I set my mug down on the table and dragged my hands through my hair. “If I want to succeed in this world as a normal person someday, I have to choose between survival and my heart. He’s my survival and she, my heart and until she finds her strength again, understands her destiny, I’m merely their protector.
“You should get some rest. You just got off a flight and Lord knows what’ve you been up to in New York.”
“Sleep is when the nightmares catch up.” I hid a yawn behind my hand, smiling despite the exhaustion. “Until then, coffee and shadows will do.”
two months later
twenty-three
. . .
Remo– 36 years old
One of the advantages of visiting Italy occasionally was the variety of food that made my stomach growl every time I entered the kitchen.
Tonight the air in the private dining room was thick with the lingering smell of garlic, rosemary, slow-cooked veal shanks braised in red wine. Yet amidst the richness lurked the scent of fear, uncertainty. No matter how welcoming we appeared, new business partners always seemed to practice restraint around us.
For the last two months, Lorenzo had taken advantage of my mess up back home and we spent the time rewriting the map.
Two months of shaking hands, breaking knuckles, and signing contracts with the intent of bringing D’Angelo to his knees when the fucker least expected it. The Greeks wanted shipping lanes. Marseilles wanted distribution. The Baltics wanted protection. They all wanted the Rossi name.
And tonight, they all glanced at me when they signed, wondering how long it would take for the blood to dry after they passed their files to Dario.
I leaned back, swirling the Barolo. The men around the table were ours now. Bound by blood I wouldn’t think twice about spilling. They might respect my brother, but they feared his crazy fuck of an underboss more.
“The Greeks agreed to the fifteen percent,” Dario said, sliding a folder across the polished wood. “But they want assurance on the port security.” The two Greeks next to him, dropped their gazes, waiting.
“They don’t want assurance,” I tipped my drink back. “They want survival. Give them the contract. If they miss a payment, burn the port. Send them the ashes.”
The Greeks swallowed hard then nodded.
“And you?” Lorenzo asked the Baltic representative, his tone calm, anchoring the room
“We signed, sir.” He slid his folder toward Dario.
“Marseilles couldn’t make the meeting, his wife gave birth this afternoon, but they signed.” Dario pointed to the folder. “They’re agreeable on the rates, excellent product, they’d meet our supply and demand easily but on the condition we’re their only distributor.”
“I’m sure we can live with that.” Lorenzo took a drink.
“What about D’Angelo?” I asked, addressing the elephant in the room.
The silence that followed was heavy. Glasses stopped mid-air. A fork clinked against a plate, the sound loud in the sudden quiet.
D’Angelo was the old guard, the last obstacle. Only because Lorenzo robbed him of an heir, burying the fucker after he raped our sister.
Uncle Frank set his fork down and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin before he spoke. “He’s resisting.”
“Resisting?” I snorted, my laugh a dry, humorless sound as I looked at my brother. “In Naples, he called you weak, Renz. Saidyou’ve gone soft behind a desk.” I leaned forward, elbows on the table, locking eyes with Frank. “He called me a boy,zio. Said I know fuck all about the business.”
Frank shifted in his seat. “Like me, he’s old school, Remo. His words don’t matter. Probably senile too.” He chuckled.
“Senile men still have tongues.” I pushed my chair back. The screech against marble had Gian and another soldier near the door reaching for their jackets. “Think I’ll pay the fuck a visit tonight, teach him a fucking lesson.”
“Remo.” Lorenzo didn’t raise his voice, his icy control cutting through my anger.
Brow raised, I challenged him to stop me. “He insults us, he dies. That’s the rule.” My hand rested on the back of the chair, fingers tightening on the leather.
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair. “If you go tonight, you go angry and anger spawns blunders.” He swirled his wine, watching the red liquid coat the glass. “Would you rather kill him quickly or break him, burn him where it hurts most?”
