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Breakfast is a cup of coffee. Black, because that’s the only way to enjoy it properly.
When Elio knocks on my door at 7:00 a.m. sharp, I’m ready to go.
He hands me a thick manila folder, walking while talking. “Cops busted the Renato’s gambling den in Chinatown,” he explains as we head to the elevator.
“Any casualties?”
“None. They raided the place last night, but it was empty.”
“Shame.”
“Do you think we should swoop in there? Renato’s men spook easy. I doubt they’ll be returning any time soon now that the location’s been made.”
“That’s Lorenzo’s call, not mine.”
“But we been trying to get a foothold in Chinatown for ages—”
“Do youwanta turf war on our hands?” I snap. “Drop it, Elio. It’s good enough that the Renatos are running scared. There’s a good chance their clientele will come flocking to our location on Seventh. Let the cops do the hard work for us.”
Elio nods. “You’re the boss.”
A black Maserati is waiting outside for me. I recognize the associates standing by the curb, on guard. They’re not dressed in impeccable suits—and they won’t get to until they’ve proven themselves worthy of the title made man — so they look more like a professional security team than members of the Mob.
“Good morning, Mr. Costello,” they greet in unison.
I nod at the one opening the passenger door for me. “Johnny, how’re the kids?”
Johnny’s one of our younger associates. He’s as dumb as a brick, but he’s eager to please and a hard worker. I happen to think that’s a good thing. It’s the associates with a little too much ambition and drive that you have to look out for.
“They’re good, Mr. Costello. Thank you for asking.”
“Did they end up going to that comic book convention?”
“Yes, they did. They had a great time. I used the bonus you gave me last month to buy them the tickets.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say, slipping into the car. “Gentlemen.”
Elio gets behind the wheel, merging seamlessly into traffic. “You’re like a damn pop star to them. I’ve never seen Johnny so starry-eyed.”
I ignore my second-in-command and open the folder, pouring over the financial reports. This is technically Lorenzo’s job, but he entrusted me to keep everything running smoothly while he’s away. It’s grueling, mind-numbing work, but someone’s got to do it.
“The nail salon is underperforming again,” I mutter, mentally crunching the numbers.
“There’s been a recent increase in police presence in the area,” Elio explains. “It’s hard to print counterfeit bills when the cops are always sniffin’ around.”
“Don’t we have a mole inside? We can have him shift some of the heat away.”
“He got caught two nights ago. He’s been sittin’ pretty in holding.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?”
“I thought you were. Milo said he’d tell you.”
My nostrils flare. His name is more grating than nails screeching across a chalkboard. We were both born into the life — legacies of legacies — but we started off as associates just like everyone else. For years, he’s been a massive pain in my ass. Sure, he’s loyal, but to the Family, not to me. He’s been gunning for me ever since Lorenzo appointed me his right-hand man. Where I got ahead by keeping my head down, following orders, and working hard, Milo got ahead by specializing in cheating, brownnosing, and pinning the blame on others.
Simply put: a rat.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “I’ll deal with him later.”
