“One hell of a coincidence,” I mutter in Italian.
“Don’t do anything rash, Angelo,” Levi says, also in Italian.
“Please, friends, we can all speak English here,” Dujar beseeches.
“Your supply costs, I understand,” I tell him. “But you’re asking for ten percent more of the overall price. That doesn’t make any sense, Dujar. We’ll pay five percent more—as a courtesy—for twenty crates.”
“But our costs have increased by ten percent,” he says. “And we have already paid for the twenty-five crates.”
“So you say,” I snap. “How do I know you aren’t just lying to my face?”
He tuts like I’ve just spoiled a civilized luncheon or something. Now he’s looking at me with complete disrespect in his eyes. I grind my teeth. “You could have supplied twenty crates and decided to tell me a story about bad weather. And how am I supposed to know that your supply costs have really gone up?”
Sighing, he says, “Because it’s not in my interest to lie to you, Angelo.”
I can’t help it anymore. This has gone on for long enough. I grit my teeth and growl, “We are not paying that. We will pay eighty percent of the agreed-upon price for eighty percent of the agreed-upon goods. With nothing extra for the supply costs. Next time, maybe, we’ll talk about that. But you need to give us more warning if you want to change the deal. This isn’t how business is done.”
Dujar sighs. He is about to say something else when one of his men whispers in his ear. A smile breaks out across his face. “Ah, what a pleasant surprise. It seems your father is here. Let us hope he is more reasonable.”
I turn to see that, as a matter of fact, my father is here, in the fucking flesh. He’s tall—with sharp blue-green eyes; the same color as mine. He walks with the confidence of a king.
He doesn’t even look at me as he and Dujar shake hands. “Everything is going well, I trust?”
I turn and start pacing up and down like a wolf in a cage. Levi glances at me. I crack my neck from side to side. Dujar and Father talk for a long time, joking about the weather and exchanging a few words of Italian, which is a running thing for them, pretending to be learning each other’s languages.
Father is not a weak man. He is rightfully feared, and he has done things that would make even these Albanians turn white in fear. I’ve heard all the stories about how he saved Mother from the Irish, back in the day.
But right now, I don’t see a warrior. I see a bootlicker, a politician. I clench my fists so hard I feel my knuckles protruding through the skin.
Because he has agreed to the deal. With a smile.
“So, Dad,” I interrupt, after they have been talking for some time, “we’re going to pay the exorbitant price and just hope that they don’t do this again next time?”
“Yes.” His gaze flickers to me. “Is there a problem?”
I smile widely. “What sane man could have a problem with such a shrewd deal?” I turn to Giuseppe, who’s holding a duffel bag of cash. “Give them the money, Giuseppe. The full amount requested.” My voice is drenched with sarcasm.
Giuseppe passes the bag into the hands of one of Dujar’s men, who retreats back into the darkness. Dujar bows, grins, and disappears just as quickly. I don’t like how fast they all get into their cars, how they drive away like they’re running from something. I get the itch to check the shipments, but as our men arrive and start loading the crates onto a truck, Dad waggles his finger at me and angles his nose towards the water, indicating for me to follow him. I go reluctantly.
“You are going to give me your ‘rage is a weapon’ speech,” I tell him.
His smile flickers for a brief instant. “You know me too well, son. Yes, rage is a weapon. But it cuts both ways. You must learn to use it or it will get you in trouble one day. You did not conduct yourself well, storming around like that. It was disrespectful.”
“I am sorry,” I say. “I did not mean to disrespect you—”
“Not me. Dujar.”
“Then I’m not sorry. I am glad he was disrespected.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and looks out at the water. “Ah, Angelo. You are hungry to lead. That is good. But a leader must know when to shake a hand and when to make it into a fist. How many times have I told you that?”
“Too many, Dad.”
He smiles lightly. “And yet you still don’t hear it, hm? Your mother would say you have cotton wool in your ears.”
I sigh. Maybe I haven’t truly heard him before. Though the devil knows I’ve heard my mother’s Old Country expressions enough times to last me the rest of my life.
“Speaking of your mother,” he goes on, “I have news for you.”
“News?”
“I know you are eager for me to step down.”
I don’t deny it. I never have. My greatest desire is to rise up in the Family and lead it as the don, just like my father did when he took the reins of the De Maggio organization.
This is a moment years—no, lifetimes—in the making. Instantly, my foul mood washes away. I can feel my future like it’s a living thing in my grasp, a horse that I’m finally wrestling under control.
Don Angelo. The words send a thrilling shiver down my spine. Dujar will not slime away so easily when I am in charge. He, his men, and anyone else in this city who draws my ire will suffer for it.
I cannot fucking wait.
Father is still talking while I ruminate excited, so I catch only the tail end of the last thing he says. “…a wife.”
I blink. “What?”
He tilts his head and stares at me curiously. It is strange to see my eyes in another man’s face, so similar and yet so different. Our irises are the exact same shade, but whereas his swim with a placid intelligence, mine are fiery and violent. Mother says that Father’s eyes once looked like mine; that he, too, was young and brimming with boundless force. The infamous Carlo De Maggio, king of the city, the man none dare cross, the man who slayed The Elephant. But it appears that the years have cooled him.
“You weren’t listening to me, son.”
“I was, Father.”
“Then tell me what I said.”
I open my mouth to say something crass, then think better of it. Father is clearly in a mood. And though the years may have tempered his fire somewhat, they have certainly not extinguished it altogether.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I hate the way the words taste in my mouth.
Father nods. “I said, When you have found a wife, so that you can make an heir, then I will step down. My hope is that this will teach you the meaning of responsibility.”
His words hang in the air—cold and unpleasant. I clench my fist. Marriage? … an heir? Has he lost his fucking mind? Those words are not in my vocabulary.
I start to stammer angrily, “That hardly seems fair—”
He cuts me off with an icy glare. “Am I known for speaking just for the sake of it?”
“No, Father. It’s one of your many perfections.”
He smiles. “I do believe you were being sarcastic then. But like it or not, that is the state of affairs. Find yourself a wife, and we will talk.” Dad turns when his consigliere, Nario, a tall, thin man with intelligent eyes set in a skeletal face, approaches. “Yes?”