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He’s older than me, but not by much. His youngest son, Sully, actually is a good man. I’ve heard about his balls and his brains from others. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him get his hands on Carina. She’s mine, and she’ll stay fucking mine.
“When you controlled Chicago, my old friend, it was civilized.” He inclines his head in respect. “I want that again. I can make it happen. But only if our families are united. Marriage is the way that treaty is signed. Blood to blood. Skin in the game. You could return to the city. Settle all your problems, live like a fucking king.”
He's baiting the hook. Those are the things I have wanted for so long, but now that they are possible, the price is too high.
“Not Carina,” I say.
“Not Carina,”he says, like a broken record. “Why not Carina? She’s beautiful, talented and traditional. Young. Unattached. Lucy is delightful. She is a credit to you and to your son, God rest his soul. But she’s too involved with the business, too tough. My boy needs someone who will cook and make babies and leave business in the hands of her husband.”
I hold my rage by a thread. Hearing him talk about Carina making babies with anyone makes me want to deliver his body in parts back to his family in Chicago.
I never suggested Lucy either. She’d destroy Sully within a week.
“Why dismiss the idea so quickly? What if she wants to—”
“She doesn’t.” I bring the flat of my hand down on the desk, knocking over the photo of Carina and Lucy at last year’s performance. “Carina is off limits, now and forever. Did you have anything else to discuss,old friend? Because if not, there’s the door.”
I point, ready to convince him of my position with a 45 shell between his eyes if necessary.
Don Pugliesi does the mouth shrug again. “You will think about it. I’m sure you will come around. Carina—” he says as he picks up his Fedora.
And that’s fuckingenough.
In an instant, I’m on my feet, snapping my knife from its sheath at my hip. I hold the forged steel to his throat, his eyes wide as his hands go up, a whimper choking from his throat.
“J—Jesus Christ, Gennero! What the fuck… This is Christmas, for Christ’s sake! There’re no weapons at Christmas, you fucking know that. You’re the one that…”
He’s right. It’s the Christmas truce, hospitality and guarantees of safety. But he crossed the line and I don’t give a shit about any fucking truce when it comes to Carina.
Blood trickles along the edge of the blade.
“Jesus…” he says again, and I growl.
“You keep my granddaughter’s name out of your fucking mouth. She’s not marrying your fucking son or any other motherfucker you might have in mind. Clear?”
He nods, and I jerk the knife away, pushing him against the wall.
As I drop back into my seat, he shuffles out the door. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a trail of piss behind him.
I close my eyes and let out a sigh as I stare at the flickering monitors, absently stabbing the knife into the wood of my desk and twisting.
Carina. Is. Mine.
He didn’t close the door…
That thought comes a second too late. “What…” It’s Carina. “What’s going on?”
I growl. This is not how I wanted her to find out.
Carina stands in the open doorway in a gray sweatshirt and baggy jeans, her hair tumbling in auburn waves around her shoulders. Her face is fresh, eyes wide, her mouth falling open as her hands fly to her lips.
I knew it had to happen. I could only juggle the lies for so long.
She’s frozen as she scans the room. The photographs, the whirring computers, the bank of monitors, the sword, names of mobsters dead and alive on a whiteboard; the list of aliases; the weapons; the files containing material for extortion.
“Carina, it’s not—”
She chokes out an incredulous laugh. “It’s not what I think? Are you going to tell me you’re not involved with the fucking mob anymore? I hate that life. Ihate it. I don’t want to be part of any,” She waves her hands around, “of this. I won’t. How could you?”
