Page 55 of Naz & Roz

EIGHTEEN

“I’m sorry, what?” Cross asked. “I’m going to need you to tell me that again, Nazio.”

Naz stared up at the ceiling and wished it would swallow him whole. He was not the type to make these kinds of fuck-ups, but here he was. And his father was in no way going to let him get away with it like it hadn’t happened at all. Cross just wasn’t the type, and frankly, he knew his son only really learned from his mistakes when he was forced to face them head-on.

This wasn’t quite the same.

He knew why he screwed up, and it wasn’t going to happen again. He really didn’t need his screw-ups pointed out in front of a bunch of other people, but here they were.

“Why did you miss grabbing those racket payments for the Capos?” his father asked. “And the bookie on the west side, too? Why?”

“Busy,” Naz said, offering nothing else.

Quiet murmurings colored the restaurant behind Naz. It wasn’t often he was invited to tribute because, at the moment, he wasn’t a made man. That was the entire purpose of tribute. It wasn’t for every man. It was only for the boss, and his men.

Naz was there because he fucked up for two different Capos in one week. It didn’t matter that he had corrected those errors quickly. The fact remained the same, he’d still done something wrong.

“Naz,” his father said quietly. “Look at me, huh?”

His gaze drifted to his father. It had been far easier to just stare at the wall of the restaurant while Cross scolded him than to look at his father directly. He didn’t find anger in his father’s stare—not that he expected to; Cross wasn’t the type to get angry with his son—but he did find confusion and concern staring back at him.

Maybe a little disappointment.

Shit.

That was just as bad as anger.

If not worse.

“I fucked up,” Naz said, “but I fixed it. It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Cross returned, “but that isn’t what I asked. I asked why. You haven’t given me a proper answer yet, Naz.”

He sighed. “I would rather not—”

“I didn’t ask what you would rather do. I asked what I asked because I said what I said, Nazio. And you’re going to give me an answer because that’s what you do when your boss demands one.”

Yeah, fuck.

Because right now, he was not dealing with his father at all. He was dealing with the Donati boss. A Cosa Nostra Don. It was a delicate line to balance, he thought. He really didn’t know how his father managed it, but Cross did. And he did it well. Plus, it wasn’t often his father had to pull rank on him anyway. Nazio was a good little soldier for famiglia. He knew what he had to do, when to do it, how to fucking do it, and not to ask questions.

He was just …

“I got a little sidetracked,” he muttered.

He was entirely off his game, more like it.

Cross straightened in his chair, and his gaze drifted to the men who were still eating and chatting behind him. Despite the fact their conversation was low, that didn’t mean anything. They were having this conversation here for a purpose. Because those men could hear the conversation, and Cross wanted them to. He wanted his men to know he handled issues when they came up, even if it was his own son who caused the problem.

No doubt, his father couldn’t afford for anyone to think he let shit slide. Not even if it was Nazio who made the shit fucking happen.

It bothered Naz, but not for reasons people probably expected. For one, he hated that he put his father in this position at all. He knew better than to be doing nonsense like this. And for two, because he wasn’t a fuck up. A lot of these men had watched him grow up, and he spent a good portion of his childhood in this very restaurant with his father every single tribute.

Why?

Because he was the principe.

The Donati prince.