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Out of everyone in the Cosa Nostra, he’s the most like me. A businessman first, a made man second. Now, though, I can see the dilemma biting at the edges of his conscience. Eventually, he steeples his hands and steels his jaw with resolve. “Smugglers Club is a global brand. We export over fifty-percent of our stock through your port, so Dante’s little stunt has cost us millions.” He swipes a thumb over his bottom lip, deep in thought. “He needs to pay.”
“Yeah, with a grenade,” Gabe grunts.
Cas shrugs. “Not the worst idea you’ve had, cugino.”
“Rafe? What do you think?”
Feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on my skin, I turn to meet Angelo’s gaze. I spin the poker chip in the air and catch it, before slipping it back in my pocket.
“I think it’s boring.”
Gabe snorts. “You think a grenade is boring?”
My gaze shifts lazily to him. “Only kids are entertained by things that go bang, brother.”
Angelo huffs out a sardonic laugh.
The whole mafia cliché holds no appeal for me, and now that I’m finally back with my brothers, I refuse to be tied to archaic traditions and sleeping-with-the-fishes attitudes. We’ll be wearing fucking fedoras next.
I check the time on my wristwatch, then rise to my feet. “Gentleman, we won’t take up any more of your time, you’re all free to go.” I hold up my hand, slicing through the start of Gabe’s gruff protest. “We’ll keep you in the loop.”
Suspicion flickers over Benny’s features. “Free to go? We haven’t agreed on how to take the fucker down yet.”
I pin him with a tight smile. “It’s a Dip issue; we’ll handle it. In the meantime, if you need any extra men, talk to Griffin on the way out. I’ll be happy to lend you a few members of my personal security detail.”
“But—”
“He said we’ll handle it,” Angelo says, finality biting his tone.
Spines stiffen. The air crackles with words better left unsaid. Eventually, everyone rises to their feet, except Angelo and Gabe, whose glare is hot enough to burn a hole in the opposite wall.
“Fine. But we don’t need your men,” Benny grunts, grazing his shoulder against Blake’s chest as he passes. “This one here looks like he wouldn’t know how to use a gun even if it came with an illustrated instruction manual.”
“Don’t need a gun. These fists work just fine,” Blake growls back, stepping in Benny’s path.
I grind my back molars as Cas grabs Benny by the scruff of his collar and drags him from the room. I’m starting to wonder why Griffin thought Blake would be a good recruit. He should know the average Visconti would pop a cap in his temporal lobe just to prove a point.
The issue with my men following to the Coast is that they only know me as Raphael Visconti the businessman. They see the endless meetings, the VIP booths. They receive their elimination instructions in sealed manila envelopes and carry out the hits in quiet parking lots. They don’t see the dark, violent underbelly attached to my family name. I’ve done well to keep both separate, and anything handled within the confines of the Cosa Nostra, I get Gabe and his men to carry out.
I’ve shielded them for so long, I’m concerned the likes of Blake think the Cosa Nostra is a figment of Francis Ford Coppola’s imagination.
The door clicks shut, plunging us into silence.
That vein in Angelo’s temple does a tap dance. “This is a game to you, isn’t it?”
It’s not really a question, because my brothers already know the answer. Gabe punches the table again, and this time, there’s a loud crack from under his fist.
“Mama should have put you in anger management when she threatened she would,” I muse.
“What, do you wanna challenge Dante to a friendly game of Tic, Tac, Toe?” Gabe’s eyes find mine, furious and wild. Unhinged. “He blew up our port. Three confirmed dead already, and fuck knows how many more to come. Do us all a favor and leave the combat to me and my men, and go back to dry-cleaning your suits.”
As I study him, it briefly occurs to me this is the most I’ve heard him talk since that Christmas. Shortly before our parents died, he came back to the Coast for the holidays with a haunted look in his eyes and a fresh scar running from his eyebrow to his chin. He was a whole different man.
Wouldn’t say what happened to him—wouldn’t say much at all, in fact. But something about plotting revenge has brought him to life, and I almost don’t want to take it away from him.
And I wouldn’t, except, my ideas are always better.
“Lay off the steroids, brother.” I stride over to the desk, giving Gabe a patronizing pat on the shoulder as I pass. “They make your brain fuzzy and your dick small.”
