Page 2 of Unruly

Familiar. Dirty. Illegal. Textbook.

Kind of smelled like home, really.

“Danny,” Cross said, tilting his head to the side, so he could peer at the Capo sitting at one of the far tables facing the windows. “What’s happening with that shipment from last week that was late?”

“Got it in yesterday, boss,” the thirty-year-old Capo replied through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Twenty-thousand cartons of illegal cigarettes. I haven’t cracked open every case, but the ones I did looked fine.”

“You’ve got this all locked down with Guzzi again, right?”

“Money’s coming in from Marcus tomorrow.”

“Perfetto,” Cross said, pleased.

Canada’s tobacco market was a fucking shit-show controlled by their government. In an effort to force their citizens to quit smoking, or make it impossible for them to afford, a pack of cigarettes was already tipping nearly fifteen Canadian dollars. A pack in the States was a third of the cost. Illegal cigarettes were even cheaper to produce, and the black market in Canada gobbled the shipments up like crazy. Cross got in on that deal as fast as he possibly could, and with a damn smile.

Now, they were up to several shipments of illegal cigarettes a month, and working on liquor, too.

The Donati Cosa Nostra wasn’t the biggest organized crime family in New York with their eight Capos, an underboss, consigliere, and a boss, but they were successful. They made money—a hell of a lot of it—and that’s what mattered.

Cross had little interest in growing his famiglia to bigger proportions. Not when as it was, the schemes, deals, rackets, and other illegal activities his men partook in cleared them a good five to seven hundred grand a month.

He finally understood what his father, Calisto, had been trying to tell him all those years ago when Cross struggled to balance being a made man and a gunrunner. He allowed his men to focus on many things separately. Each man had a particular focus that took up most of their time. They gave their all to that one thing, and thrived because of it.

He was not about to upset the delicate balance of his control, success, and bottom line with his men simply to change the direction of their business.

Rick finished stuffing the last stack of bills into a black duffle bag at his feet. As Cross’s underboss, it was Rick’s job to collect the men’s tributes, count it up, and stash it away until the boss was ready to leave.

“A little over three hundred,” Rick told him.

Three hundred thousand wasn’t a bad month, but it certainly wasn’t their best, either. Given it was the end of November, and the holidays were coming up, Cross expected a lower bottom line. There were always certain times of the year when money dipped, and the upcoming Christmas and New Year was one of them.

“Walk it to the Rolls with me,” Cross said. “Zeke, you too.”

“Yep.”

Zeke stood from his seat without a look back at his half-finished meal. Cross stood as well, and shrugged on a leather jacket over his dress shirt. All these years, and he still preferred a good leather jacket to a blazer or suit jacket. Some shit never changed.

At the same time, the rest of his men stood, too. His part at the meeting was finished. His plate was empty, his hands proverbially full with cash, and his questions about upcoming business were satisfied. His men no longer needed him there, and he had better places to be.

Someone was waiting on him in Newport.

Someone precious.

“Boss,” the men collectively said as he headed out of the restaurant.

Cross waved a single hand over his shoulder in goodbye. Zeke and Rick followed him out to his waiting Rolls-Royce parked at the curb. The engine of the car had been kept running while he was inside the restaurant. The enforcer guarding the car stepped to the side to open up the back passenger door for Rick, and allowed the man to shove the duffle bag of cash inside.

“Corbin, go grab some grub,” Cross told the man.

“Grazie, boss.”

Instantly, the barrel-chested enforcer darted for the restaurant. It left Cross alone with his underboss and consigliere for the moment. Which he needed.

“You’ve got everything handled for the next week?” Cross asked Zeke.

His old friend nodded. “Absolutely, no worries.”

Cross looked to Rick. “And you, make sure you deflect any direct requests for my presence or conversation.”