibiotics, but overall, it could have been much worse.
What concerns me more than anything is the fact that roughly one third of our numbers that remain missing didn’t end up in the morgue, at least not according to Dr. Nilczek, who snuck down to check and see which toe tags belonged to our people. Dad was among them, and a few others, but some of those who are unaccounted for aren’t dead as far as we can tell. Odds are they defected to join Javier, which could pose a problem later on.
We’re not supposed to form tight bonds in this line of work, but friendships are bound to build after decades of working together, and if we have to face off against the traitors, some of the men might balk at shooting their former allies.
Of the men who check in, about twenty were displaced by the explosive attacks. The mansion’s big, but not big enough to individually house everyone who lost their home. Some of our people will have to share space until we can buy up a few more properties. I don’t want to blow all our remaining funds too soon, and I don’t want to draw any more attention than the mansion is sure to attract.
Speaking of attracting attention … a certain grenade-throwing traitor shows up at the front gate on the morning of Day Four, trembling and crying into the intercom.
“Boss? Boss! Don Matteo! It’s Beto. Please, boss, let me in!”
I turn to Aron, who’s watching a different monitor. “What’s the word, Aron?”
“Sensors are showing he’s wired. Dad probably sent him to finish us off, but there’s not enough explosives to even dent the gate.”
Leaning close to the microphone, I press a button. “Beto, I’m sorry, but we’re currently at capacity.”
“No! Boss, I swear, Javier put me up to it! He forced me! I’d never betray you, Don.”
“Never’s a strong word, Beto. I mean, saying ‘I’d never betray you’ is like saying ‘I’d never throw a live grenade into your apartment.’ It’s kind of hard to trust your ‘never’ under those circumstances.”
“Boss, please!”
“I’m terribly sorry, Beto. Do give my father my regards when you meet him on the other side.”
Judging by the timing of Beto’s demise, Javier’s either watching or listening from somewhere remotely. I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d pressed the button myself. The second I shut off the intercom after saying my piece, Beto explodes into a splattered mess on the drive.
Aron sighs. “Should I send someone to clean that up?”
“Let the crows have their fill first. Besides, seeing what’s left of him might be deter further assassination attempts.”
A dark expression crosses Aron’s face, but since there are others in the room, I don’t ask him about it. I’ll wait until tonight, after most of the mansion’s residents are asleep.
So far, no one seems the wiser on our new relationship. Aron still acts as my guard, and I refrain from public displays of affection until I’m sure my position as the next don is solidified. The last thing we need is a mass exodus of once-loyal members because of a little homophobia. Aron and I tossed around the idea of me taking a public-facing girlfriend, someone I can show off during the day while my guard and I continue to build our connection at night.
Aron even picked out a woman for me.
The Syndicate, while mostly a male-oriented organization, does have a few female members who are more than wives or girlfriends of our employees, women who run aspects that require more finesse. For instance, rather than having apotentially abusive male pimp, Dad hired a woman to manage our sex workers. Francine runs a tight ship, and in the twenty years since Dad signed her on, we haven’t had a single instance of STIs or violent Johns. All our women know how to protect themselves in more ways than one, and if a client runs afoul of Francine, they’re taken care of swiftly and efficiently.
In addition to Francine and her crew, we have women from all walks of life at various levels of the organization, and it’s from this pool that Aron selects my “bride to be.”
Cinder is twenty-three, conventionally attractive, and secretly one of our deadliest assassins. She’s also a hardcore lesbian who would rather never see my dick if she can avoid it, so the arrangement works out. One of our better-known female guards takes the role as Aron’s counterpart, and the two of them take the adjoining guards’ quarters every night while Aron and I share the master bed.
The arrangement almost works out too well, as Cinder and Gia hit it off immediately. Every night, Aron and I laugh as the two women make quite the racket next door.
In an interesting and convenient turn of events, our night guards have assumed—and spread rumor—that Aron and Gia are fucking each other at the same time as Cinder and I are supposedly screwing. We haven’t corrected anyone, but the four of us find it amusing, and one hapless associate even came up to Aron to commend him for moving on after Emily’s death. “Tito would be proud,” the young gangster said, and it took everything I had not to snicker in front of him.
Remembering Aron’s expression from earlier, I nudge him about it as soon as Cinder and her date shut their door, while we’re sitting together in bed. At first, Aron deflects the question, stating unease at seeing Beto’s body on the monitor. I know that’s a load of horse shit, though, because Aron has certainlywitnessed his share of explosions in his time guarding me, so that wasn’t his first experience with flying body parts.
“Aron, you’re full of shit. You’ve seen blown-up bodies before. Hell, you’ve blown them up. So, what’s the real deal here?”
He sighs and leans into me. “Dad sent Beto with a bomb—a grenade, rather—to try to kill you. Face it; he was probably hoping you’d let Beto in, try to help him, and get blown up in the process. And if you were at risk of being blown up, who do you think would try to stop it?”
Ah, so that’s where this is coming from. “You, of course.”
