Those lessons don’t resonate with me. I can’t shift this cauldron of rage inside my chest, no matter how hard I try. And I don’t care to try, either. It drives me. It directs me. My anger is what makes me worthy of the throne.
Because the Albanians disrespected us, and if we’re not careful, it will happen again and again. And then word will get out. We’ll lose control. Everything Father spent years building will crumble. He became a violent, capable man to make the Family what it is today, but what he doesn’t seem to understand is that the need for those sort of men doesn’t just disappear because you’ve made it out of the gutter. The gutter is always reaching out, trying to drag you back down.
The more I ponder, the hotter my rage grows. So when the asshole at the bar who starts getting handsy with an innocent woman, it is clear that he has picked the worst possible time to do it. I’m not some white knight and I sure as hell don’t trust any woman in Sole Nero. But at the very least they deserve a modicum of respect. This bastard has clearly missed that memo.
The man is a tall guy, college-aged, who must clock in at two-fifty of muscle. He’s wearing a fucking football jersey beneath his blazer. Whichever bouncer let him in is going to feel my wrath once he’s done.
He’s pawing at the girl’s leg as she tries to move away, but she’s trapped by the crowd.
I stride down the stairs with this inferno accumulating in me. Everybody on the dance floor moves out of my way. Maybe they can sense my rage. Maybe they know who I am. Smart decision either way.
The people waiting for the bar part like the fucking Red Sea and then I’m standing next to my targets. The woman turns at my approach, but the jersey bastard is too busy groping to realize what is about to happen to him.
“Come on, babe,” he’s whining. “Don’t be like that. Don’t—”
I put my hand on his shoulder, lightly, mostly because if I grabbed him with full force, I don’t trust myself not to squeeze until I hear the bone crack. Until I snap tendon and blood vessels and he is reduced to a quivering puddle of douche on the sticky floor.
I hear my father’s voice in my head. A leader must know when to shake a hand and when to make it into a fist. This pathetic creep is lucky—tonight is not his night to die.
But it will be his night to suffer.
“Dude, what the fuck?” He spins on me. He’s strong, and when he hits my hand away, I feel a real note of pain. I laugh out loud. It feels real. Grounds me into the moment. “Have you lost your fucking mind, shitbird?”
“Does this woman look interested?” I ask calmly.
He pushes his shoulders back. Here is a man who is used to intimidating people. He clearly has no fucking idea I’m immune to intimidation. “She will be,” he sneers. Then, shifting to a grin, he says, “Look, we know each other, all right? This ain’t nothing we ain’t been through before. So just do me a favor and back off, cool?”
“No,” I say. I take a step forward, invading his personal space. “Not cool.”
“You wanna throw down? Is that it?”
I smile. A chance to let go of some of my anger? I’m not going to turn it down.
“I suppose the boys you threaten normally shake in their fucking boots at that.” I nod. “We can throw down. We can do it right now.”
I stare right into his eyes. There is no mistaking the look in them: I am willing to go much, much farther than he is.
Suddenly, he remembers that he’s a coward, and raises his hands awkwardly between us. “Listen, man. I didn’t mean anything by it, all right? Just let me by and I’ll get going.”
I step aside just enough to let him pass. He walks away, shaking his head, fists clenched like men do when they’re thinking about all the things they should have done.
When I turn to the woman, I’m sickened by the look on her face. She’s biting her lip and giving me bedroom eyes. “My savior,” she giggles drunkenly.
Maybe more than drunkenly. She sounds fucked-up on something stronger, probably a De Maggio Family product, the likes of which are circulating discreetly around the dance floor to buyers with cash in hand and a burning need to get high. I shove aside my distaste, remind myself that business is business and she’s a free woman. It’s her choice what drugs she takes.
I shake my head. “You’ve got the wrong man,” I tell her. “I am nobody’s savior. Have a good night.”
My cell buzzes and I see that Father has texted me. Downtown office, now. Irritation blossoms in my chest. ‘Now.’ Like I’m his errand boy, standing by the phone to heed his beck and call. That, too, I shove aside.
I text Giuseppe: You in the club? How drunk are you?
Immediately, his response: Yes, and not at all.
Outside. I need a ride.
A few minutes later, Giuseppe comes walking out, nodding briefly to me, though the big man has a strange look on his face, that jittery, slightly manic look people get when they want to be elsewhere.
“Where to, boss?” he asks.
“The downtown office.”
I climb into the back of the car and we drive. Looking out at the night, I think about the future. How the Family could either become stronger and more feared than ever, or how our kindness could make us seem weak and pathetic.
A wife. An heir. These things are supposed to make me ready to lead?
I’m jolted from these thoughts by the metal shriek of a car rear-ending us. I slam forward, cursing as the seat belt cuts into my chest. My forehead splits against something hard in front of me.
“Just what I fucking need,” I rasp as blood drips down the bridge of my nose.
Then I get out of the vehicle to see who has dared cross me tonight.
6
Dani
Over the next couple of days, I make a point of checking up periodically on the OD victim from the drug den, the one the naloxone didn’t work on.
It doesn’t look good.
This is how it is these days. A needle equals death. I just want to find whatever monster is supplying these drugs and make them pay.
Tonight, when I arrive for my shift, I swing by the hospital room as usual. The kid’s name is Malcolm and he works at a gas station. He used to play hockey and his favorite meal is a good ol’ burger and fries. I know all of this because his girlfriend, Rachael, tells me. We’ve made a habit—if two days can be a habit—of grabbing a quick coffee and sitting outside his room, talking for a few minutes.
Today, though, she’s not reading a book or scrolling through her phone like she normally is. She’s just standing there, statue-still, letting the tears slide down her cheeks. She glances up at me and makes this choking noise from the back of her throat.
And then I know: Malcolm is dead.
I feel a selfish punch in my gut. What if that was Wyatt? Then I put that aside, go to Rachael, and wrap my arms around her. “Hey, hey,” I whisper. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
“He’s dead,” she sobs, clutching at my shirt with feeble hands. “Jesus Christ, he’s really dead.”
“Do you have anyone I can call?” I ask.
“They did—the doctor, I mean. My mom’s coming.”