Danny can turn off his emotions. I’m sure if Vinny asked him to kill one of us, he could do it. And Vinny might look all put together and shit, but like any of us Leones, he has a mean streak. The family didn’t emigrate from Italy and change our name for any reason other than to show strength. My ancestors chose a name that would be fierce, one that others would look to for guidance as we ruled over the pride. We weren’t always on top—that took time—but my grandfather was the first to lead. Then Pops. Now Vinny. Each has their own way of leadership, but not a single one is known for being easygoing or forgiving.
“Everyone can see you’re different.”
“Ha, no shit.” I tilt my head and fling my hands toward my neck.
My scar isn’t small. It’s a miracle I didn’t lose my voice box. Sometimes it feels like razor blades fill my throat. I can’t speak more than a whisper on those days. Not that Mom would let that stop me from answering when she calls every other day. She called once on a day when I wasn’t able to talk much, and while most mothers would tell you to get off the call and rest, she demanded to know everything in my kitchen, then kept talking to me till she came over with the missing ingredients for a horrible honey concoction thatunfortunately works. Unfortunate in that my mom is not someone who handles winning well. A simple “your welcome” is not her style. She likes to rub it in everyone’s face when something she says works.
I still take it to this day. It tastes like shit, but I force it down because, yeah, it works.
“Not just physically. The way you move, the way you watch things. The way you don’t laugh.” He holds up his hands and closes his eyes as he shakes his head a second before leveling me with a look a father might give a small child. “No one is talking. But those who know you—me, Ma, Bobby, Danny, Milly, hell, even Dante—know something’s up.”
I bristle at his words. I don’t like people talking, even if it’s family. “Your point?”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “I want to use your death.”
“Come again?”
“Seven months ago, you were the pretty boy. The wild child. The one women went to for a quick screw and a wild night, just to say they did.”
I flip him off. “Nothing quick about it.”
He smirks and stands, going around his desk and putting his drink down on a coaster before removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “The point being that no one saw you as anything more than the token baby of the family who got to do whatever the fuck he wanted. I want to use that.”
I tilt my head. “How?”
Leaning over his desk chair, he clasps his hands. “I want you to become the face of the family.”
“This face?” I point to my mug, then my neck with a smirk. Nothing pretty there.
“Yup. You’re ugly enough to get away with it.”
I raise my middle finger again and shake my head as he calls me out on my own issues. Once upon a time, I was vain enough to use my looks for everything. Now it feels like one of the many things in my life that were stupid. Also, I’ve seen a mirror. I know what people see. And while I might still get enough offers from women, the small flinches when their eyes land on my neck are the proof in the pudding.
I’m not what I once was.
I shake my head. “I’m no longer the face.” Some stupid newspaper called me that once when I was a kid. A rare picture of the entire family surfaced, and even then, as a teenager, I was known as the prettiest of the bunch. A headline Dad destroyed by buying and dismantling said paper. “That guy died. In Russia,” I say into my drink.
Just as quietly, he says, “I know.” I bring my eyes to his, and we share a moment before he speaks again. “That’s the point. I want them to think they can mold you. That you’re like the way you used to be. But once they get close, you’ll rip that carpet out from under them.”
I squint at him and tilt my head. “Are you dying?”
Another eye roll and a deep breath. “Talking to you is like talking to a child. But they usually listen better.”
“Start making sense and I’ll listen.”
“Listen first, then I’ll talk.”
I throw my hands up at his words. It’s like talking to Yoda some days.
When he doesn’t start yapping, I gesture with my hand as I look at the bar, wondering if I can make a grab for one of his bottles and get out of the office before he rounds the desk. “Do go on.”
“You’ve been absent since you got back. Not in the family way, but around town. People know something went down, but not many have seen you enough to know. I want to use that to our advantage.”
“By being the face.” I say it with a look that he must understand means I’m piecing together his words, but the full picture is still not clear.
He pushes the papers he was working on toward me, and I lean forward enough to pick up the file folder and my drink. I rest my ankle on the opposite knee to put the file on it and open it up, sipping my drink as I flip through the papers.
“Might just be easier to tell me what this says than expect me to understand legal jargon.”
