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“You seem on edge.” Gia takes a drag of his cigarette, propping his foot against the wall as he examines me. “Married life not all it’s cracked up to be?”
“What are you, a fucking shrink?” The heels of my hands dig into my eye sockets, rubbing until a kaleidoscope obscures my vision. “And anyway, I’ve not even been home long enough to experience domestic bliss.”
“Ah.” He flicks ash onto the ground, smoothing it into the pavement with his boot. Black counter tracking boots without tread, keeping our involvement at the warehouse anonymous. “So,that’syour problem.”
If Marco isn’t here in the next sixty seconds, I’m liable to rip out Gia’s jugular.“What is?”
“How long’s it been since you got laid?”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I grit my teeth together, trying to reel in the irritation lacing my blood. His self-righteousness really puts a damper on our friendship. “None of your damn business.”
“Testy.” Snapping his fingers, he cracks a smile. A rarity. Montalto men don’t smile, except when we’re throwing our power around or trying to get pussy. My fist balls, desperate to erase it from his face. “Oops, sorry. Wrong word.”
“Are you twelve, G? Because only a fucking prepubescent child would find that funny.”
“I’m just saying. I thought part of thebenefitof this relationship would be you getting to bend that prim and proper ass of hers over any time you please.”
You and me both.
At my sides, my hands curl into themselves, nails digging into my palms. I feel the skin break, feel the blood blot under the nails, feel my heart rate kick up until I can hear it in my ears. It pounds mercilessly, drowning out every other thought. “I didn’t ask for your goddamn opinion. Shut the fuck up, or I’ll put a bullet through that thick skull of yours.”
He clamps his jaw closed just as the garage door finally slides up, Marco’s lanky form appearing from behind. He’s in black jeans and a black muscle tee, revealing his heavily inked body. Must have just left Siena; she’s a sucker for tattoos, and he rarely walks around with them on display. Too identifiable.
My mother had two full sleeves, tattoos she got before she ever met my father. They were daisies and sweet peas—her birth month flowers—rising from her wrist to the crook of her elbow.
They’re visible in every picture I have of her, making her a clear target. Not many tattooed Danish women in New York City ever shacked up with an Italian underboss. I’ve just got the one, asort sollike she used to talk about. A phenomenon of birds, gathering to nest for the night, that she took as a sign of fate.
She should’ve known the translation,black sun, could’ve never meant anything good—for the world, or for me.
As the thoughts worm their way through the pounding in my ears, Marco hurries us inside, slams the door shut as soon as our feet clear the threshold, and crosses to the other side where a few decrepit, polyester couches sit. Swiping a black button-down shirt off the arm of one couch, he pulls it on and leaves it hanging, gesturing around at the stacks of packaged coke lining the tables.
“You’re fucking late.” I make my way around the pallets, inspecting packages for tampering. If we hadn’t already been balls-deep in the fucking drug trade when I took over ascapo, I would’ve let the antiquated process die with Gia’s father’s career. Unfortunately, King’s Trace tourists are coke fiends willing to pay a pretty penny for a quarter ounce.
Now, I have to make weekly trips to the fucking warehouse and make sure shipments are coming in clean; until we figure out exactly who’s skimming off the top, I have to be vigilant. Colombian exports are expensive, and losing money makes me look like a goddamn pussy.
Marco side-eyes Gia, who shrugs. “Don’t mind him. He’s grumpy because his wife is giving him permanent blue balls.”
“Jesus Christ.” Tilting my head back to look up at the rafters in the ceiling, I press past the anger dancing inside. Killing my second-in-command wouldn’t be a good look and could jeopardize Caroline’s semi-freedom since he’s investigating her father’s finances.
Coming over to stand beside me, Marco sweeps his hand out over the bricks filling the room. “As you can see, everything comes prepackaged, and I’m sure as shit not tampering with anything. No desire to do blow here, Boss.”
“Would probably get in the way of your addiction to alcohol.” I move through the aisles, glossing over each minute detail. Some bricks are packaged individually—for tourists who make it out about once a year and like to shell out a cool twenty-five grand for a kilo of aggressive fun. Others are packed in a baker’s dozen, running a good quarter of a million dollars, sold in bulk only to reputable, returning customers.
Each pallet appears to be intact, sealed with industrial-strength plastic wrap, and reinforced with packing tape. At the end of the far aisle next to Marco’s unorganized desk sits a locked crate that I know is stuffed full of guns of varying sizes, in the event anyone ever discovers this little hellhole.
“If everything comes in off the truck intact, and we’ve not had any issues with our suppliers in the past, our best bet is that someone in our own ranks is skimming the product before delivery, and then telling the Stonemore gang where we sell in exchange for a cut of the cash.”
Marco nods, solemn. “Any ideas who it might be?”
“Not a fucking clue.” I look to Gia, who stands off to the side, surveying the area. Always on the lookout.
He meets my eyes, and I don’t even have to mention his older brother’s name before he lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping. “Fuck. Angelo?”
“Unfortunately, he’s the only one of my men ever to have a coke problem, and the one constantly testing his boundaries with me.”
“For the record, I don’t let that fucker anywhere near this place.” Marco strokes his chin in thought. “If he’s stealing, it means he knows where this is, potentially making it a target.”
“Anywhere we go is a goddamn target. That’s why we carry.”
