Page 59 of Thin Lives

No food rested on the tables.

No menus.

Not even a glass of wine or a pitcher of ice water.

Calisto knew it then—the Marcellos had no intention of this meeting being something more than it was. They didn’t intend to break bread and make nice as they chatted about the Irish and the street war that had been going on for well over a year. They were not going to make pleasantries while they figured out what to do.

They were simply going to make demands.

Calisto was going to have to follow them.

The Marcellos dominated.

That’s just how it worked.

Calisto surveyed the men, and woman, waiting across the room. At the far end of the table, his black hair peppered with salt behind his ears, sat the oldest and probably the most domineering of the Marcellos.

Antony.

From outwardly appearances, Antony Marcello was an enigmatic, charming individual. He was often quieter than those around him, but Calisto was a man who saw that for what it was. While most would overlook Antony at first glance, someone would be incredibly stupid to do so.

He watched, rarely speaking unless needed.

Antony always watched.

And that was unsettling.

A man who watched took in everything. He knew everything. He could use it, too.

Antony was the former boss of the Marcello family, but had stepped down a while ago to allow his second oldest son to take over. Willingly, from what Calisto understood. It was a rare thing, to be sure, as most bosses were usurped or forced out of the seat in some other way—usually violent.

This man, however, had raised an army of sons.

Three sons, to be exact.

And so, when he was ready to give up his position and retire, he had that army of sons to fall back on. God knew the Marcello sons ran New York like the Cosa Nostra royalty they were.

Calisto had no intention of fucking this up.

None at all.

The man sitting at the middle of the table stood, his hand coming up to rest on the woman’s shoulder who was sitting in the seat beside him.

“Calisto,” Dante said, smiling politely, “take a seat, old friend.”

Calisto chuckled. “How long do you intend for this meeting to last, Dante?”

Dante shrugged. “Not very long.”

“Then you won’t mind if I stand, I’m sure.”

Calisto’s closest friend from the Marcello family sat beside his father. The youngest Marcello son—Giovanni. He reached over, and patted the table with his palm.

“Let him stand,” Giovanni told Dante.

Dante sighed. “Fine. How is your uncle?”

Calisto’s smile faded. “Better.”