Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Nicolò
The security guard dips his gaze as I walk through the doors to Arena.
Benito’s most popular nightclub is thriving, its guest list bulging with the names of everyone in the city who wants to be seen.
But I’m more than a name on a clipboard.
I’m part of the furniture, along with Cristiano—our don, Andreas—our alliance partner and, of course, his brother Benito—our consigliere.
It’s a close-knit group for a reason. The fewer people we allow into the upper echelons of the Di Santo mafia family, the more secure it is. We are brothers in blood and oath. I trust each of them with my life and I would die for every single one.
Stepping into the elevator I shake off the stench of gasoline and fried food that seems to rise up off every sidewalk, and watch the floor numbers climb.
Then I step out into what we fondly call ‘the penthouse.’ It’s a large room, open plan, with a small bar in the corner and a round table at the far end.
My three brothers—for all intents and purposes—are already seated around it, swirling lowballs and muttering in serious tones.
The usual jabs are not being thrown about which instantly jars me into fight mode. It’s the only mode I have. When God was handing out the flight modes he skipped past me. Yeah, I know. Not very Christian of him.
All three men are edged forward on their chairs, sleeves rolled up, forearms decorating the table with elaborate ink, guns filling the gaps between them.
The ratio of guns to men, in my estimation, is two point five to one.
The extra point five probably belongs to Andreas.
He seems to like collecting firearms, like some twisted, serial-killing curator of death.
Wedding bands glitter on the ring fingers of Cristiano and Andreas. I swear they polish them nightly, like they’re not smug enough to be happily married to the loves of their lives.
There isn’t much that would distract these men from their task of annihilating our enemies in the name of advancing our agenda in the city—except their women. Tony Castellano’s offspring have wrapped my brothers around their manicured pinkies and it makes me feel nauseous.
These men are an exception to the norm. Mafia men don’t find and settle down with the loves of their lives.
My own father was a perfect example. The second the going got tough, he left my mother high and dry while he fucked anything with two legs and a pussy.
Just like nearly every other made man I know—apart from those entranced by a Castellano sister it seems.
I refrain from rolling my eyes. I may feel slightly bitter, but no good will come of me showing it.
I experienced a happy family life once upon a time, and I took it for granted.
It couldn’t have gone more wrong, but a stupid, idealistic part of my brain still hankers for it. Though, not with a Castellano.
Because, these days, Tony Castellano isn’t just Tony Castellano, port owner and Di Santo associate, anymore. He’s my stepfather.
I don’t mind the whole stepfather thing all that much, really. Tony makes Mom happy. Plus, I’m twenty-eight now, too long in the tooth to be calling anyone ‘Pops.’ Really, he’s still just an associate to me.
I shift uneasily. An associate I sometimes have to share a dinner table with—aka a front row seat as he gives doe eyes to the woman who gave birth to me. I’d rather not think about that right now.
Unbuttoning my jacket, I lower onto the fourth seat and cross my right calf over my left knee so I can flick some of the street filth off my shoe.
“What are we dealing with?” I ask, sliding my gaze up to their taut expressions.
“Two of Augie’s men have been cut off in Queens,” Cristiano says, low and blunt. “He’s meeting with the capo now.”
“Cut off?” I shift my body, giving my boss—and cousin—my full attention.
It’s practically unheard of for a Di Santo soldier to be refused protection money, let alone two, especially in a pitch like Augie’s.
His men have controlled that part of the city for over a decade, with little to no warfare. “How?”
Benito’s tense sigh draws my gaze to the other side of the table. “They’re only rumors right now but some of my informants say we’ve been undercut.”
My eyes widen. “Undercut? By who?”
Benito and Cristiano exchange a look and Andreas’ gaze rests heavily on me as the cogs turn and the unthinkable enters my head. “The Marchesi’s?”
“No. They are hardly a threat anymore.” Cristiano takes a sizeable mouthful of whisky before letting the glass drop a little too hard on the wooden tabletop.
“This threat is different. It’s underhand.
It’s undermining. Attacking our numbers on the ground over time weakens us.
And whomever is behind this knows that.”
“Bratva,” I state with conviction. “These are Bratva tactics.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Andreas says with a pissed-off grunt. He’s been in the clan for all of two seconds and already his empire is coming under pressure from a formidable enemy.
“But only two of our guys have been cut off, right?”
“Two guys who controlled the biggest business in Queens,” Benito clarifies, his brow pinched. “It’s a loss of half a mil a year for the Di Santo’s.”
My eyes burn. “Half a million?”
The fight in me swells a notch.
I don’t wait for a response before continuing. “What do we expect they’ll do next?”
All our gazes land on Cristiano. He’s new to this game but he’s not his father’s son for nothing.
“If their tactics are typical of the Russian mafia, they’ll look to pick off as many numbers as they can, then deal a blow we can only interpret as an act of war,” he says. “But by then, if their plan has worked, we’ll be so stripped back we won’t have enough ground cover to retaliate.
Letting my right leg drop to the ground, I sit back in my chair with a thud. “Why now?” I ask, more to the thickly mottled atmosphere than to my brothers. They’ll be wondering the same thing. “We’ve had no beef with the Bratva for years. What’s changed?”
“Nikolai Morozov,” Benito states with a little too much satisfaction. He never fails to do his homework.
My brows knit at the unfamiliar name.
After a long, purposeful pause, he enlightens us.
“He’s the grandson of Oleg Morosov, the Pakhan who ruled one of the largest Bratva outfits on the east coast some fifty years ago.
Your grandfather…” Benito glides his gaze to Cristiano, “was head of one of several Italian families that called a temporary truce in order to wipe them out.”
Cristiano tents his fingers and taps them against his lips. “Go on.”
“He has a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon and the ambition to match. My sources say he wants to take control, not just of New York, but of all the cities we own—including Boston.”
Benito pauses to let that sink in. I watch Andreas across the table. The work he’s put into winning influence on a political level as well as eradicating the South Boston gangs has been nothing short of a hard-won victory. He is not going to take this lying down.
His teeth grind as he focuses on the table in thought. Then, he reaches down into a bag by his chair and pulls out a box. We all train our eyes on it, wondering what the fuck he has up his sleeve.
I watch intently as he pops the lid off the box. Then my eyes widen in confusion.
“Cake?” he asks, brightly.
I mean, it’s kind of stating the obvious. Inside the box is indeed a cake covered entirely in pink frosting and silver sprinkles. The only conclusion I can draw in the context of our discussion is that the thing is housing some kind of grenade.
“What?” Benito asks, his tone slightly incredulous.
Andreas slides his gaze across us all. It’s comical in its innocence.
“Are you serious?” I ask, frowning.
He shrugs. “Sera made it for us. She’s getting real good at baking. You need to try it.”
My eyes are almost popping out of my head. “Wait… We’re talking about the very real possibility the Bratva is attempting to wipe us out, and you’re offering us your woman’s cake?”
I glare at Cristiano, hoping he’s going to pluck Andreas’ head out of the clouds and chain his feet to the goddamn ground, but he’s grinning.
“I’ll take a slice,” our don responds.
I stare open-mouthed as Andreas cuts a slice and hands it to Cristiano. Then we all watch him eat. The room falls silent but for the soft lip-smacking sounds of a grown man eating a slice of red velvet… like it’s his last meal.
“That is seriously good cake,” he says, finally, licking the last bit of frosting off his fingers. “I got a slight taste of honey,” he adds, tipping his head to one side.
Andreas lights up. “Yeah, she’s experimenting with different ingredients.”
“Well, whatever she’s doing is working. That was delicious.”
Andreas whips a cell from his inside pocket and begins to type. “She’ll be stoked you said that.”
I pan my gaze across them all in disbelief. Even Benito hasn’t stepped in and I expected more from him. “Can we get back to the issue at hand now?” I suggest, tightly.
Benito continues. “What we’ve seen so far in Queens is the tip of the iceberg.
They’ve had a presence in the Carolinas for the last two decades—tobacco smuggling, trafficking, anything that makes them a quick, quiet buck.
But they’ve had a stronghold in Miami and south Florida for long before that. ”
Cristiano’s brow furrows lightly. “We know about the Trafficante turf wars.”
“Yeah,” Benito says, “they never ended. Several paper-thin truces have been called, but the Bratva aren’t, let’s say, terribly disciplined at keeping their side of the bargain.
It seems Morozov has quietly expanded. He’s planting a few small seeds in New York but his main focus right now is Jersey. ”
“Newark?” Cristiano frowns.