Page 6 of Made in Love and Blood

Giorgio laughed bitingly, and even Sal cocked an eyebrow at hearing Marco call his father anything but dad or boss. Sometimes the young man got away with a first name. Papa, though...he reserved that for the basest of manipulation. Everyone knew it, too.

“Get the hell outta my face, son.”

Marco didn’t need to be told again and exited the office without a glance back. He didn’t hide his displeasure about the anger stiffening his steps and the expression on his face as he left. Giorgio waited until the door latched closed before his focus shifted back to Salvatore. Somehow, with that one dead stare, Sal knew...

He just knew.

It was bad for the boss. The problem in question. He could count on one hand the number of things it could possibly be, and knowing them sent alarms ringing in Sal’s head.

“Did Marco start—”

“It’s not Marco.” Then, his lips pulled sideways in a half-frown before the boss added, “Yet.”

“Your wife?”

A Russian connected woman, Giorgio’s wife of eleven years, and the only mother his youngest two children had ever known, built her entire personality around three things: being cold, calculating, and beautiful. Sal didn’t trust or care for the woman much, but that wasn’t his job at the end of the day. He did respect her, though. She slept beside a monster, knew it, and somehow remained. That counted for something.

A beat of quiet pause passed between the two men before the boss delivered the final blow to Sal’s carefully maintained steadfast attitude.

“It’s Nico.”

“Again?”

“Sal—”

“The fuck did he do this time? Isn’t he in Miami?”

“He’s been permanently expelled for an incident at a frat party,” Giorgio said, his attention rapt on his desk instead of Salvatore. “Or house, I don’t know. That’s not important here.”

“I’d love to know what is!”

“He’ll be arriving at six tonight. And I expect you to meet him at the airport. I have too much going on to handle his nonsense. You know the second he’s back in New York he’ll run straight into whatever crew he can reach and get his hands into the first scheme he can. Then, we’ll have Marco in an absolute fit every fucking time I turn around.”

“What are you really trying to say?” Sal asked, words coming out slow and steady. Not at all like his heartbeat.

Giorgio didn’t reply right away.

Sal was not having that nonsense. Not now. Whatever shit the boss wanted him to step in, the man better be damn ready to own it. “He’s your son. Just like Marco is your fucking problem, Giorgio. This mess between them started a long time ago, and you know it. I don’t know if you get a kick out of it all or what, but you’re not going to make me the babysitter to your nineteen-year-old problem child. Need I remind you that the last time I sat down and had a proper conversation with that young man, he was ten, had two black eyes, and there was still dried blood on the side of his mouth. You didn’t even apologize to him for that night.”

“Sal...”

The murmured call of his name barely dragged Salvatore from the deep recesses of his memories. He knew this would be bad. It couldn’t be anything else.

“Perhaps, Salvatore, that is what I’m going to try to do, hmm?” Giorgio rested back in his chair with a bit more comfort while crossing his large arms over a distended stomach that lifted with a breath of air exhaling into an already pressurized room. “It’s his third incident at this university. He went through a handful of high schools before he got himself a proper diploma. The last resorts I have now are the army, a fucking grave, or the family business. We both know which one he’ll excel at.”

Sal’s jaw ached from how hard he suddenly clenched his teeth. It took a bit for him to get his next question out, and he hoped it bit at the boss the same way every word spoken before this had eaten at him. “And how do you think Marco will handle the option you’ve already chosen?”

“How do you know I’ve chosen any?”

“He wouldn’t be returning to New York otherwise. No doubt, whatever problem happened in Miami, you’ve handled it because you’re not laying that out on the table for me. Don’t play dumb with me. You keep me around to overthink your moves and plan ahead. So, what about Marco, boss?”

“I’ll handle Marco.”

“And I’m handling Nico,” Sal replied, not posing it as a question.

“Why not? You have the property and set up to keep an eye on him for a few months. Give him leg room to move and rope to hang himself with as you see fit. Report back. I’ll make moves from there as far as Nico is concerned. If anything, this will keep you closer to home for a while.”

Right, home. That was a fucking joke, so much so that Sal almost scoffed at the idea. Home, where his daughter lived. At least he had the guesthouse.