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I shouldn’t even be here, this is Sorvino owned, but I like to live dangerously. The idiot boyfriend asks me again if I have a problem, and I wave him off and turn to the group I’m with. “Go home. I have things to think about.”
We all file out of La Club, and I get into my car. Revving the engine high, I take off into the night and go straight back to my apartment.
Once inside and drinking a steaming cup of coffee, I sit at the window overlooking the city.
Kira.
She isn’t dead. She’s back in New York City. Where has she been? What has she been doing? Why did she look so angry to see me? Fuck, I tried to kiss her. If the families find out, there will be hell to pay.
I’ll tell them I don’t know who she is and would drunk-kiss anyone. I used to be a party animal, especially after she left, so it’s believable.
I run.
I shower.
I climb into bed.
I toss and turn and picture her raging eyes looking into mine. I wanted to kiss her because—back then—it had been such a natural thing we did, such a habitual thing that even after thirteen years, I want to do it just because it’s her.
I see her. Her dark curls. Her curves I adored and devoured so many times before. All of her. She’s stuck in my head.
After breakfast, I send a notice to my family for a meeting at ten. You can’t trust someone to take care of the family business for you. It’s how you end up being shot and overthrown. I go to my office and start addressing the matters on my table. There’s always a pile of things to do, and I’m the man who has to see to it.
People come and go, wanting answers to problems or their next set of instructions from me. Just before ten, I step outside onto the balcony of my apartment and light a Cuban cigar. I inhale deeply and look over the city.
New York. The city that never sleeps.
Like I don’t ever sleep.
I was born and raised here, and I suit the city well.
I hear a knock at my door, and I stub out the cigar, leaving it on an ashtray outside.
“Come in.”
I sit back at my desk as everyone files in, and last but not least, my father. He’s the one who's retiring. He is mostly retired now. He doesn’t get involved much in family business anymore. Everyone knows I’m the one they answer to now.
My brothers, cousins, uncles, and father are all in one room. One of my cousins, Lyle, is missing, but I know he’ll be along shortly. I sit on my high-backed chair and say, “We need to decide what we’re doing about the Sorvinos.”
“They pose no immediate threat to us,” my father says. “I still think we should leave them be while we build our forces to overthrow them as New York’s main family.”
“This move to dethrone Jose Catalan is basically begging for a war.” I look around, and about half the room looks like they agree with me, while the other half looks apprehensive.
“I…”
The door opens, and Lyle hurries in. “Don Rossi, I’m so sorry. I have urgent news. It’s why I am late.”
The frown lingers on my lips. “What is it?”
“One of our main supply warehouses was blown up about twenty minutes ago. Everyone is dead. I had to pay the cops to sniff around without acknowledging the drugs and counterfeit money. They’re keeping the crowds away, but it’s sure to be on the news.”
The rage must be showing in my eyes because I feel everyone, except my father, shrink back from me. I look around. “I want to know who did it.”
Lyle clears his throat, “There was a calling card, boss. It was the Sorvinos.”
He takes a square piece of paper out of his pocket and passes it to me. On the back is Alessandro’s signature, and when I turn it over, I see it’s a crime scene photo of Mr. Kippler’s body. They knew we killed him, but this was going too far. This is going to set back the family thousands of dollars. He also killed my people—men and women who didn’t deserve it. I’m not the warm and fuzzy type, but those workers were loyal to the family.
I crumple up the photo and quickly toss it aside. “Fucking Sorvinos.”
