“Conor’s going to make a full recovery,” Nero says when I meet him the next afternoon for lunch at one of my restaurants in Yonkers.
I spent the morning driving up to Albany to go over the books with a capo I’ve got there. My territory sprawls from Westchester County all the way through Upstate New York, but I’ve also got a number of restaurants scattered throughout Manhattan, as well as a club in Harlem. It’s a lot of area to cover, and I like to see my capos face-to-face frequently, so I’m often on the road.
“Good. What did he want to do with Joshua?”
Nero shrugs. “Nothing. Told me he’s going to send him to live with his mother in Chicago for a few months until he cools down.”
“Joshua kidnapped him and nearly killed him.”
“He’s his son.”
He’s an idiot, and a dangerous one at that. “He’s making a mistake. Son or not, Joshua needs to be put down.”
“How many times do I have to remind you not everyone thinks like you, Rafe?”
“You don’t need to remind me of anything. I already know most people lack all semblance of rationality.”
Nero chuckles. “Good thing you’ve got enough for all of us.”
I shake my head, feeling a lick of annoyance at Conor’s shortsightedness. “Tell Conor the next time Joshua steps out of line—and he will step out of line again—we won’t give him a choice. His son used up his one strike.”
“Noted,” Nero says. “I’ll make sure he gets the message. How was your meeting with Mad Dog?”
“Mad Dog’s numbers were fine.” Our income from Albany has been dropping over the last six months, and I’ve been working on figuring out why. “But he lost a few of his regulars recently. I told him to go talk to them and politely invite them back.” Mad Dog runs a popular gambling den and has been one of my top earners.
Nero shakes his head. “There’s nowhere else to go gamble that kind of money up there.”
“I have a feeling that’s no longer the case.”
A waiter comes around with a bottle of wine and fills our glasses.
“You think it’s Ferraro?” Nero asks once he leaves.
“Possibly. It’s more likely Bratva. They’ve been getting more and more bold in the recent weeks.” I spread a napkin over my lap. “I want you to ask around. Have you made progress on setting up that dinner with Ferraro?”
“I’m waiting on Big Joe to give me a few dates.” Nero eyes the caprese salad on the table and spears some onto his fork. “What about your wife? Did you manage to pacify her?”
I drag my tongue over my teeth. Cleo was still asleep on the ottoman when I left, her copper curls splayed across her pillow. I spent a few minutes studying her flawlessly smooth skin and the elegant arc of her throat before I left. Elena’s words from yesterday were on my mind as I walked out the front door. “Don’t hurt her.”
Don’t hurt her? Well, if I needed any additional confirmation that my sister thinks I’m a monster, that was it. I have no plans to hurt my wife, but I do have extensive plans on how to make her writhe in pleasure. If only she’d stop being so fucking stubborn.
My hunger for her is occupying a significant part of my mind, but it no longer feels as overwhelming as it did in the church. Now that she’s mine, it’s only a matter of time before she realizes resisting me is futile.
“I gave her a cell phone and a credit card. As long as she obeys the rules that are in place to keep her safe, she can do as she likes.”
“That’s a good sta—”
The door of the restaurant flies open.
Nero and I reach for our guns just as Garzolo barges in with the force of a hurricane.
A few of my men are already standing, their weapons drawn. They glance at me for instructions. I tell them to stand down with a small shake of my head. Garzolo prowls over, his cheeks red.
Nero sighs and puts his gun back into his holster. “What now?” He reaches for the bottle of wine on the table and tops off our glasses. “We weren’t expecting you, Garzolo.”
Cleo’s father looks like he’s on the verge of exploding. How can someone be a don and be this fucking emotional? It’s disgraceful. No wonder Garzolo is the worst don this city has seen in generations.
“I came to see why you were out there talking to De Rossi yesterday when we never discussed you having a direct line to him,” he snaps.
I press my napkin against my lips. “Sit down.”
“This is the kind of shit that will fuck this whole thing up, you know. The kind—”
“Sit the fuck down, Garzolo,” Nero growls. “Don’t make us ask you a third time.”
Garzolo glares at Nero before he dumps himself into the chair beside me. “Why wasn’t I allowed to attend yesterday’s event? It was my right as Cleo’s father.”
“Cut the shit,” Nero says. “We all know your relationship with your daughter is nonexistent. She didn’t even allow you to walk her down the aisle, and you seemed a lot less angry about that than this. The only reason you’re pissed we didn’t let you come is because you didn’t want us talking to De Rossi.”
He doesn’t bother denying it. “I got a call from him an hour ago, telling me I’m getting cut out of the deal. I’m the one who brokered it! Without me, you’d still be shaking down restaurant owners and getting your shoes dirty in cement. I gave you this!”
I pick up the wine bottle and read the label. “Chateau Du Soleil, Cotes du Rhone, grenache grape. Your daughter likes wine, doesn’t she? Maybe I should bring a bottle of this home.”
Garzolo stares at me, his outrage emanating from him. “Did you hear anything—”
I toss the bottle into the air, grab it by the neck, and smash it over his head.
The glass shatters, the wine spattering everywhere. Garzolo howls and raises his arms to protect his face. Nero jumps out of his seat, muttering something about getting his new suit dirty.
I’m still holding the broken bottle by the neck. I grab Garzolo’s tie and jerk him toward me until I’m right in his face. I press the sharp edge of the glass against a vein in his throat. “You ever come talking to me like that again, I’ll decapitate you with this fucking bottle. Do you understand?”
He sputters, wine dripping down his forehead and cheeks.
“This isn’t a partnership. We own you. You’re lucky I’m giving you five more years to enjoy being a don. That was a favor, or have you forgotten that already?”
“This is why we don’t like giving favors,” Nero grumbles as he wipes himself off with a napkin. “No one seems to understand how those work.”
“I understand,” Garzolo bleats, his fury replaced with fear. Pathetic.
Now that I know how incompetent this man is, it’s shocking his family has lasted this long. The foundations laid down by his father must have stood the test of time, but even the greatest of empires can be brought down by one man’s idiocy.
I let go of his tie and shove him to the ground. “If I want to deal directly with De Rossi, I’m going to deal directly with De Rossi. Did you really think he would still want to do business with you after you raised your hand to the woman carrying his consigliere’s child? Your own daughter? You’re lucky you’ve never touched Cleo, because if you had, I would have put you ten feet under as a wedding gift to her.”
Garzolo pales. “I never touched her.”
“Get out of my face. You’ve still got a business to run, remember? Focus on that, because the last thing you want is to make me inherit a depreciating asset. Do you understand?”
He pushes himself off the ground and nods. “Understood.”
“Now leave.”
He hurries out of the restaurant.
Nero watches him leave and swears. “Unbelievable. He really thought he could come here and tell you what to do?”
“He’s not thinking at all. That’s the problem.” His power has been significantly diminished, and he’s not handling it well. I don’t mind him making a fool of himself—it’ll make my transition easier when it comes to it, because no one wants to follow a weak man into battle—but I have to make sure he doesn’t run his family into the ground first.
A server and the manager run out to clean up the mess, and a waitress rushes over to Nero with a wet cloth. She looks uncertain for a moment, but then the owner hisses something at her, and she starts to dab at the stains on Nero’s chest.
The lines between my consigliere’s eyebrows melt away, and he grins at her. “Hello, beautiful. I don’t remember seeing you here before. Where did you come from?”
The girl mumbles a response and blushes.
Nero spreads his thighs and beckons her closer. “Come stand over here. You can reach better.”
I watch him shamelessly flirt with the waitress, and my mind goes back to my wife. Does she really think I’m at all like her father? Just because we’re both the dons of our families, it doesn’t mean we’re the same. I have as much in common with Garzolo as I do with a fucking turnip.
Nero says something to me.
I blink. “What?”
Somehow, he’s now got the waitress on his lap while she’s scrubbing the wine off his tie. She doesn’t seem to mind. Annoyance simmers beneath my flesh. He can get just about any woman to eat out of the palm of his hand, the charming bastard.
“I said, if outbursts like this become common, this isn’t going to work,” he repeats, wrapping his hands around the waitress’s waist to keep her steady.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say, suddenly eager to finish our meal so that we can get back to work. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I can go back home to my wife.
Nero senses my annoyance. He whispers something in the waitress’s ear that makes her smile and get off him. Before she leaves, he takes her phone and puts his number in it.
“Send me a text when you get off work,” he says, giving her ass a light smack.
The waitress blushes and disappears into the back. Fuck. I wish my life were that easy. But I don’t want an eager waitress. I want my fucking wife.
And I’m going to have her, so help me God.
