Page 63 of Loyalty

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“Darren,” John greeted.

The Calabrese Capo shoved his frame off the barstool, and stuck out a hand for John to take. He did and shook Darren’s hand, but made sure to keep a tighter grip than he normally would.

John had to do these meets and work with the Calabrese brother—or both, who knew, since the two stuck together a lot—but that didn’t mean he was going to bow down to either of the fuckers. He didn’t trust them with an inch.

“John, it’s good to see you,” Darren said with a smile.

John wished it felt welcoming.

It didn’t.

“Care for a drink?” Darren asked, waving at the bar.

John used one of his old excuses to pass that offer up. “I don’t drink during work time.”

“You Marcellos are always so stiff with your rules.”

“It’s what makes us the best.”

Darren’s gaze flashed with something unknown, and John took that as a point to his favor. “Yes, well, sit. We can discuss how Andino and I have managed to have parts of our crews working together, and whatever else.”

“He filled me in on some of the details.”

“But not all, huh?”

John shrugged, and took a seat on an open barstool. “Better to jump right into it, I think.”

“Sure.”

John waved for the bartender, and asked for a water. Once he had the glass in front of him, he used it as a distraction to keep his attention focused rather than looking at Darren Calabrese. The longer he was near one of the Calabrese men, the more his old bitterness and rage grew.

It had never really gone away.

Not since he learned the truth about why their two families didn’t have a lot to do with each other. He had been, oh, thirteen or so at the time when his father finally told him everything.

John thought he was a Marcello through and through.

Their blood ran through his veins.

The truth was dirtier—his father, the product of an affair with a goomah, had been the son of a murdered man. His biological grandfather, Johnathan Grovatti. And his great-grandfather, the former boss of one of New York’s most powerful crime families, had been taken out because of greed, and nothing more.

By a bunch of Calabrese bastards.

John was still a Marcello, sure. In thought and mind, in body and spirit, he was every inch a fucking Marcello man. He spoke like them, lived like them, and was them.

But he knew now that he also had Grovatti blood keeping him alive. A whole family that had been wiped out without a thought or care.

So was the way of their life.

Or it was supposed to be.

That kind of shit was hard to let go.

So, when Darren spoke about a friendship between them, and good business, it made John’s fucking skin crawl. It took every ounce of effort he had, all of his control, not to reach over and choke the life out of the cocksucker.

“What do you think, John?” Darren asked. “Is the deal up to spec with you?”