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I caught the words drifting from across the room. Besides, if I was standing near my father, I’d miss the warm goddamn reception. I curled my lip, finding the mouthy bastard across the room. Baby-faced fucker. How old was he? Like…twelve?Twelve, with a man’s body. I scanned his massive chest and suit jacket that fit him like a damn second skin across his arms. He stood with his boys. Just a damn punk. I gave a snigger and glanced away.
“Hey,” the asshole barked across the room. “You think this is fucking funny?”
Movement came as the wannabe stepped forward, until one of his boys pushed him back with a hand on his chest. I had no idea who he was. One of Salvatore’s bitches.
Muttering rose as movement came from the front door of the funeral home. And all off a sudden, the smirk on my face died. Dominic Salvatore strode in, wearing black from head to toe and an icy homicidal gaze. Jesus, the bastard looked fucking lifeless. I glanced toward Dad, standing just inside the room and out of Salvatore's line of sight.
“Shit,” Gravel muttered under his breath, and took a slow step forward.
I glanced toward Finley, who just stood there nursing a glass with three fingers of Scotch. He lifted his gaze as his father entered the room. Dominic Salvatore turned his head and then looked away. But in that moment, fear and rage collided. Jesus, talk about your fucked-up relationships. It made me almost feel bad for Finley…almost.
“Dominic.” My dad turned toward the giant of a man and held out his hand.
He was fatter than the last time I'd seen him. I lowered my gaze to his straining belt as tension coiled in my gut like a serpent.
Dominic Salvatore just stared into my father’s eyes. Fuck me if Dad didn't hold his ground, his hand outstretched in a gesture of support. There was bad blood between them, bad blood that had started with the one reason we were here…Cian Salvatore.
Dad didn’t speak much about the reason. No one did. But considering the quiet tears he’d shed two nights ago when the call came there’d been an assassination, it wasn’t hard to guess that at one time my father was in love with the Irish powerhouse.
Cosa Nostra Institute.A playground for young men like Dominic and my dad. Guns, blood, hate, and loyalty were the fucking creed that place lived by. But it was more than that. It was a place for alliances, a place where an Irish Warlord offered his daughter to the most powerful, richest…most savage of the Commission’s sons.
Then sat back and watched the fight.
Dominic Salvatore and Orlando Rossi.
One born-and-bred Cosa Nostra, the other its rival…Stidda.
But both went to the same institution. The same damn institution I’d attended two years ago with Finley. All in the name of putting the bad blood of the warring families behind us.
“Fucking Stidda, I can smell their stench from here.”
I jerked my gaze back to the asshole who was just fuckingachingfor a beatdown. Tension tightened my muscles. I clenched my fists and took a step forward.
“Laz,” Gravel murmured with a shake of his head. “This isn’t the right time.”
“But it’s the right fucking place,” I answered. “At least the wannabe gangsta won’t have far to go when I kill him.”
I let the words carry, giving him a smile as he curled his lips. Then I blew the fucker a kiss before chuckling under my breath, and turned. We hadn’t come for a battle. Actually, it was just the opposite. Dad, Gravel, and two others hanging around outside the funeral home were all the muscle we'd come with.
It was hot in here…too goddamn hot. The stale air was choking. I reached up and yanked the top button of my white shirt open. I hated fucking suits, give me leather any day. “I need some damn air anyway,” I muttered, and turned away.
“Thatta boy,” Gravel muttered under his breath, never once taking his eyes off my father and Dominic Salvatore. “Go cool down.”
I glanced my father’s way as Dominic Salvatore took what was offered and clasped his meaty paw around Dad’s hand. In a fair fight, there would be no contest. The Rossis grew up on the streets, we were leaner, tougher…hungrier.But the Salvatores…yeah, they were a whole other breed. Cold-blooded vipers. They were the ones who paid to have your family taken out, the ones with bottomless pockets.
Word was they had a secret weapon when it came to money…word was they had someone calledthe Ghost.Some middle-aged schmuck who'd crawled into bed with the wrong fucking people. But no one knew for sure. If anyone came within ten fucking miles of the Salvatore house, you were pulled over, frisked…and occasionally disappeared.
Brute strength against the power of money.
It was a fucking hard choice.
I left the pissing contest behind and headed for the dust-choked air of a darkened doorway. No way was I going to step around the Salvatores like a whipped fucking dog. I reached up, unbuttoned the top of my shirt another button, and worked the damn tie loose as I strode along the hallway, searching for a way out of that fucking mausoleum that was the traditional Cosa Nostra crematory, and strode into the kitchen. There were two plates covered in plastic wrap on the counter, chunks of cheese and some kind of meat smushed together underneath. My gut tightened with the thought of someone eating that shit. White ceramic sinks and ugly green tiles. It looked like it was built in the 70s. Fuck their traditions. If I was dead I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near a fucking place like this. I glanced toward the closed back door with its faded, dust-gray lace curtain and winced.
Just get the fuck out of there.
I yanked open the door and stepped out, taking in a lungful of the crisp morning air.
The place backed on to a cemetery. Winter grass was sodden and trampled. I closed the door behind me and reached into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes as movement came from the corner of the building.
