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“Johansson told me.”
“I didn’t realize you two were still chummy.”
“We’re not,” Uncle Claro says. “I can’t stand the cocksucker. He looks like death warmed over. You’d think he’d be the ill one, not your father.”
The muscles in my body go rigid. It always catches me off guard when someone brings up Pa’s failing health. We have a complicated relationship. I resent him for many things, most of all how he’s prized my brother over me. But I’d hate for him to die. He can’t rob me of finally proving myself.
“You still there?” Claro says seconds later. My end of the line is dead. He gives a gruff chuckle. “I know what’s up with you. You’ve been using.”
Aside from Ma, Claro might be the only one who understands some of my struggles. He’s dealt with substance abuse issues. His time spent locked up seems to have gotten him clean.
Who am I kidding? Claro might’ve been a raged-out cokehead in his prime, but he’s never dealt with what I’ve been forced to deal with—he’s never needed it to function, to feelalive.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“There’s where you’re wrong,cretino. You think your father’ll let you rule the family when you’re balls deep in shit? You better find a way to control those fucking coke urges, or he’ll have you pulled so fast.”
I stop reclining in the leather chair. “He knows I’ve been using?”
“For fuck’s sake, you can’t be this dumb!”
“Can you stop being a mouthy asshole long enough to explain?”
“I’ve told you about the funeral. You think you’ve been any more discreet, genius? Word’s gotten around how you’re snorting up coke like candy from the few of Gio’s men you sent back.”
It can be difficult to tell. When I’m high, my perception’s off. It’s not impossible I’ve perceived things wrong. They’ve observed my habits.
“Then if it’s so known, why is my father letting me take over?”
“He knows you’re battling demons,” Claro says. “Don’t make him regret giving you a chance.”
“I don’t need a lecture about what it’s like to be in charge. Least of all from you.”
Uncle Claro allows a beat of silence to pass between us. My comment was a low blow, but I don’t give a shit.
“Do as you want,” he says finally. “But don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. You’re not seeing things straight. It’s gonna be your undoing when—”
I hang up on him with no remorse. He should consider himself fortunate I’m still taking his calls. It’ll be voice mail next time.
My high melts into a toxic bout of paranoia and insult. Everybody wants to act as though I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Even in death, Giovanni is being treated as superior. I’m still the underdog.
It only shows me I must keep going. I have to make what’s his mine. I have to prove I can be King of the Sorrentino Empire, and I’ll crush any enemies standing in my way.
“Giancarlo?” Fozzi taps on the door before he enters. He carries with him a stack of envelopes. “I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I’d let you know your mail’s come in. I went through most of it. There’s one thing I wanted to bring to your attention.”
“What’s the latest on the Lovatos?” I ask, rising out of my chair. I’ve left the half snorted line of coke on the desk for Fozzi to see, but I don’t give a fuck. According to Uncle Claro it’s an open secret. I’m done pretending otherwise.
“We’ve been looking into what they’ve been up to. We haven’t found anything worthwhile. If Don Lovato’s behind what happened to Giovanni, they’ve covered their tracks well,” Fozzi answers. He glances at the table, where my half snorted line of coke sticks out like a sore thumb. “You sure you’re okay for today? You’ve got another meeting with Johansson and the other investors.”
“No more attempts have been made on him,” I say. I’m speaking more to myself than him. I cross the office and stop in front of the wide window overlooking downtown Vegas.
“That’s kind of related to what I wanted to tell you.” Fozzi comes up behind with the stack of mail, handing over a plain white card. “This came. It looks exactly like something Gio received, but it’s addressed to you this time.”
I snatch the white card out of his hands. My gaze drops to the short message typed in neat black ink:
Giovanni’s dead, and it’s your fault.
“It’s my fault?” I growl. I turn the card over. The other side’s blank. “Who sent this?”
