Salerno whistles under his breath. “You’d risk the wrath of The Outfit? You risk pissing off the Sicilians?”
“I saidfor now.” I’m working hard to keep my temper in check. If the asshole would just let me speak without interruption, this might not take all night.
“Relax, boy.” He waggles his brows, and I’m tempted to put a bullet in his skull. If he calls me boy one more fucking time, I just might do it. “I have my own beef with The Outfit.”
That’s news to me.
La Cosa Nostra originated in Sicily in the nineteenth century, but the organization in the US was only established during the prohibition era, and it operated completely independent of Sicily. Until Giuseppe DeLuca took power in Chicago almost thirty years ago and everything changed because the new leader of The Outfit refused to accept the ruling of The Commission, determined to do things his way.
The Commission was formed by Lucky Luciano in the nineteen thirties and served as a board of directors, so to speak, for the entire Italian American mafia organization. New York, as the only state with five families, had the controlling votes. Something The Outfit always resented. When DeLuca took control in Chicago, he did so from his permanent residence in Sicily, commanding his underboss, Gifoli, to run the show here in his stead. It was unheard of before, and The Commission wouldn’t accept his authority when he refused to show his face.
A divide occurred, The Commission eventually broke up, and the families have operated independently since. To this day, DeLuca continues to rule through his underboss and none of the other bosses have ever met the man. It’s perplexing, but everyone stopped trying to understand it years ago. Truth is, Chicago prospers, and it remains the second-largest organization behind New York.
After that, alliances grew between certain families, mostly to facilitate business. We have an arrangement with Salerno that enables the shipment of some of our drug supply into Las Vegas, and he organizes safe transport to New York. A lot of the families have similar arrangements, but this is the first time a more formal structure has been attempted. It’s a bold move but one I feel we need to do. Finally, the five bosses agreed, and we are putting things in motion.
I arch a brow in silent question, wondering exactly what beef Salerno has with Chicago, but he dismisses my interest with a wave of his hand, further enraging me. Blood boils in my veins, but outwardly, I’m Switzerland. “The fact the Sicilians are outside of this plan only adds to the appeal.”
He’s already forgotten the “for now” part. If things with the Bratva escalate, as I suspect they will, we will need every family back in the fold. Including Chicago.
“New York wants to restart The Commission, initially through informal alliances that we will expand on in time.”
“Why?” Saverio shrugs. “Things work so why try to fix something that isn’t broken?”
“The Russians are an ever-increasing concern, and we need to unite all Italian American families if we are to contain the threat they pose.” There are others to contend with too. The Irish, the Albanians, and the Triad could become a problem in New York. However, none of those factions warrant immediate action, because their numbers are small and their control is weak. But they are on my radar, and I’m keeping a close eye on things.
I take another sip of my drink, meeting Gambini’s hard stare with cool indifference. He’s got some Russian blood flowing through his veins. Distant, on his mother’s side. His father comes from a distinguished Italian American family, but his Russian DNA leaves him open for target practice. He’s eyeing me now, like he’s just waiting for me to throw some slur his way so he has an excuse to stomp all over my existence.
The man is known for crushing opponents with his bare hands and his complete disdain for life. Sneeze on him and he’s likely to kill you while barely breaking a sweat. What most don’t know is he is sharp as a tack. A shrewd man like Saverio Salerno doesn’t make a violent killer his underboss unless he has other considerable skills he’s bringing to the table.
“The Russians are no threat,” Salerno says, pouring more scotch into his glass.
Grabbing the twenty-thousand-dollar bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle, I top up my own drink before setting the bourbon back down on the table. “Their numbers match ours.”
“They are unorganized, disloyal, and they aren’t men of honor.”
“That is all true, but for how long? I’ve received intel that concerns me. If the Russians mobilized, they could hurt us. We don’t intend to give them the opportunity.”
“I can defend my own territory. Why would I agree to resurrecting The Commission? To engaging in a bigger battle?” Salerno drains his drink, pouring another.
“You can defend your territory now, but for how long? This is going to happen, and those who choose to stay independent will be obvious targets. If the Russians unite and they attack you with the strength of their numbers, there is no way you won’t fall. Strengthening ties makes sense.”
“If the Russians land on my doorstep, I will kill every one of those motherfuckers myself,” Salerno says, and I wonder if he really buys into that bullshit.
“And you’ll either be dead or in a jail cell.” I put my foot down on the ground and lean forward a little. “We can’t continue to do things the traditional way, Saverio. Even with judges, lawyers, and law enforcement in our pockets, these RICO laws are restrictive. We can’t go around killing anyone who breathes on us funny anymore.” I side-eye Gambini, and the fucker growls. “La Cosa Nostra is no different from any other enterprise. We have to adapt, evolve, and grow, or we won’t survive.”
“I’ve heard about some of your endeavors,” Salerno says, clicking his fingers at one of the men standing at the door. The man slips away by unspoken agreement. “I’ve heard what you’re trying to do.”
“Times are changing, gentlemen.” I lock eyes with his capos, a curious Russo, and a reluctant Gambini. “It’s adapt or die.”
4
BEN
“Iagree, and strengthening ties is smart.” Salerno nods his agreement, and I want to smash my fist in his face.
The motherfucker was just testing me.
I clasp my glass tighter in my grip, talking myself off a ledge. For eight years, I’ve been on a prolonged test, and I’m sick of it. I thought as long as I paid my dues as a soldier, and worked my way up the ranks, I would earn my place at my father’s side without question, without any further test, but it’s obvious I am far from in the clear, and no one is finished testing me.
