Page 4 of Made in Love and Blood

“Good day,” he greeted Giorgio instead of immediately engaging the issue at hand.

The boss didn’t even glance up from the newspaper spread out between his hands to grunt back, “What the fuck is so good about it?”

A snicker echoed from elsewhere in the space. While the other person standing near the windows might have been important enough for others to greet as well, Sal would worry about the boss’s eldest son later. He took patience, that one.

“Let me work myself into it,” Sal grumbled while glancing at his watch. “It’s only eight in the morning. A bit early to get the blood pressure up.”

“Stop dicking around and tell me what we’re doing about that!”

To make his point, Gorgio tossed the newspaper to the desk in full view of everyone. The front-page article felt like it had a bit of bite with its black, bold letters spelling out the Russo family name, alongside crime, and the capo who would soon be on trial for the murder of his second wife. A countdown to the next step in proceedings sat prominently in the lower right quadrant of the article with equally intense font to just top it off. If the entire situation wasn’t so fucking terrible in every single possible way, then it might be funny.

Sal knew better than to laugh. His lips didn’t even twitch with a smirk.

“Are you still standing there?” Giorgio barked at Matty.

The enforcer clicked his tongue and nodded in the direction of the man behind the oversized desk, gave the consigliere another pointed stare, and then promptly proceeded to exit the office and close the door.

One could guess the way the day would move forward for their boss simply by reading the room. Salvatore prided himself on the ability. He believed that alone saved his ass more times than he could count in situations where others had suffered severe consequences for mistakes he’d been smart enough to avoid despite also making the choice to join the family business.

Well, a choice implied reasoning. Choice didn’t factor into survival. It all became moves made by desperate people doing what had to be done and called a choice to soften the blow.

Unfortunately for some, that took years to truly unpack and understand but not him. Not Sal. He’d known it instantly.

“Can’t believe I gave that idiot the button,” said the boss, grumpily.

“You like something about him. He wouldn’t be standing at your office door otherwise,” Sal challenged.

Giorgio sneered back. “You know all about that, don’t you?”

Yes, he did. Very well, and so he let the silence stretch out between them instead of letting the bear poke him again. Better to keep the beast in its cage or distract it with something else.

Hoping the few moments of silence allowed the boss to resituate his mood, Sal decided to test the waters to see just how far the man behind the desk could be pushed. Given how well his return had come to pass so far, he didn’t have much hope for it getting better. “I did take a red-eye back from Los Angeles just to tell you first thing—”

“How the bastard has an entire countdown in the papers now?!”

Sal inhaled through his nose, keeping calm all the while. “No, although I’m sure it’ll be a hit for the press.”

“A hit, he says,” Gorgio replied, scoffing.

“They need to make money somehow.”

“And so do we. Which I can’t do when I have the entire country looking at anyone with my last name like they’re connected.”

Most were in certain areas. Sal wouldn’t point it out. No need to pick at a raw scab.

“Money has been moved into a few hands. I talked to just enough people; said enough things to matter. Give it time to see the difference it’ll make. I’m waiting on a call for confirmation of one of the things you asked for as we speak. It’ll happen, boss. Trust me. That’s all sensationalism and amusement for bored people with nothing better to do,” Sal said, gesturing at the newspaper. “I wouldn’t get worked up about it. There’s nothing more we can do for Christiano at this point. I’ve done what I could. What can you do?”

Giorgio seemed to take that question in and consider it for a moment. “Well—”

“We could kill him,” came a quiet remark. The boss sighed heavily. “Isn’t that the rule? What we demand when made men swear omerta?”

Right. Wives were untouchable. Except that little rule only mattered when it served Giorgio Russo’s agenda. Otherwise, the man had yet to prove himself beneath killing the wife of a made man to get what he wanted.

Finally, Salvatore had to give the festering problem—one of many in his responsibilities handling the boss’s business—his attention: Marco. “We can’t kill Christiano, you idiot.”

Barely concealed rage flashed across Marco’s otherwise stoic face. “What did you just call me?”

“Easy,” replied Giorgio. “Sal meant no harm.”