Page 2 of The Mobster’s Nurse

“You need to get to the bottom of this,” he says.

“Me? Why not Tony, he’s your consigliere?”

“My consigliere,” he looks at me with those laser-focused eyes, “is busy with the entertainment company in the city,” he says. “Hollywood. Christ. Who knew it’d be more complicated than Vegas?”

“Well, Craig,” I mutter.

“You scared of work or something?” he snaps.

I laugh darkly. No humor in it. It’s the sort of laugh that makes men nervous. Even Dad leans back slightly. Like I’ve burned him. But he won’t let any fear show around me.

“You know what Craig did before he became my head of security? He was a goddamn Navy SEAL. He knows what we are, ometto.”

Ometto. Little man. A term of endearment. It doesn’t make sense—I’m six-five—but it reminds me of my childhood. Before I knew about the blood and the violence.

“But,” Dad goes on. “Knowing and being involved are two different things. Craig won’t be able to handle this in the way I need. It’s time for you to step up. I’ve been wanting to acknowledge you as heir for a long time.”

A stirring in my gut. A spark. In my early twenties, I hungered to hear these words. Waited for Dad to take me to Sicily to make it official, for Don Moretti to say the sacred words. I’m a made guy, obviously. I run a small crew. But Dad has always wanted more from me. I'd stopped waiting for this. I'd buried the want so deep I'd convinced myself it didn't matter. Turns out I'm a better liar than I thought. Especially to myself.

“Hmm,” I say.

“Hmm,” he echoes, grinning. “This is a good thing. Show me you can do this. You’re almost there, Luca. So close. You need to fix this. No mess. No law enforcement. The last thing we need is Don Moretti sending a gang of Sicilians to do our job for us. Or, worse, have a bunch of Rossis running around like they own the place.”

I agree with that. The Rossis are in New York. Their Don is Dad’s cousin, connected through my great-grandfather. Everything in this game runs on blood and oaths.

“I can do this,” I tell him.

“I know you can,” he says fiercely.

“But—”

“But? I hate that word. But … What?”

“But I haven’t been spending much time here,” I remind him.

I’ve been in the city working on our real estate business. Cracking skulls when I need to. Sending my guys to hassle and harass when necessary. It’s nasty work, but somebody has to do it.

“That’s why I want you,” Dad says. “You don’t know these people. You don’t have any delusions or relationships. I know you can do this. Root out this rot. Make this right. Make my charm lucky again.” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need to order you, do I, ometto?”

I smirk. “Relax, Don Dario, it won’t come to that. I’ll do it.”

He nods, stands, and walks around the table. I stand just in time for him to pull me into a fierce hug. I clap him on the back.

“I love that horse,” he whispers up close to my ear. “A fine thing. A beast. A champion. If somebody has hurt her, they need to pay. I’m getting old, Luca⁠—”

“You’re not even sixty.”

He steps back slightly. Cups my face with both hands. “My son. My heir. This game makes you old here …” He taps his chest above his left breast. “And here …” He taps his head. “Sooner than you think, it will be time.”

If you do this right, is his unspoken implication.

“I’ll need a list of all your staff,” I say. “Obviously, the veterinarian team is where I’ll start. But we can’t rule out the possibility that other people are involved too.”

He returns to his seat. Drops heavily into the chair. Takes a cigar from the case and cuts off the end. “This is my point. This is why I need you—blood—to do this. I can’t trust anybody else.”

I bow slightly. “I won’t disappoint you. When I find the culprit, do you want to talk to them first?” Meaning … do you want to torture them? “Or shall I take them for a holiday straightaway?” Meaning … shall I put a bullet in their head and be done with it?

“Let them fly,” he says. “Let them see paradise.”