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Still, when Dominick enters the room, a hush falls over the gathering and eyes dart left and right, obviously confused about his appearance. The music stops, and the only sound is one kid who’s in the corner and obviously doesn’t quite understand what’s happening as he keeps doing some lame ass jig until someone pops him in the shoulder.
Fortunately, no one pulls a weapon. From an armchair in the center of the room, a man with slicked back ebony hair and large thick-framed glasses stands up. I’ve never met him, but for the past year plus some, I’ve made sure I’m intimately aware of his face. He’s old enough to be Dominick’s father, and considerably larger, but there’s no mistaking who the real alpha male in the room is.
Sal Rivaldi might try and push his way into East Robinsville, but Dominick isn’t going to let that happen with a breath in his body. Even in his thirties, Dominick is the king of this city and wears his invisible crown like a man with experience and the balls to back whatever play he has deemed correct.
It matters not if the battle is physical or mental. I’d bet on Dominick to win every time.
Looking as if he were standing in his own church instead of the wake of his biggest rival’s son, Dominick extends his hand toward the older man. “Don Rivaldi, I wish to extend my most sincere apologies on the loss of your son. Word of his character had spread throughout the city, and you must be devastated.”
Damn, he is a slick son of a bitch. Not many men could make an expression of sympathy include a backhanded comment about what a shitstain your son was, while also letting it be known that nothing happens in your city without your knowledge. And the use of the term ‘Don’. Very smooth, in that it both gives Sal respect, while at the same time saying he’s behind the times. Dominick’s never insisted on being called Don. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone under the age of sixty use the term with him.
Rivaldi dips his chin in acknowledgement but keeps his eyes on Dominick the whole time. “Please, we are past all these niceties. You can call me Sal.”
I hide a smirk. Dad used to listen to an old song that sounded a lot like that. Dominick looks genuinely pleased, although probably because in the subtle game of mob bosses, he was just elevated in the Rivaldi family’s eyes. “Of course, Sal. And you may call me Dominick.”
Everyone notices the infinitesimal put-down. Sal said that Dominick could use his casual name, while Dominick insisted on his full first name. Nearly, but not quite the same level, and Sal knows it. They eye each other for a moment, the tension in the room building, but Dominick stays cool as a cucumber, no tension in his body even though I know he could snap into asskicking mode in an instant. “Sal, the timing may be indelicate, but I wondered if we could speak?”
Sal looks like he might start something but then relents. “Yes, of course.” He gestures to the chair next to the one he just vacated. Sal moves to a bar in the corner, lifting a decanter of what’s either scotch or something similar. “Drink?”
My training says to never, ever accept a drink from an enemy. Especially alcohol. It’s too easy to hide shit in there. But Dom operates by his own rules and instead nods easily, confident that Sal wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Dominick takes the amber liquid from Sal and swirls it in the glass before resting it on the arm of the chair. Sal sits, the excitement obvious in his eyes. He thinks he’s gotten one over, that he’s actually going to take over the city from a man clearly his better in every way.
I’m reminded of the saying, ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ because Sal has no idea the precipice he’s standing on. I take station behind Dominick, while Nick stands a few feet away, his eyes scanning the rest of the group as quiet, tense conversation begins anew.
“I wanted to discuss some things with you,” Dominick leads off, still swirling his drink as he looks Sal in the eye. “Some rather troubling things I’ve heard about your organization.”
Sal doesn’t move, but the light in his eyes turns more suspicious and the tension in the room pulls even tighter. The room is silent, with only an occasional whispered comment as everyone keeps their eyes on the two bosses. I scan, noting the guy to my left who just unbuttoned his jacket, a sure sign he’s getting twitchy.
“What things have you heard?” Sal asks, sipping his drink. Dominick, though, keeps his glass swirling, almost maddeningly. The liquid never stops moving and Dom’s gaze never wavers. Motion and stillness, attack and patience . . . both Dominick’s strong suits, and something everyone in the room is well aware of.
