Page 1 of The Mobster’s Nurse

1

LUCA

“What the fuck happened?” Dad roars, marching into his office and kicking his desk so hard his steel-toe-capped cowboy boots send shrapnel flying across the office.

I quickly shut the door behind me so that the regular staff members don’t hear. Everybody knows who Don Dario is, but here at the ranch—just like at our other legitimate businesses—we try to keep things professional. Of course, there are some illegitimate aspects of this game, but we don’t need to advertise that.

My father paces behind his desk. I give him a few moments, letting him seethe. On the walls, there are photos of the ranch and our family.

Dad came here from New York to fix the LA operation. He did it well. He runs things like a machine oiled with blood.

Finally, he stops pacing. Stares at me with a blood vessel looking ready to burst in his head. His eyes are wide and wild. He’s a big man, wide shoulders, fifty-two years of muscle and hard work and violence. He grits his teeth, a silver tooth flashes from his mouth.

“Your great-grandfather had money on our Portafortuna.

Do you know what that means, Luca?”

“Lucky charm,” I mutter.

“Lucky fucking charm,” he says, nodding vigorously. “The best thoroughbred we’ve had. Best ever!” He tucks his thumbs through his belt loops. His buckle is a big gleaming silver piece with Moretti Ranch inscribed across it. “How lucky do you feel right now?”

“I’ve never felt too lucky,” I tell him.

“Oh, so you’ve been unlucky?”

I shrug. “Not saying that either. One foot in front of the other. One day after another. That’s just life.”

“Ha, you shoulda been a priest,” Dad grunts, dropping into his oversize chair.

I ignore his attitude and sit opposite. Lay my elbows on the table. Look my father in the eye. “What do you want to do?”

“Turn back time. Cleanse myself of this humiliation.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“Hmm. What’s hmm?”

“I’m waiting for orders that actually make sense, Don Dario.”

“You’re lucky you’re my son,” he says.

There’s that word again.

“Don Moretti doesn’t like to lose money,” Dad says. “And you know he was watching, from his villa in Sicily. I’m surprised he hasn’t called yet.”

The old man runs everything from his villa outside Palermo. Dad was born in Sicily. I wasn't. I speak the language, and I've made the pilgrimages, but I bleed red, white, and blue — and Don Moretti has never quite forgiven me for it. Dad answers to him. I answer to Dad. And somewhere in that chain of blood and obligation, I'm supposed to find my place.

There are subtle differences. Don Dario … uses his first name. Don Moretti, uses his great-grandfather’s surname. There are not-so-subtle differences, too. Like the fact that the Sicilians think they’re a superior race just because their history supposedly goes back thousands of years.

I wait. That’s what I do best. Wait and watch. I’ve always had a coldness in me. Ice in my veins, as the saying goes. Some people look at me like I’m broken, some like they’re jealous.

“I think our horse was sabotaged,” he says, looking at me darkly. “A few days ago, she was healthy and strong. Did you see her out there? No luck about her at all.”

“She looked slow. Exhausted.”

“Yes, exactly. Exhausted. But she was alive, Luca. Full of life. Just a few days ago.”

“So…” I wave my hand.