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4
Damian passedFarrell in the foyer and led the way into the living room at the front of the house. He left the lights off, moving through the partially renovated house on instinct. He knew every inch of it, both from the years he’d spent there with his mother and the ones he’d spent renovating it since her death. He continued to the bar set against one wall and removed two glasses.
“What’s your poison?” he asked, not looking at the big man behind him.
“Whiskey if you have it,” Farrell said.
Damian poured whiskey into both glasses, then turned to hand one of them to Farrell. He was sitting in one of the wing chairs Damian had recently had reupholstered, his enormous frame dwarfing even the oversize chair.
Farrell lifted the glass. “Salut.”
Damian nodded and tossed back the whiskey in one long swallow. He watched as Farrell’s eyes scanned the room.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Damian didn’t volunteer information about the house. His history with it was complicated: a prison when his father had been alive, a refuge after his death. But his mother had only ever had love for the place, for its long history and the architecture that was original to the 1920s when it had been built. Restoring it was a labor of love, and he was slowly working his way through the rooms, stripping old wallpaper where it couldn’t be repaired, sanding the floors, gutting the kitchen. He did most of the work himself, found it therapeutic and simple when few things in the world were.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“I figured you’d get to it,” Damian said.
Farrell nodded, and Damian wondered if it was his imagination that he saw approval in Farrell’s eyes.
Not that he needed Farrell Black’s approval. As far as he knew, Farrell had never been part of the Syndicate’s New York operation. That had been Nico Vitale, but he’d abandoned the territory when Raneiro Donati turned on him. Word was Vitale was in Rome now, re-establishing the Syndicate’s presence in the city that had once belonged to Donati himself.
“It’s time we take back New York,” Farrell said. “And we want you to run it.”
Damian didn’t know what he’d expected. A demand that he stop his organization’s activities? An order to share his profits? A bullet in the head?
He didn’t know exactly, but it wasn’t this.
Damian sat on the sofa opposite Farrell. “I already run it.”
Farrell smiled indulgently. “Not for long,” he said. “Not if you insist on going it alone.”
“Is that a threat?”
Farrell shrugged. “A threat implies possibility. The Syndicate is back, and while we appreciate your holding down the fort, our return was always inevitable. The territory belongs to us.”
“Belonged,” Damian said. “Past tense.”
“We can argue semantics if you like,” Farrell said. “But I think we have more pressing matters to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“Primo Fiore,” Farrell said.
Damian stood, crossed the room and set his glass on the bar. “I’m not concerned about Fiore.”
“You should be,” Farrell said. “Not because of Primo, but because of Malcolm Gatti.”
Damian kept his face impassive, but the name sent a surge of anger into his gut. Damian had only communicated with Primo Fiore through Cole, his second in command, but he had the impression Fiore was malleable in spite of rumors about his mental illness. Malcolm Gatti had a different reputation. One that included all the income generators Damian wouldn’t touch.
Human trafficking, dealing to kids, even kiddie porn. None of it was off limits for Malcolm Gatti. It set Damian’s blood boiling if he thought about it too much, so he’d kept his head down, focused on building his own organization, reasoning that a strong Cavallo enterprise would enable him to squeeze out Fiore — and Gatti — eventually.
“He’s not the boss,“ Damian said.
