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My brain, moving at the speed of molasses, takes a moment to process. The boss of all bosses, the fuckinggodfather, if you’re apt to watch a movie to learn all there is to know about New York families, stands at the double front doors of Pastore’s home. He wears a waistcoat of cherry pink, and a smirk that hints at humor and arrogance.
A direct contrast to his deadly stare.
Soldiers fan out around him. They cover him so we’re outgunned a thousand to one, making Pastore’s original hundred seem pathetic in comparison. The soldiers who were responsible for protecting Pastore now lower their weapons, and the new arrivals cover the front entrance so they’re a wall.
We’re trapped inside a boiling pot, and we have nowhere to go but through an army impossible to defeat.
“Emilio Pastore,” Cordoza murmurs, low, so we’re all forced to lean a little closer to hear. “I come to your home for dinner, and I’m met with guns?”
“No!” His face paling, Emilio drops his weapon, pointing it straight down. “No, boss. That’s not what—” He gestures toward Felix, like a child being scolded on the playground. “They came into my home and attacked us unprovoked!”
“Not unprovoked,” Cato snarls. “They tried to kill Micah.”
I grimace when Cordoza’s men change formation, like a well-oiled machine, and turn to face the newcomers. Dozens still watch us, guns trained on our faces, while behind them, flashes of color make me frown.
But Cordoza clears his throat after a fast glance to my brothers, having his men swinging back our way and effectively ignoring Cato and Micah.
As far as he’s concerned, they’re no threat.
“You took Micah Malone?” Cordoza rumbles. He wears a ring with a family crest on the middle finger of his left hand. Slowly, he spins it. Spins it. He shows his absolute power by standing in the center of a gunfight without a weapon in his hand. “You took Timothy Malone’s son,” he continues, “and held him prisoner in your home?”
“No! I—” Pastore’s jaw quivers with fear. “Boss, it’s business! They took from us, so we took from them.”
“They took boroughs from you,” Cordoza grits. “They did not take your family!”
“They—”
He shuts his mouth when Cordoza takes a slow step forward. That’s all the warning needed. While behind Cordoza, a rainbow of colors shimmer.
Gowns, maybe. Perhaps the women who escorted Cordoza to the party.
“You do not argue with me, Pastore. And you do not call me a liar.”
“No, sir! I-I didn’t—”
“My informants are like my arm,” he sneers. “They’re a part of my body, and they keep this city running efficiently. Do you dare claim my information to be wrong?”
“No, I…” He’s fucked, and he knows it. Visibly swallowing down a lump of dread, he shakes his head. “No, boss. I… I’m sorry.” He turns his eyes to Tim. Our eldest. Our new leader. “You have my apologies, Malone.”
Unimpressed, Cordoza slowly makes his way from the house’s entrance, down a set of steps, and across the room so he stops near me. “You have an apology,” he says to Tim. Then he looks to Micah. Beaten. Bruised. Gaunt and weak. “And your brother is alive. It seems all is well, no?” Then he laughs. “If only.” Cordoza brings his attention back around until he’s facing my brother front-on. Lowering his chin, he says, “You have my sympathies on your father’s passing tonight.”
Jaw flexing, chest swelling with adrenaline, Tim gives one short, sharp nod in acknowledgment.
He’s not just a guy who works in a bar. Though that’s what I’ve become used to, he’s not just a dude who slings drinks and helps drunken idiots outside so he can lock up. He’s Timothy Malone. Our eldest. Our strongest.
“We appreciate your condolences,” my brother says. “Though I doubt he’ll be missed.” Brave, considering it’s never smart to turn on your own when you’re us, Tim swallows and reaffirms his stance. “Timothy Malone died in pain and without his dignity. I’m not sorry.”
“Which brings us to a new order,” Cordoza muses. “One man passes, and another steps up to take his place.” With a single, lifted brow, Cordoza looks to a green Pastore. “Did you think, by harming Micah Malone and not Tim, you wouldn’t pay a price?” He glances to the stairs, to our final puzzle piece, the last Malone I’m to be reunited with. “Do you know the punishment a man faces when he spills the blood of another without provocation?”
Pastore’s face drains whiter. “Boss, I—”
Estefan turns to Tim, calm and cool and with a look of consideration playing in his eyes. “You and Pastore bicker because your father took business from him.”
“Whatever my father did,” Tim seethes, “he no longer lives. And whether it’s guns or streets or power that switched hands, my brother did nothing to provoke the punishment Pastore bestowed upon him. None of us hurt Pastore’s blood, and yet,” he extends a hand toward Micah, “ours barely lives.”
“Which implies an unfair balance amongst our ranks.” In a chilling gesture, Cordoza snaps his fingers and prompts two men forward so they grab Pastore, eliciting a squeal from the bastard that one might hear from a pig on its way to slaughter.
Just five feet from where I stand, the men force Pastore to his knees so he hits the tile with a bone-crunching slam. They fold his arms back until one pops and his shoulder bulges unnaturally high, then Cordoza turns to a third soldier, who presents him with a pair of scissor-like shears.
