The tips of my fingers trail up and down the glass as they walk into the bar.
“They sent Marco,” my father says to me underneath his breath, sounding surprised.
I have to admit that I’m surprised as well. Normally we don’t deal with the top members of the Romano familia, at least not in person. Sending Marco here to talk with us is an honor. As much as I don’t want to get too involved, I do feel a surge of pride that they’re showing us this respect.
But it also means that this hit is very, very important to them. I knew that when we got the target, but now it’s very clear how seriously they’re taking it. My eyes dip to the floor and my body heats as I realize how pissed off they’re going to be when I turn them down. I can already see that my father’s excited and fucking delighted that they sent someone as powerful as Marco to this deal, and he stands up to show the proper respect.
I stand also as the men approach the table, but I’m prepared to disappoint them. I don’t give a fuck who asks me to do it. I’m not going to be held responsible for this shit.
“Bruno,” Marco says with a smirk, “you look good, you old bastard.”
“Marco.” My father and Marco shake hands. I’m pretty sure that they’re very distant cousins, maybe related by a distant marriage. I’m not sure. It’s all so fucking boring and complicated though. They’re no family to me.
“Gio,” Marco says, turning to me. We shake hands. “You look just like your mother.”
“Thanks,” I say. I suspect the reference to my mother was designed to throw me off balance, but I keep my face and tone neutral.
“Sit, sit,” my father says quickly, gesturing to the empty seats. Marco takes a seat at the head of the table, the feet of the chair scratching along the floor as he pulls it out. Alex and Angelo sit at a nearby table without another word, looking serious and tough.
I give them a little grin, but they don’t look at me, and don't make eye contact. I know they’re afraid of me, and have been since we were all boys. I remember when I was ten and Angelo was thirteen. He tried to take my bike, and I beat the fucking piss out of him. He’s been afraid of me ever since then.
And he should be fucking afraid.
“I’m honored that you came to this meeting,” my father says, practically deep throating Marco’s cock. I straighten my shoulders and turn my attention to Marco.
“It’s an important meeting with our best men,” Marco says in return.
We are his best hitmen, that’s true, but he’s buttering us up pretty fucking hard. I can smell the shit he’s trying to shove down our throats from a mile away, and I know where this is going.
“Let’s talk business,” I say before my father can steal any more momentum.
“Okay Gio,” Marco says, smiling at me. He’s in his fifties, and only a few years younger than my father. His teeth are straight and white, and his hair is cropped close to his scalp. He wears a dark suit complete with a crisp, white pocket square, like always, and I can see the bulge of the weapon in the holster on his side. He looks like a used car salesman wearing an expensive suit, and that’s more or less accurate.
Assuming used car salesmen extort, murder, deal in prostitution, and generally engage in all manner of illegal shit.
“You’re offering us triple for this job,” I say, leaning toward him. “That’s more than fair, given the situation.”
“I thought you’d think so.” His eyes sparkle and his lips turn up, as if he thinks we’re eager to accept.
“Except you neglected to talk about the politics involved.” He holds my gaze, but that glint in his eyes fades.
“The politics?” he asks, feigning innocence. He waves his hand in the air as if dismissing it. As if taking out a major member of the Rossi familia means nothing.
“If we do this job, it’ll spark a war. You know this, and yet you want us to do it anyway.”
“I don’t know anything about a war,” he says, the smile still there.
“Okay, fine. It’s none of our business, I know that. We’re not in the familia.”
“Yet,” Marco says, cutting in with a glance to my father.
I can practically see my father salivating at the comment.
“But it will involve us,” I say before my father can speak up, feeling my irritation rise. “Regardless of the outcome.”
“Do you want more money?” he asks me straight.
“It’s not the money.” I shake my head slightly, keeping eye contact.
