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Yeah, it’s a childish place to go in my head, but at this point, I really don’t give a shit. Because despite everything I’ve built and everything I have despite coming from nothing, it still all boils down to this: do as you’re told, or it all gets taken away.
Sure, my place on Long Island might be bigger than Charles Black’s old-money, “my ancestors came over on the fucking Mayflower” sprawling Westchester, New York mansion of a home. My pockets may be deeper than his, and my reach and influenceabsolutelygo further than his at this point.
But.
There’s still a massive difference between us. Charles is truly monarch of his kingdom. I, however, still can’t seem to get out from under the…influenceof others.
Part of me hates myself for feeling angry about it. After all, I really did come from nothing, and though he might be pushing me toward something in which I currently have no interest, almost all of what I have now is thanks to Vito Barone.
My father once worked as the personal tailor to the don of the Barone family, truly living up to our last name ofSartorre. But that was decades ago, in another life. And when my parents were killed when my sisters and I were still kids, instead of shoving us out to fend for ourselves in a world that would have certainly devoured us, Vito took in Claudia, Bianca, and me.
Years later, it was Vito again who helped me lay the foundation and the first stones of my empire. It’s by Vito’s grace, and the grace of the other Italian families, that Club Venom is even allowed to exist, and I am able to run that empire I’ve built with almost total impunity.
But the thing is, the wheel of karma always comes back around. The pied piperalwaysgets paid.
And my bill just came due. With interest.
Honestly, I’ve known for years that I was walking a fine line. Club Venom, my empire, provides neither a service nor an entertainment. It facilitates desires, fantasies, and hedonism. That’s a fancy way of saying “what happens at Venom, between two—or frequentlymorethan two—consenting adults,staysat Venom.” The wealthy, powerful, typically connected and dangerous come to my house of ill repute to play how they like.
But always consensually, andwithoutany money changing hands. There’s a membership fee, but that’s it.
This is important. One, because I’m not, nor have I ever oncewantedto be, a pimp. Those who come to play at Venom arethere because they one hundred per cent want to be—I know this because I personally and thoroughly vet every single member. Venom isnota place for escorts, sex-workers, or anyone else who’s only there because they have to be.
Because fuck. That.
Aside from my own abhorrence of any situation where someonehasto participate in sex for money, the mob also shares that loathing. Or at least, a strong intolerance.
The Commission, which is sort of a council table of the five main Italian families in the United States, agreed almost twenty years ago to stop any involvement in the sex trade. As in, the Italians don’t pimp anymore. At all.
One, it’s morally reprehensible. But more than that, speaking in a pure business sense, it’s just not worth the bullshit involved. Drugs, guns, casinos, sports betting, construction rackets, and grifting city services… They all makewaymore money for a fraction of the headache involved.
But that’s where the ice has grown thin in places on the surface of my empire.
I of course knew that Marcia Greco, daughter of Angelo Greco, underboss to Don Cesare Marchetti, was a member of Club Venom, because all member applications run through me. Perhapsthere were some red flags in the back of my mind, letting the daughter of the second-in-command of the entire Marchetti family join my house of sin.
But I’m not here to play arbiter. Marcia is a fully grown, twenty-three-year old woman. If she wants to spend her Saturday nights getting gang-banged by Bratvaavtoritetsor giving lap dances to Yakuzawakagashira, what the fuck do I care?
No, the problem isn’t so much that Angelo found out where his little princess was spending her weekend evenings—okay, yeah, thatisa problem, given that Angelo now wants my balls on a plate, despite the fact that I personally never oncetouchedher. The bigger problem is that Marcia wasn’t just screwing dangerous and powerful men at Venom.
She wascharging them.
Obviously, I wasn’t aware that this was happening. I also haven’t the slightest clue if it was because Marcia wasn’t getting a big enough allowance from daddy dearest, or if the money thing was her kink. Frankly, I don’t give a shit.
But suddenly, The Commission’s not looking at Venom as my little fiefdom of hedonism for the wealthy and depraved. They’re looking at it as abrothel.
And that creates a problem.
Luckily, before I could get my favorite appendage removed by a bloodthirsty capo or have my entire empire yanked out from under me, Vito came up with an elegant solution. Elegant, that is, except I want nothing to do with it.
The solution is this: The Commission families have, thankfully, agreed that Marcia acted on her own. But the image problem with Club Venom remains—that I, a single, unmarried man am running what is effectively a “house of ill repute”, minus the monetary transactions.
It’s that “single and unmarried” part that creates the real issue, apparently. Now they’re worried that it looks like I’m operating as some kind of pimp. So it’s come down to this: get married, and quickly, and this whole problem goes away. The drinks keep flowing, the lights stay on, and the rich, powerful, and kinky ofNew York City can continue to fuck and suck to their filthy little hearts’ content at my club.
But now we come back to the million-dollar question: why do I want to marry Maeve Black? A girl half my age whose father is a poisonous fucking spider with his fingers in every single pie in New York?
Simple answer: I fuckingdon’t.
Charles Black is an embarrassing, disgusting stain on this city. And I have zero interest in marrying a child. But I’ve also been playing this game long enough to understand how to maneuver around while staying just inside the lines. In that sense, Maeve Black is theperfectmatch.
