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Michael
January
“Please cheer up, Michael. Your grumpy face scares away the ladies.”
I fixate my eyes on my brother and imagine what it would be like not to have an identical twin before pointing out the obvious. “We have the same face.”
“Yet somehow, I’m still better looking than you.”
We share the same light hazel eyes and olive skin tone inherited from our Italian ancestry. I keep my hair short on the sides and longer on top, while Raphael styles his hair longer until the ends curl around his ears. Tattoos cover his arms and extend to his chest, whereas I have a massive design of angel wings that spans my entire back.
Raphael snatches a pair of vodka shots from the tray on the table in front of us. He holds one out to me, but I wave it away. “I don’t need that.”
“No. Probably not,” Raphael pushes, “but it will help you be more pleasant.” He wiggles the alcohol in my face. When I don’t take the bait, his face grows solemn. “I know what you’re thinking, brother, but tonight is not about that.”
No. Tonight is all about how to irritate Michael the quickest, apparently. Right now, it’s a toss-up between the pounding music making my head ache, the blinding strobe lights, and the nauseating stench of sweat hanging in the air.
If it wasn’t for our thirty-second birthday today, I wouldn’t be here at all. Birthdays are meant to be celebrated, and I haven’t felt like doing much of that lately. Months have passed, and I still struggle with the news that struck a match and burned my life to ashes.
Sterile.
That single word took away more than just my chance of having a family. It took away my future.
I’ve always known what my life will look like. It has been set in stone for me since birth. As the eldest son and heir of Dante DiAngelo, the don of the Italian Mafia in Miami, I would one day take his place at the head of the High Table; a trio of crime families that oversees all illegal operations in the city.
A role I’ve been groomed for and prepared for, the one thing I have ever known. Until it wasn’t.
All because of the Law of Blood.
A law that requires the leader of the High Table to be married and have a blood heir. Two years ago, I fulfilled half of that condition when I married Sophia Mikhailov, the only child of Sergei Mikhailov, leader of the Russian Bratva. A power marriage concocted by our fathers to unite two of the High Table families. It would have worked. But after our first year of marriage with no child, I grew concerned. And by the second, I knew there was a problem.
It should be noted that our difficulty wasn’t due to a lack of effort. In all manner of speaking, Sophia is a beautiful woman. She’s tall, blond, and blue-eyed, with a body most women pay thousands to achieve. But sex with Sophia was never about love. It was a necessary means to an end.
Thinking about it makes my head hurt, and I want to feel numb right now.
I snatch the glass from my brother and toss the alcohol back. The burn of the liquid down my throat is over far too soon, leaving me parched for more. I slam back two more glasses in quick succession, leaving me to wonder how much alcohol it would take to drown my sorrows. Five? Maybe ten? Eager to test my theory, I raise my hand to signal our server to bring more alcohol.
“Tell me, Raphael. What is tonight about, then?” I level my younger brother with a look. “I have nothing to celebrate. I will be as sterile tomorrow as I am today. No number of birthday wishes will make any difference.”
Exhaling hard, Raphael tosses back his shot and snaps, “Fine, then. Go drown your sorrows in bottles of alcohol tonight or go find a piece of ass to bury your angry cock in. Hell, go blow up another Triad supply house. I don’t care what you decide, Michael, but please do something other than sit there and ruin my good buzz.”
Anybody else and their tongue would be on the ground for talking like that to me. But it’s Raphael’s birthday too, and here I am, taking my anger out on my brother when he has every reason to be just as miserable as I am. The ink wasn’t even dry on my divorce papers before Dad announced Raphael as his new heir—a title he never wanted or expected to have. A mere five minutes is all that separates us in age, but it’s enough for me to be considered the oldest.
You’d think I’d feel animosity toward Raphael for taking what was rightfully mine since birth, but I don’t because he’s more than just my twin and brother. He’s my closest confidant and my best friend. He has my back, and I have his. Always. There is no one I trust more, and he shares the same sentiment.
I reach for another pair of shot glasses and hand one to Raphael as an apology, which he accepts without comment.
My headache fades into a nice, numb feeling as I make a dent in my theory with another two shots. I survey the crowd with some interest from our private booth at the back of the club. Maybe I should consider Raphael’s second suggestion. The packed dance floor has an assortment of beautiful women ripe for the picking, just as it does every night. But as my eyes scan the selection, no one does it for me. Instead, their beauty fades until all I see is the gleam of sweat covering their bodies as they continue to grind against one another like a pack of feral animals in heat.
Sinners is only one of several clubs owned by my family, but it’s by far my favorite. Barely an inch of space is available on the dance floor or at the bar. Every VIP section is reserved weeks in advance, and the tables and private booths are never empty for long. I'm pleased with how busy the club is tonight. It's good for business. Just how I like it.
Organized crime operated in the shadows for so long, but that no longer works. In recent years, our family has focused on investing in various companies, including construction, accounting, security services, and high-end clubs and casinos. Each business is legitimate on the outside but also serves as a front to launder money and move products. The era of racketeering is over. Appearing as genuine businessmen has never been more important. I could walk past the director of the FBI tomorrow in a three-piece charcoal suit, and he wouldn’t look at me twice. As far as the government is concerned, we’re no different from any other law-abiding taxpayer. On the money they know of, at least.
Our cousin, Dominic Moretti, saunters to our table just as a pleasant buzz settles over me. A pretty brunette in a dress that barely covers her nipples hangs off his arm. From the look of her smeared red lipstick, her slightly tousled hair, and the way the strap of her dress hangs off her shoulder, it doesn’t take a genius to know exactly what they’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes.
“Are you joining us, Dom?” I ask as I sink back into the luxurious leather couch. Only the best for the club.
