Two
Giovanni
This Cosa Nostra bullshit is revealing just how desperately the Outfit is in need of more young blood sitting at the big-boy table. These old capos have become too complacent in their ways. Their greedy, fearful spirits shining through with every word they utter, disgusts me. As they continue to bitch and moan to Vincent about the recent attacks by our new enemy, I look around and engrave the names of each coward in my head. One in particular stands out more than most—Silvio-fucking-Bianchi.
Always so damn vocal of his discontent for how our boss and leader has been dealing with the issue. Of course, the asshole is still sore about losing his role as consigliere the minute Vince took over the reins of the syndicate. I, however, thought it was about damn time The Butcher lost some of his power. If it had been up to me, I would have dismissed the fucker with a bullet right between his eyes as his severance package. But Vincent, in so many ways, is still very old school. He lives by the fucking code his uncle enforced on him, and I am certain, if someone were to take away Vincent’s honor, he would be a shell of himself—more than the cold bastard he already is.
Luckily, he has me.
One of the best decisions our capo dei capi ever made was nominating me as his consigliere . To most of these old fuckers’ surprise, I rose to the role in ways Bianchi never could. Sure, lo cazzo was proficient in torturing our adversaries and striking fear wherever he went, but at the end of the day his tactful, sadistic brawn was no match for my brain. My revolutionary ideas made all these bastardi richer than they have ever dreamed possible, and for made men like us, benjamins speak louder than bullets any day of the fucking week—a truth The Butcher resents and is mindful of keeping in check, as not to lose his own percentage.
Fucker.
But here we are, all in a debate at the old Romano estate, when in reality we should be at his fucking house, paying our respects to a woman that upheld the Omertá and famiglia code to her very end. The asshole couldn’t even throw a wake in Anna Maria’s honor, and instead, he’s here sobbing about how one of his restaurants was burned down this week.
“I’m sure your insurance will cover any loss and then some,” I hear Vincent calmly reply above all the fevered shouting.
“That isn’t the point! You have to do something to appease them!” Bianchi howlers at the top of his lungs. I’m seated right at Vincent’s side, while the asshole is at the end of the table, and I can still see his freaking tonsils from way over here.
“Do I?” Vincent rebukes with his brow lifted.
The genius bastard already has plans for the Cosa Nostra , and appeasing our Italian comrades will not be one of them. I crack a smile at Bianchi’s discomfort as the whole table of made men grows silent, waiting to learn what Vincent has up his sleeve.
“Of course you do! Do you expect us to do nothing and let them burn to the ground all we have worked so hard for?” Bianchi continues on.
Hard work? What a joke.
The asshole hardly lifted a finger to grow the syndicate to what it is today. Once Vince took away his favorite pastime of being the boss’ right-hand man, he just sat back and reaped the profits. The fortunate bastard was lucky his men and associates were more willing to sweat and bleed for our cause. And if it wasn’t his nationwide restaurant chain being the perfect front for money laundering, what use would he have to us? Not a single one in my book. And if all goes to plan, not in any other’s either, soon enough.
“I have no intention of letting any of our hard work go up in smoke, Silvio. But negotiating with New York is not on the table,” Vincent informs, seemingly unfazed with The Butcher’s aggravations.
“Not a solution? It’s our only solution!” Bianchi refutes, outraged.
“Settle down, Silvio. You might like the idea of being New York’s bitch, but some of us might think differently. If you’re so gung-ho in taking it up the ass, I know some ex-cons that roll that way,” I wink at the bastard, blowing him a kiss to add further insult to his fragile ego.
The devil turns red to absurd proportions, and I mentally memorize that glorious shit for future enjoyment. The young capos in attendance also like seeing the old fucker humiliated and laugh silently at his expense. Even Dom, standing in his favorite corner, hides his own snicker under a fake cough. If The Butcher were a cartoon character, there would be fumes coming out of his ears right about now. Lo stronzo might want to cuss me out and retaliate, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Because second to Vincent, these mafiosos know just how important I am in lining their pockets. My online gambling ring and black market ventures have made sure of it. And the plans I still hope to set up will make the last three years’ accomplishments seem like pocket change. I’m their lottery ticket, and they know it.
“I know it might not seem like it, but our Sicilian brethren aren’t as strong as they arrogantly deem themselves to be. Of course, they can deliver a pinch and be an annoyance from time to time, but if we keep a cool head, we can establish we are far more of a threat to them than they can ever be to us,” Vincent recounts, gaining the attention of his capos .
“As you are all very aware, once we got rid of the Bratva organization from our territories, the Russians made their way west, but not before attempting to gain ground in New York. Sure, they were unsuccessful, but the damage they caused was enough to weaken the Cosa Nostra. And this, gentlemen, is the real reason why they seek an alliance now. Not to have access to our operations and funds, but to have protection—one they so urgently require.”
A rumble of agreement surges amongst the men in attendance, and I lean back in my seat, watching Vincent do what he does best—lead us to greatness.
“New York is weak and vulnerable, contrary to what they lead us to believe. If there was ever a time to expand the Outfit along the East Coast, it is now. Instead of bowing down to their demands, I say let’s take advantage of their shortcomings instead.”
“You can’t be serious. The famiglia will kill us if we try,” Silvio interjects.
“Not if we have help,” I counter with a sly grin.
“Help by whom?” Alonzo Fratelli, one of the younger capos questions. I see in his eyes that he’s intrigued with the idea, as are most of the younger generation seated at the table. Only the old farts seem to twiddle their thumbs in silence.
“The Irish,” Vincent informs stoically.
“You must be joking,” Silvio scoffs, looking at every man in the room with his mocking face.
“No, I’m quite serious in fact. I have even initiated talks with Boston, and they are quite flexible at entering an arrangement with us.”
“But they are buffoons. Arrogant, foul-mouthed, drunk buffoons,” Silvio persists.
“Hey, don’t knock it, Silvio. Some of the best times I’ve ever had were with foul-mouthed, drunk buffoons,” I goad unashamedly.
“I’ve had enough out of you, DeLuca. You will respect me!” he commands, but his empty threats no longer worry me.
There was a time that I might have feared his actions, especially where it concerned his ruby-haired daughter, but those years are long gone. There is nothing the devil can do that could cause the same amount of damage already delivered by her hand.
“Silvio, your outbursts are getting tedious,” Vincent interjects, and only upon closer inspection would any capo see that my calm-and-collected best friend has had enough of Bianchi’s bullshit for the day.
“Well, excuse me if I don’t agree with what you intend to do with our business. Getting in bed with the Irish is ludicrous.”
Vincent’s tight jaw locks up, enough for me to know he’s grinding his teeth to keep his icy persona in check. When we were younger, it was a trait I hated about him, but through the years I’ve come to rely on it to keep our enemies guessing. Once, his blank features were an enigma I loathed; now they are as easy to read as the Sunday newspaper. At least to me, anyway.
I don’t even have to see him tilt his head to the side, toward our brother in the corner, to know exactly what his intentions are if The Butcher continues to insist in swaying his way the opinion of every capo in this room.
We will strike an alliance with the Irish.
Vincent announcing it as a plausible solution is nothing but a mere pleasantry to the older crowd. The boss has made the decision, and his word is the only that counts.
“So what do you propose?” I ask, curious as to what The Butcher feels is the best course of action.
“Honestly, I say we do nothing to instigate the Cosa Nostra . I say we negotiate with them instead and come to an arrangement that will appease both organizations. What Romano is suggesting is a war among the mafia families—one that will bring nothing but bloodshed to our doorstep,” he warns triumphantly to the men stupid enough to hear his counsel.
“And since when have you ever been afraid of spilling blood?” I taunt, wanting the beast to come out and bite the hand that’s feeding him. Give him enough rope, and he’ll hang himself with his own careless words.
“Fear has nothing to do with it,” he jeers.
“No. Not fear, but greed. Your greed is what makes you offer my commilitoni such a lukewarm proposal—one made by a man with little vision. If greed is what motivates you most, then rest assured that every decision I make is to guarantee the affluence of the syndicate,” Vincent informs, enunciating each word perfectly to drive his wishes home. “If you aren’t on board, have the decency to maintain your silence, because this is happening whether you like it or not,” he sneers, rubbing his family heirloom ring, a small piece of jewelry that is a reminder of who actually holds the power in this room.
“I was consigliere to your uncle for decades, and we flourished just fine,” Silvio counters, summoning Big Sal’s name as his biggest asset.
Every man sitting at this table still mourns the loss of such a charismatic, astute leader, and Silvio knows that linking his name to Salvatore Romano is the only card he has left to influence this particular crowd.
“I’m not saying the contrary. But let’s be honest, since I’ve taken command, hasn’t your account balance tripled? Don’t you like the benefits of what I’ve given you? If not, I’m perfectly content of stripping them away,” Vincent threatens with an amused tone.
“I worked for that money, and I paid your dues as ransomed!”
“You’ve paid your dues to the syndicate, Silvio, just like every member of this family. Do not think your contributions have been greater than any made man here!” Vincent snarls at him in disgust.
“I built this Outfit, boy! Without me, this syndicate would be nothing!” Silvio shouts, slamming his fists on the table, finally coming to his wits’ end. “I will not stay here and be insulted ! Porca miseria! ” he growls, attempting to stand up from his seat.
But before the insolent fool has a chance to move a muscle, Dominic is already peering behind him and with a quick flip of the knife, launches it straight into the middle of Silvio’s hand, binding him to the table.
“Arghhhhhh!” Silvio grunts, trying to remove the blade, but Dom won’t allow the asshole to move. Instead, he grabs hold of his head by his short hair and forces him to face Vincent.
“Take a long hard look, Butcher . The man at the head of this table is the fucking Outfit! You’re nothing but a cockroach eating up the crumbs he gives you,” Dom whispers loud enough in Bianchi’s ear for everyone to hear.
This day might have started off depressing, but watching Silvio Bianchi squirm in pain, just made it extraordinarily pleasant. The Butcher continues to let out piercing squeals of agony while Vincent just pinches his temple at the annoying sound, and waves to Dom for him to let the devil go.
“Cease your whining, Silvio. It’s but a mere flesh wound compared to the cut inflicted by your disrespect,” Vincent advises, bored with the whole ordeal.
Dom takes back his knife with a smirk and cleans the blood off on Silvio’s shirt.
“Disrespect?! And what do you call this? You dishonor your uncle’s legacy by letting this ogre attack me, Vincent. A dishonor!” he wails, looking behind him at Dom, spitting on the floor to make his point while holding his bloody hand to his chest.
Dom just continues to play with his blade over his overgrown blond beard, keeping the same menacing smile in place.
“Tread carefully, Silvio. The only one I see here that has no notion of what that word even means is you. It is true that our code prevents me from taking a capo’s life without traitorous due cause, but nowhere is it written that I can’t maim you for your faulty behavior. I’d be more careful if I were you,” Vincent cautions, glaring at the villain.
“This is preposterous!” he continues to belt out, looking at every man seated at the table for backup.
I can’t help my big smile when he sees there is no one to support his cause. I guess that’s what you get when you’ve been a dick most of your life.
“Sit your ass down, Butcher ,” Ciro advises mundanely, taking it right from under me the little joy I had in this small show of discipline.
The Thorn at my side has been silent throughout today’s meeting but chooses now to make himself known. His voice alone irks me the wrong way. Dom places his strong, imposing hands on Bianchi’s shoulders, forcing him to sit and making sure he doesn’t budge.
“You’ve had a trying day, Silvio. I’m going to overlook this little temper tantrum to the fact you buried your wife today. But insult my organization and me again, and the next thing Dom will cut out will be your tongue. Are we clear?” Vincent warns arctically.
Bianchi has the good sense in keeping his trap shut and nodding his understanding instead. The blood seeping onto his shirt is warning enough that his opinions should be kept to himself. Still, I wouldn’t mind seeing Dominic wield his knife again and cut the devil further. Maybe he’ll be foolish enough in the future to tempt Vincent’s wrath.
One can only hope.
The meeting proceeds with Vincent announcing that he will depart for Boston to negotiate with the Irish later in the week, while Ciro will head out to New York and stall our competition with false promises of a joint venture. Ciro’s true mission, however, will be to get intel and seek out weak spots that we can use to our advantage. This is the only part of the plan which raises my hackles. As consigliere, I’m to stay in Chicago and keep the business flowing in Vincent’s absence, which I understand, but I don’t trust Ciro to go to New York alone either. But then again, I wouldn’t trust LaSpina to head the syndicate if Vincent were to order me to go in his stead. A catch-twenty-two if I ever saw one.
Once the meeting adjourns, every capo comes over to the head of the table, paying his respects by kissing Vincent’s ring, as custom calls for it. When Dom ushers Silvio to do the same, I see just how much beaming rage fuels within, brimming out of Satan’s eyes. Having to bend and show fealty in this way must sicken him, and it’s too good an opportunity to pass up.
“Pucker up, Silvio. Get used to it, because after what you tried to pull today, the only way I want to see your lips moving, is when they’re kissing Vincent’s ass,” I taunt, placing my hands behind my back, enjoying his blood-soaked humiliation.
The asshole doesn’t even look my way and heads out the door in haste.
“ Ciao, leccaculo,” I yell behind him, laughing all the way.
“I wish you didn’t pester him so much,” Vincent adds, once Dominic closes the door behind him, leaving us alone to talk.
“Why? It’s the few perks I have. You have to admit, that shit was fun,” I confess, delighted with today’s events.
Vincent takes a cigarette out of his silver case, tapping the cancer stick on the table before lighting it up.
“Even if I was to agree, offending The Butcher doesn’t look good on me. You know as well as I do, the elders still respect him and give him too much credit. They might not have liked the way I just handled his defiance. Or the fact I proposed an open war with the Cosa Nostra ,” he replies seriously.
“Fuck those ancient cunts!”
“Always so straight to the point, huh? Eloquent, as well,” Vincent snickers, taking another drag.
“What can I say? If you want someone to blow smoke up your ass with pretty words, I’m not your guy.” I chuckle.
“Don’t I know it.”
“I did notice, however, you didn’t talk about our friends across the border,” I question, intrigued.
“No, I did not.” He smirks, pleased.
And a little tug to my heart occurs, knowing this is as close as he ever gets to smiling these days. I put that thought to the back of my mind, not wanting to affect my own good mood.
“So, are you going to share with me why not?”
“Now, Gio, for all your cleverness, I’m sure you have an inkling as to why I would withhold such pertinent information,” he replies, making a cloud of smoke-filled rings rise above his head.
A wave of heartache fills me again, seeing how this is the only element Vince still gets joy from, and I wish the knowledge of such a sad state didn’t come to the forefront of my mind every so often.
“You don’t trust them to know,” I counter, trying hard to keep on track.
“See, that wasn’t so hard to figure out,” he answers amused, putting out his cigarette on the crystal ashtray in front of him.
“You think we got a rat in our midst?”
“Maybe not a rat, but I trust half the men at my table this afternoon as far as I can throw them. And I’m more wary of domestic enemies than foreign threats,” he warns solemnly.
“I know one you should never let your guard down with,” I promptly quip back.
“Yes. I don’t doubt it,” he huffs out, frustrated that I’m pointing out my dislike for his underboss for the millionth time.
“I really don’t trust the fucker,” I insist.
“So you’ve said. Repeatedly, I may add.”
“Still, no matter how many times I’ve told you I don’t trust him, you keep emboldening his every move,” I complain, exasperated.
“True,” Vincent replies nonchalantly.
“Why?”
“My uncle once told me that I don’t have to like all my syndicate brothers, just see how they best serve me with their set of skills. Ciro has an abundance of skills that other soldiers in the Outfit admire. As much as you dislike him, he’s proven to be one of the best underbosses the syndicate has ever had.”
“Don’t let my father hear you say that,” I scoff.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smirks again.
“You know, some may even say he would do your job better, too,” I provoke.
“I’m sure you’re right. But hopefully, those who have such disloyal notions think twice before vocalizing them,” he summarizes menacingly.
“If they don’t, then I’m sure today’s little demonstration with Silvio might make them reconsider,” I joke.
“Hmm,” he mumbles.
It’s apparent that Vince is still concerned with how the older capos took such a reprimand on our former consigliere . I don’t doubt it is a cause for concern, but damn, was it worth it. For me at least. In Vincent’s case though, only time will tell if Bianchi’s punishment will blow up in his face. But right now, I just want to make sure Vince has more loyal allies than enemies.
“Answer me this, at least—if you know the threat Ciro is, why give him free reign to negotiate with New York on your behalf?”
“Isn’t it obvious? If Ciro is bound to betray me, then I would rather be from a direction I see coming.”
“So this is a trap?” I grin, ecstatic that the smooth talker hasn’t gotten his claws completely in my friend.
“You sound surprised?”
“Actually, color-me-fucking-impressed,” I beam.
“Glad you approve.” He chuckles softly and then grows serious, rehashing his well-laced plan out in the open.
“The Boston deal is done, and our Irish allies are just waiting for orders as to when we attack New York—a fact that only you and I know. While Ciro is there, thinking I’m just a state away, I’ll be, in fact, visiting our Calabrian brothers in Quebec. I’ll be arranging a new deal to use their casinos as a front to launder our money—a deal that will ensure we get millions in clean revenue a day, plus a little kickback from the income we can make loan sharking on their turf. For an added percentage, our Calabrian friends will be all too willing to support us when we take over the Cosa Nostra .”
“In other words, not only will the Cosa Nostra be blocked in from all sides, Silvio’s petty restaurants will look meager in comparison to the casinos,” I announce, in awe of Vincent’s elaborate scheme.
“Erasing him from our lives completely,” he mumbles in deep thought.
The Butcher will not take that change lightly and will act upon it. All Vincent needs is one traitorous act, just as he so poignantly warned a few minutes ago in front of all the Outfit’s heavy hitters—a shrewd remark done with cold calculation. And once the treason happens, and Bianchi is no longer a game player to the syndicate, his days are counted.
I wonder who Vincent will order to do the hit. Hopefully, it will be an affair where all three of us can participate. Sending the devil into his well-deserved fiery pit is not something I want to miss out on.
Yes. This day has taken a blessed turn indeed.
We grow quiet, as we both take in this beautiful future. But only a few minutes pass when I’m reminded of another statement Vincent made.
“Vincent?” I whisper, calling him back to the here and now.
“Yes?”
“Is that why you chose me to be your consigliere ? Because of my skill set?”
I’m greeted with a meek half-smile as my answer.
“Let’s just say there are very few men courageous enough to defy me. You have never batted an eye at knocking me off my pedestal. And to do my work well, I need a friend who can tell me the truth, at all costs,” he announces with admiration in his gaze.
“Well, someone has to keep you honest,” I jab, my own smile resurfacing.
“And you’ve never failed me in doing so,” Vincent counters.
“Is that all? You sure it’s not because your uncle thought it was best to keep your friends close but your enemies closer?” I venture further teasingly.
His gallant features abruptly turn rigid in contemplation. I look into his eyes, and his hazel brown orbs are suddenly replaced by a glimpse of dark forest-green, a color we both have been deprived of.
“And because you are the one that reminds me of her most,” he hushes out, standing up from his seat, done with today’s moment of honesty.