Page 4 of Lucian

Dante waved one hand in the air, uncaringly. “Sleeping off the drinks he slammed back before crawling into bed.”

Lucian caught his father’s cringe out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the youngest Marcello son had his issues. Most of them revolved around his taste for alcohol and sometimes things a little harder than booze. Being the baby of the boys afforded him a little leg room to move more than the other two, but Lucian knew Antony was two steps away from shipping his youngest son to a rehab out of country to get his shit straight if he couldn’t shape up and do it himself.

“Was it bad?” Lucian dared to ask.

“He didn’t drive himself home, and he came here for church tomorrow,” Antony said. “That was better than last week.”

“Maybe I should keep an eye—”

“No, do nothing,” Dante interrupted firmly. “Not yet. Give him a chance to handle it.”

Lucian shot his father a look that silently asked if that’s what he wanted, too. Antony said nothing, only shrugged before picking up his glass and taking another gulp of what Lucian suspected to be whiskey.

“I’m just saying, I could keep him a little closer is all.”

“Sure,” Antony said, nodding. “But what good will that do, Lucian? So far, he’s kept the issues away from business. I’m hoping it can stay that way. If it doesn’t …”

Lucian frowned. “But—”

“But nothing. He’s twenty-five going on twenty-six, not a little boy anymore.”

Yeah, but Gio was still his kid brother, too.

Lucian looked towards the large, ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the office. The time was well after two in the morning, letting him know it was early Sunday. Now, he was really curious as to the reason for the late night meeting in Antony’s office that didn’t include him, or Gio, and was obviously about business in some way.

No business on Sundays. It was a rule.

Just like dressing well, no matter what public opinion was. Even if they were on the Department of Defense’s list of major organized crime families in North America for their influence in the drug and weapons trade. Not to mention racketeering, extortion, smuggling, gambling, money laundering … The list went on and on.

There were quite a few rules, actually.

Being an Italian, Cosa Nostra born family was everything when it came to living life as a Marcello.

Family. Honor. God.

La famiglia. Onore. Dio.

Greed. Money. The business.

It all needed to be handled just so. Appearance was important. Family was everything. Pride and fearlessness was expected. As was the ruthlessness their syndicates and enemies had come to expect when a Marcello was crossed. They were to keep their heads on straight, no matter what situation they came in contact with. Never were they to leave their home without a gun on hand. Cops were not to be talked to, associated with, or trusted.

Lucian understood how to work and use his own handgun by the time he was twelve. At thirteen, he was disassembling and reassembling assault weapons. As a child, he knew the basement and attic weren’t places he was permitted to use or explore like any other room in the house because his father had a large collection of illegal guns in one, and kept multiple incoming and outgoing shipments of drug substance in the other.

They weren’t good people. Lucian didn’t want to be, either.

But he was proud of his family. It was just who they were.

“Business on Sunday, Papà?” he asked, nodding at the clock.

Antony scowled at his desk. “Wasn’t given much of a choice. Sit, we can talk now, I suppose. Just don’t tell Cecelia.”

He did as he was told, resting his frame down into one of his father’s high-back business chairs that always sat across from his desk. “You want me to go and get Gio up?”

“No, he’s likely too damn drunk still to understand the seriousness of this. I’ll talk to him after Mass.”

Lucian sat up a little straighter in the chair. Those words didn’t bode well at all. “What’s going on?”

“You know, I wish you’d quit marking up your skin with that awful ink, Lucian.”