“You think he’s here for an ambush?” he questions, fiddling with the headset affixed to his ear.
I laugh. “I don’t fucking care if he is. But if I kill him, I’ll need the body disposed of quick, so get another team over here.”
I slam the door and start forward, finding my office already unlocked. It’s a small building, staffed by a lone janitor I haven’t gotten the chance to know too well. From what I recall of the man—older with a limp on his right side—he might be the type capable of being threatened into opening up the place. Sure enough, I enter the small lobby where a secretary would sit on a normal business day and find it empty.
Inside my office proper, a man lounges in the chair behind my desk, reclined to its fullest position. Dressed in a cream suit every bit as tacky as his car, he has his feet propped on top of the polished surface, leaving a trail of mud inches from my nameplate.
“I hear you’ve been naughty, Donny,” he says, steepling his fingers. So many gold rings are stacked on each one that I’m surprised the sunlight glinting off the bling doesn’t blind him. “Very naughty indeed.” His eyes gleam, staring from a face that’s seen the end of a fist too many damn times—mine especially. His crooked nose disrupts the polished, rich aura he desperately tries to exude. While his black hair may be coifed and his fancy jewelry 18 carats, at his core, he’s still the same punk ass he’s always been. Once I even called him a friend.
Antonio Salvatore.
“You have five seconds.” I don’t bother explaining any more than that. I reach into my pocket and grab my gun, withdrawing it.
Salvatore chuckles. “Relax, Donny. I’m here on business.” He nods to the view beyond my window—a postcard-perfect snapshot of the waterfront. From here, a man could easily position himself to control the flow of goods that keep the world running smoothly—or this city at least. “Nice position here you’ve carved out for yourself,” Antonio remarks with undisguised greed. “It would be a damn shame to give it all away. Especially to a cunt like Mischa Stepanov.”
“I don’t do ‘business,’ with men who try to have me killed,” I snarl, hunting his expression for any hint of a reaction. The bastard was always good at his poker face, despite failing at everything else. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Don’t tell me you’ve had a hard time, Donatello,” he simpers, raising a black eyebrow.
I grit my teeth. I could always kick him out, but he’s here for a reason. Rat’s like Salvatore do nothing without putting their own self-interest first. So why come to me and risk pissing off someone way higher on the totem pole?
“If I’m not mistaken, you were at the home of said cunt just a few days ago, sniffing around his daughter,” I point out.
He smiles and shrugs. “A man’s gotta eat. As much as it pains me to admit, Mischa runs this fucking city—and with the harbor, no one will be able to stand in his way. That just doesn’t sound fair, does it?”
“Spare me the dramatics,” I hiss, feeling my eyes narrow. At a glance, the fucker appears to be alone—but I doubt that. Given my recent brush with a certain sniper, I make sure to take a step back, putting myself beyond the window’s range. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you. Don’t doubt me when I say I’ve been dreaming about it.”
God knows I have. If I were still the sort of man who kept a hit list in his back pocket, Antonio would be at the top of the list.
“Still so paranoid,” he remarks. “You were always looking for enemies among friends. Though after what happened to your wife…any man would be rattled. Olivia was a beautiful woman.”
I grit my teeth, recognizing the bait for what it is. With his lip quirked, the man watches me for an ounce of a reaction he can pounce on.
I meet his gaze instead and question—not for the first time—how I ever once called this bastard a brother.
“Olivia was beautiful, and she loved me,” I say coldly. “No matter how many jealous bastards sniffed after her, she never strayed. Few men can say the same about their wives.”
Salvatore’s smirk flattens. “It’s a shame what happened to her.”
He doesn’t even try to conceal the verbal knife this time. What happened? Someone gunned her and my newborn son down in our own fucking home. Various excuses had floated around then to explain the attack, but I know the real reason—someone wanted to hurt me. Killing Olivia was the best way to do that. The bastards thought I would crumble.
But I didn’t, did I?
Facing Salvatore, I say, “Only a pussy would target a helpless woman and her child.”
“Then it’s a damn good thing you punished her murderers,” he replies, returning his gaze to the window. “What a shame about Gino, though. You treated the man like family. Especially his little girl—it’s a shame about what happened to her as well. What was her name again? Sofia? To die so young.”
I flinch, and like any snake, Salvatore stirs at the reaction, flicking his tongue along his lower lip as if tasting the blood in the air.
“What the fuck do you want?” I demand.
With a sigh, he sets his feet on the floor and sits forward, leaning over my desk as if he owns it. “I want you to give your share of the harbor to me. I will deal with Mischa. The bastard cannot contest it as long as you make a legal trade. If he tries to draw blood over it, I have the famiglia at my back, and our allies are numerous. He wouldn’t dare challenge it.”
“No,” I say. “But funnily enough, my safety doesn’t seem to be included in that little plan.”
I have to laugh, though, am I surprised by the half-baked scheme? No. Salvatore was always a covetous piece of shit, wanting what he couldn’t have—namely everything I did. My position. My influence. My wife.
But to come here and ask me directly to piss off the mafiya on his say so? The man must have grown quite the pair of balls since our time under the elder Giovanni Rossi.
“Of course, you would be protected, old friend,” he insists. “I’d love to welcome you back into the fold.”
And have me groveling at his feet instead of at Mischa’s.
“Get the fuck out,” I snarl, dropping all pretense. I lift the gun and finger the trigger, wishing more than anything that I had the impulse to pull it. Maybe without my morning shot of whiskey…
As it stands, I need a reason to, not that I’d have to look too far. “Now. House rules say you’re trespassing. I’d have every right to kill you.”
“No need for threats.” He stands, dusting off his slacks. “I will leave. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Mischa finds himself unable to uphold his end of your little bargain—don’t look so surprised, Donatello. The entire world knows of how you violated his daughter like the pig you are. But I suggest you think carefully—” He snickers as I take a step toward him, curling a fist. “Join me now, transfer the harbor rights to me, and you may see the glory you once achieved again. The offer won’t last forever.”
My trigger finger twitches with alarming resolve. Maybe that whiskey wasn’t enough, after all? I can feel the icy coldness at the back of my skull, urging me to give in. Teach this sick fuck a lesson…