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“Luca, did you come to play with me today?” She asks. Her bright green eyes stare up at me. Her blond hair is a mess of curls. Her mother hates her hair. Ravinia is a woman whose pride and joy is her looks. She is as vain as they come. I swear she spends half her day in front of her mirror, and hundreds of thousands of dollars on cosmetics and surgery. Which is absurd. The woman is barely thirty. There is no way she needed that much work done yet. Milan is a near identical copy of her mother, with the exception of her hair. The color is a near match to the professional dye but where Milan’s is curly and unruly, Ravinia’s is pin straight.
I don’t have time to play today. Nor do I want to play.
Milan is a sweet girl. Most of the time. It depends on how closely her mother is watching her that day. Milan craves her mother’s attention and affection and often times acts out because of it. Dealing with her tantrums and meltdowns is not something I have time or patience to deal with today. It requires a gentle hand and with all the shit going on, I know I will be anything but gentle.
I take another deep breathe, school my face so my anger doesn’t show. “Sorry Milan.” I squat down as she releases my legs. Getting eye level with her should help ease the blow I am about to land. “I’ve got a lot of work to do today. Maybe another day.” I keep my voice as soft as I can.
Tears start to well in her eyes. Damn. “You always say that and you never do! I just want to be friends.” With that she turns and runs back down the hall. Mario, her guard is standing at the bottom of the stairs watching her. He opens his arms for her to crash into.
“Come on Cupcake, why don’t we go have a tea party?” The man has the patience of a saint. He’s surprisingly good with kids, particularly Milan. It’s not a common trait for a man in the mafia. For him it’s a huge benefit seeing as he is Milan’s personal guard.
I scrub my hand down my face. I am not in the mood for this crap. It’s too early and I need some coffee. Maybe I won’t wait until tonight to get a girl. Maybe I’ll swing by the strip club and have one of them suck me off. They are always eager to give attention to a man of the family. It’s one of the reasons I normally avoid using them.
I give the door a more aggressive knock than intended. “Get in here Luca.” Grunts the boss. I enter. My eyes scanning the room for threats. There aren’t any. There never should be any in this room. It’s more protected than the White House. Armed guards outside and on the roof, an army of German Shepherds roaming the yard, and a state of the art security system are among the layers of protection at the Don’s house. Even knowing this, my training is engraved in my being. Securing a room is habit.
Two opposing walls of the office have floor to ceiling bookshelves. Scattered among the books are a few trinkets. Gifts given to him as signs of respect or thanks. Tucked in the right corner by the door I just entered are two dark brown Queen Anne chairs. Between them is an antique mahogany chess table. The ongoing game between Don Bosco and my father sits idle. To my left is a leather rolled arm sofa on which my father sits.
I walk further into the room. Keeping my back to the wall as usual. Satisfied that the room holds no immediate threats, I allow my eyes to move to the Don. He is seated behind his desk. Two large, bulletproof windows on either side of the wall behind him allow me to see part of the compound beyond. For safety reasons the Don’s mansion is set on fifty acres just outside the city of Chicago. There is a ten foot wall with cameras that surrounds the land with armed guards that patrol it day and night.
“You wanted to see me Boss.” I say as I lean my hip against a bookshelf. It gives me the best viewpoint of the entrances to the room. The door to my left and the windows behind the Don to my right. The Don raises his eyes from his paperwork. He puts his pen down and relaxes back into his chair. If I didn’t know any better I would say he was relaxed, calm even. His eyes say different. Something is haunting him. More than the usual.
There is another knock at the door and before the Don answers Santo enters. He crosses the room without a word and takes his usual perch behind the Don. His back resting against one of the high window ledges. Arms crossed over his chest. He looks more agitated than usual today. His normally crisp all black suit is wrinkled and his tie is loosened. I wonder if whatever I have been called in for is the reason behind his appearance. A quick glance at my father’s well pressed suit and emotionless expression have me mildly second guessing that thought.
“Take a seat son.” Says the Don as he gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Fuck. He only asks men to sit if he’s got bad news. I can’t show fear. The Don hates fear. I mask my face. Ensuring I show no emotion. The chair is mildly comfortable. I won’t relax. Can’t.
There are another few minutes of silence. I want to speak, yet I know better. This could be a test. Teachings from my childhood taught me that weak men, men who have something to hide don’t like silence. I am neither. So silent I stay.
“How did the shipment at the docks go? I heard there was a problem.”
“Yes Don. The Port Master had been contacted by the Irish. He accepted a bribe to report our shipment delayed. The Irish intended to intercept the package.” I state the facts as I continue to detail the events. No fluff. The Don already knows what happened at the Port. It would have been reported to him by one of his Captains.
“I take it he understands the predicament he put us in.” Meaning does the man know he is dead if he tries to screw us over again.
“Yes Don. I spoke with him myself.” Less with words and more with fists. I give a smile to the Don as I flex my fingers. His eyes focus on my bruised knuckles. A rare smile crosses his lips. “With several more shipments coming in over the next few weeks I have allowed him to keep breathing. For the moment. He is being closely watched until I get his replacement.”
“Very good. You have always done well Luca.”
“Thank you Don.”
“Your loyalty has been tested many times. I hear you were even approached by the Russians.” Santo tenses at the Don’s statement. No one in our family likes the Russians. They are loose cannons. They took over Boston a few years ago. Not that we Italians had much territory there to begin with. Our focus is Chicago, New York, Las Vegas, Detroit, and San Francisco. The five families have each claimed a city. Chicago is Caruso territory. The heads of those families make up the Council. They make the laws that we mafia men live by.
I hadn’t told the Don I was approached. It wasn’t a secret but as I am approached at least once a month by rivals, I no longer feel the need to report each attempt. My allegiance is to the Caruso family. I handle those spontaneous meetings the same as I always have. With a bullet between the eyes of the messenger and his head on the doorstep of the family who provoked me.
“Yes sir. Mishkin thought he could buy my loyalty.”
“How much?” Asks Santo. His arms have dropped to his side. I can see the interest in his eyes. Does he believe I can be bought? That there may be even a drop of disloyalty in me?
My blood boils at the thought. My fingers itch to grab my gun and shoot him. I am as loyal as they come. I would give my life to this family. “Does it matter? There is no price I am willing to accept from any other family for my loyalty.”
The Don claps his hands as he stands. His eyes stay trained on me as he rounds his desk. “That’s why I chose you Luca.” Chose me? “I have never doubted your loyalty. I can see the fire in your eyes. If I asked you to shoot your father. Right here. Right now. You would do it.” It’s not a question.
Without flinching or hesitating I retrieve my gun from its holster, flick off the safety, and aim it at my father. “Head or chest?”
“Which would you choose?” He questions. His eyes are alight with excitement. He loves pain. He lives for it. While other Dons keep their hands clean once they take the throne, Don Bosco did not.
I pray this is a test. I don’t really want to shoot my father. He may have been stern and unrelenting in his punishments, but he was otherwise good to me and my family. Showed me love but taught me to fight and defend the family. “Depends on what he did. Does he deserve to suffer? If so I can do a shot to the abdomen or knee to start.”
The Don laughs. A hearty laugh that shakes his belly. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the noise. I’m fairly certain my father hasn’t either judging by the look he is giving him.
