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Geno notices my men and slowly places his hands back onto the table. “My people get the smallest cut. I need to do what I can to make sure they get what they need to survive so that their involvement is worth it.”
He opens his hand, showing me his coin and focusing on it while he sings his woes about his people, whom he clearly doesn’t give a fuck about. This is about lining his own pockets, and they don’t look cheap. I know an expensive suit when I see it. His is tailor-made of the highest-quality cloth. Just like mine.
Without interest, I listen to him ramble, waiting while he runs out of steam and ties his own noose. He can throw his weight around with his people, but not with me.
He has balls.Whispered words that tighten my throat enter my mind, along with a flash of Francis’s grinning face. When will he stop tormenting me?
“You didn’t talk to him before taking Zanetti off the map,” Geno finishes off with a shrug before he slouches in the chair. “And besides, New York has changed. More and more gangs are operating outside of the command of the Families. The street scene has changed, and it is people like me”—he jabs a finger at his chest as I contemplate cutting it off—“who keep the money flowing.”
I nod, like this all makes sense. But, inside, I’m ready to explode. I want to silence Francis’s voice in my head, and I know how to. I give one of my men a quick flick of my chin, and they step toward Geno. Geno glances behind him before his gaze shoots back at me. “I’m only saying what’s happening on the streets.”
I don’t look at Geno. Frankly, he’s pissing me off too much.
“I want his left hand.” The one he keeps flipping the coin across.
My man is quick to grip his arm and slam his hand down onto the table. Geno tries to break free, but I place a finger at my lip, and his struggles stop. His gaze widens with understanding.
Who the fuck does he think he is speaking to me in such a tone? Telling me how my streets are ran?
I extract the blade from my pocket.
Francis is right.He has some balls.
“Luca.”
Before he can start begging, I slam the knife down into his flesh. He screams in agony and tries to pull his hand back, but I’m not letting the knife go. His screams subside to panicked sobs. I lean forward, keeping my grip on the knife until he looks me in the eyes.
“Nothing has changed in New York City. The family is as strong as it ever was, but it is more hidden. The Zanettis came to me pleading for assistance, and I gave it—for a price.” I twist the knife, and he cries out again. His screeches make me consider slicing his throat just to cut off his squeals.
Spit dribbles from his mouth and onto my table. I extract the knife out of his hand, and he screams again before pulling his bleeding hand to his chest. The coin sits on the table, and I reach across and pick it up. I wave a hand at one of my men and point at the dribble in front of Geno. I wait as my man wipes it away. Once it’s gone, I continue.
“I declared Zanetti’s off-limits, and your men ignored that demand. This makes me and the Marzano family look weak, like the Marzano family’s word means nothing. And, if my word means nothing, then yours means fuck all.”
I nod at my man, and he steps away from Geno, who breathes through flared nostrils. He whimpers as he glances down at his hand.
“I don’t want to have to repeat this, Geno,” I say.
He nods several times, but he’s consumed with his own pain as he rises. He isn’t looking too good, and he’s getting blood on my fucking floor.
I tighten my jaw.
“If one more drop hits my floor, I’ll mop it up with your dead body.”
Quickly, Geno grabs a flap of his black jacket and wraps his bleeding hand in it.
“I do believe I just taught you a valuable lesson,” I say, sliding the gold coin across the table toward him. He looks at it but doesn’t pick it up.
His eyes dart from one of my men to the other before he looks at me. “Thank you for the lesson,” he whimpers, sounding unsure.
I grin. “Get the fuck out of my restaurant before I change my mind.”
He turns, but with each step, he glances around him, waiting for me to change my mind.
“He was very disrespectful,” I say to no one in particular. Maybe I’m waiting for Francis to tell me how he shouldn’t be able to walk away with a small scratch on his hand for the way he disrespected me on my own turf. “I think he needs a bit more of a lesson.” I stand slowly.
I don’t have to say anymore. Two of my men follow Geno out of the restaurant. I wipe my mouth on the napkin and button up my navy suit jacket. I pocket the coin and stand. “Make it a finger,” I call after my men.
That should do it.Francis’s glee-filled voice gives me pause. He was never vindictive. No, I’m the vindictive bastard.
