Page 21 of Captivated

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Senator and a Chief of Police—it’s a little concerning, Dad, that’s all. And by the sounds of it, there’s some kind of problem or reason the Marcellos want them gone. Mind you, a fucking reason they can’t be bothered to explain to the rest of the class, so I might have to dig into that myself.”

“Don’t go digging into the Marcello family’s business. That isn’t your place, Joe.”

Not his place and not able to do it were two very fucking different things, though. Joe didn’t say that out loud to his father, however.

“You know how I feel about these kinds of kills,” Joe muttered.

At least, if Joe understood why a person had to die, and they had earned or deserved the death, he didn’t feel quite as guilty the next time he went into confession. Or even when he had to pray, and ask for his own forgiveness.

Fucked up, sure.

But that’s how he was.

A killer with a goddamn conscience.

Lucky fucking me.

“Point is—they likely already have attention from whatever issues they have with these people,” Joe said, “and that means the Marcellos will be the first people looked at when the marks are dead.”

“I don’t think they care. They chose someone outside of their organization for a reason. They did explain that to you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Joe, it is literally none of your business why they want to do this. What is your business is that it is done, and you follow their orders while they are paying you to do so, and nothing more. Do you understand me?”

“Who knocks off two high profile figures like that, huh? Tell me.”

“Tommas did it once.”

“When was that?”

“Years ago,” Damian replied, “back when he first took over.”

“And how long did the attention and feds stay on the Outfit’s ass?”

Damian laughed—a bitter sound that echoed in Joe’s ears. “Longer than you care to know, son. Pretty sure if there was still a Public Enemy Number One, your uncle would own the fucking spot.”

Technically, Tommas was a cousin of Joe’s … but he grew up calling the man his uncle, and that wasn’t going to change.

“You know I don’t like to make a hit like this,” Joe said. “And it’s not even one, it’s fucking two. It kind of feels like they might be playing with fire, and I don’t want to be the hand that gets burned in the process. That is all I am saying.”

“You’re there to do a job, Joe.”

“Quite aware, yeah.”

“So, do it.”

His father hung up the phone.

That was that.

The last thing Joe wanted to do was be called to the Marcello mansion at just after ten in the evening. And yet, here he was.

“Joseph, correct?”

The old Marcello who greeted Joe at the grand entrance of the mansion was the man who owned the place—Antony. The man’s kind smile belied the fact that Joe—like most Mafiosi—had heard all the stories of the infamous Antony Marcello, and just how creative and dangerous the man could be when crossed.