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Birdie was nearing his year as a prospect and was Fury’s friend from back in the day. The prospect had been in the joint for the last ten years, and once he was out, he’d hit up Fury and wanted in on the club.
Of course, Mayhem had tried to talk them out of coming along, been a fucking asshole even, because he didn’t want the club involved like this. He wanted to just get this bullshit done and be with Butters.
Because the truth was, he wanted to talk to her about this week not ending, about her being his. He wanted her and only her, and it had only taken this small amount of time to make the ice around his heart thaw.
“I know.”
“We always got your back, brother.”
“And I always got yours,” Mayhem said.
“If we hear anything fucked up or you give us a signal, we’ll be stashed away where they can’t see us, but where we have eyes on you. We’ll come busting in guns blazing.”
“Hopefully it doesn’t come to that.”
Mayhem heard the guys in the background start to talk about if things went down what they’d do.
“You never know with this group. So be on alert.”
“Always,” Mayhem said. After he hung up, he took a deep, steadying breath.
Monstello’s was just one of the many businesses owned by the Cardona crew. It was a front, for the most part, a place to clean their money.
Mayhem tightened his hold on the bag and got out of the vehicle. He wasn’t afraid of the mafia, but he was man enough that he was afraid of what the mafia would do to Butters.
He made his way toward the restaurant, opened the doors, and immediately saw two men dressed in black leaning against the pillars that separated the hostess stand from the dining area.
Mayhem knew they were part of the Cardonas, could see the way they tensed, brought their hands to their sides where they were packing. Mayhem knew they’d shoot his ass if they thought he was a threat, but he wouldn’t be a threat if things went smoothly. If shit went down, he’d hold his own.
The guys guarding the front smelled and looked like they’d been partying all day. Seeing their bloodshot eyes and sweaty faces, Mayhem could tell they were three sheets to the wind.
He didn’t have to say who he was or why he was there, because one of the darkly dressed men motioned him over. After he was patted down—and he could have given lessons to these assholes on how to really check for weapons—Mayhem was led through the empty restaurant.
It was a little bit odd that no one was in here, but he supposed if he was going to get taken out or if trouble started, they wouldn’t want a full house.
He was led to a back table, one where the lighting was dimmer and where two men sat behind it. They were similar in appearance, and Mayhem assumed one had to be Sal and the other Marco.
He’d never actually seen them, although he’d heard plenty about them. He’d also never been told who he’d be meeting tonight, just where he was supposed to go and what time.
But seeing the older man, whom he assumed was Sal, staring him down, power emanating from him, Mayhem knew this had to be the head of the Family himself.
He stopped a few feet from the men at the table, but someone from behind pushed him forward. Mayhem turned around and growled out low.
“Watch it,” he said to the smaller man, not giving a shit if the guy held a gun. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.” The guy lifted his gun in warning, but he clearly didn’t realize Mayhem didn’t give a fuck about that. He’d throw down with anyone, especially if they wanted to mess with him.
“Lorenzo,” the older man at the table said and started speaking a string of Italian. After a second, the guard turned and went back to stand at the front door. “My apologies for his behavior. They’ve been celebrating since this afternoon, and you can see they’ve had a bit much to drink.”
Mayhem turned back around and moved the last few steps it took to be right at the edge of the table. Both men stared at him. The younger one had a head of thick, black hair combed back from his face, and his dark eyes looked cold. Mayhem knew that look all too well.
The older man had hair that was slicked back as well but salt and pepper in color. Both of them wore suits, had half eaten plates of food in front of them, and empty wine glasses beside those.
“I’m Sal, and this is my son, Marco.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Please, have a seat.” Sal gestured to the seat in front him.
Mayhem set the bag on the table, the weight of it making the glasses shake slightly.
