I arch a brow in silent question, wondering exactly what beef Salerno has with Chicago, but he dismisses my interest with a wave of his hand, further enraging me. Blood boils in my veins, but outwardly, I’m Switzerland. “The fact the Sicilians are outside of this plan only adds to the appeal.”
He’s already forgotten the “for now” part. If things with the Bratva escalate, as I suspect they will, we will need every family back in the fold. Including Chicago.
“New York wants to restart The Commission, initially through informal alliances that we will expand on in time.”
“Why?” Saverio shrugs. “Things work so why try to fix something that isn’t broken?”
“The Russians are an ever-increasing concern, and we need to unite all Italian American families if we are to contain the threat they pose.” There are others to contend with too. The Irish, the Albanians, and the Triad could become a problem in New York. However, none of those factions warrant immediate action, because their numbers are small and their control is weak. But they are on my radar, and I’m keeping a close eye on things.
I take another sip of my drink, meeting Gambini’s hard stare with cool indifference. He’s got some Russian blood flowing through his veins. Distant, on his mother’s side. His father comes from a distinguished Italian American family, but his Russian DNA leaves him open for target practice. He’s eyeing me now, like he’s just waiting for me to throw some slur his way so he has an excuse to stomp all over my existence.
The man is known for crushing opponents with his bare hands and his complete disdain for life. Sneeze on him and he’s likely to kill you while barely breaking a sweat. What most don’t know is he is sharp as a tack. A shrewd man like Saverio Salerno doesn’t make a violent killer his underboss unless he has other considerable skills he’s bringing to the table.
“The Russians are no threat,” Salerno says, pouring more scotch into his glass.
Grabbing the twenty-thousand-dollar bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle, I top up my own drink before setting the bourbon back down on the table. “Their numbers match ours.”
“They are unorganized, disloyal, and they aren’t men of honor.”
“That is all true, but for how long? I’ve received intel that concerns me. If the Russians mobilized, they could hurt us. We don’t intend to give them the opportunity.”
“I can defend my own territory. Why would I agree to resurrecting The Commission? To engaging in a bigger battle?” Salerno drains his drink, pouring another.
“You can defend your territory now, but for how long? This is going to happen, and those who choose to stay independent will be obvious targets. If the Russians unite and they attack you with the strength of their numbers, there is no way you won’t fall. Strengthening ties makes sense.”
“If the Russians land on my doorstep, I will kill every one of those motherfuckers myself,” Salerno says, and I wonder if he really buys into that bullshit.
“And you’ll either be dead or in a jail cell.” I put my foot down on the ground and lean forward a little. “We can’t continue to do things the traditional way, Saverio. Even with judges, lawyers, and law enforcement in our pockets, these RICO laws are restrictive. We can’t go around killing anyone who breathes on us funny anymore.” I side-eye Gambini, and the fucker growls. “La Cosa Nostra is no different from any other enterprise. We have to adapt, evolve, and grow, or we won’t survive.”
“I’ve heard about some of your endeavors,” Salerno says, clicking his fingers at one of the men standing at the door. The man slips away by unspoken agreement. “I’ve heard what you’re trying to do.”
“Times are changing, gentlemen.” I lock eyes with his capos, a curious Russo, and a reluctant Gambini. “It’s adapt or die.”
4
BEN
“I agree, and strengthening ties is smart.” Salerno nods his agreement, and I want to smash my fist in his face.
The motherfucker was just testing me.
I clasp my glass tighter in my grip, talking myself off a ledge. For eight years, I’ve been on a prolonged test, and I’m sick of it. I thought as long as I paid my dues as a soldier, and worked my way up the ranks, I would earn my place at my father’s side without question, without any further test, but it’s obvious I am far from in the clear, and no one is finished testing me.
“Which leads me to our last piece of business before we move to the entertainment part of our night.” He smirks, and I shift uneasily in my chair, knowing what’s coming and wishing I could make my excuses and leave. To do so would dishonor our host, so I’m resigned to spending the night in the company of whores and sex slaves. Bile churns in my gut, and I gulp back a large dose of bourbon, welcoming the tart apple and caramel notes, and the comforting warm heat sliding down my throat. Getting drunk might be the only way I’ll get through this night. “Does your father have a response to my proposal?”
Again, with this bullshit. I grind my teeth to the molars, counting to ten in my head before I reply. “I’m not marrying a child bride,” I tell him bluntly. “And it’s unnecessary. Forging stronger business alliances and uniting under the auspices of a new Commission is all that is needed to bind our families.”
If I have my way, when I’m the boss, I will be petitioning to amend some of the old traditions, like the practice of arranged marriages. I’m not naïve. I know part of who we are is embedded in the old ways, and there are some things I won’t get agreement to change, but the barbaric practices when it comes to women and their roles in our society is something I am passionate about.
I wasn’t able to do anything for my mom, but maybe I can alleviate some guilt by ensuring other women are spared what she endured.
“I’m not sure I like your tone,” Saverio says, a fresh layer of hostility filtering through the air.
“I mean you or Anais no disrespect, but I have already told my father I have no intention of getting married. I take my duties to la famiglia seriously and marrying anyone will weaken my position.”
I’m expected to marry a beautiful well-behaved woman who will give me heirs to carry on the Mazzone legacy. Yet wives are little more than accessories. Caged birds who need to be kept in place, and I have zero desire to subject myself or any woman to that fate.
The reason why many men in our world agree to arranged marriages is so they can avoid caring too much. Lavishing affection on your wife is seen as a weakness, so our men rarely marry for love. And keeping a whore or two on the side ensures their wives are kept in check—should they harbor any romantic notions about their husbands.
Wives and children are obvious targets in our world, and I want no part of that. It’s ironic our code of conduct supposedly reveres women, yet it’s okay to disrespect them by kidnapping and killing them to make a point or to bed whores, as long as it’s not flaunted openly.
Other families have even less regard for women, and Vegas is at the top of that list. Rumor has it, Salerno murdered his wife—eleven-year-old Anais’s mother—because she objected when he moved three of his whores into their home. He’s also amassed a large fortune from the sex trafficking trade, something we have stayed clear of in New York, out of principle and to avoid excessive heat. While I hate doing business with a man like him, we need his shipping and distribution routes, and he has other forward-thinking ideas I like.