Prologue #2
That gets my attention, not because the match is surprising, but because I know my brothers aren't going to like it. Still, if my sister has to marry someone, Daniil Morozov isn't the worst option available. He's nothing like his father, and he's certainly nothing like his reckless brother.
The discussion continues.
"My oldest daughter, Mila, will marry Miller King," Olezka says.
Prior looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, but eventually inclines his head. "Fine."
The room settles after that, all the deals made, and the marriages agreed.
The happiest man at the table is Olezka Morozov. The Pakhan has managed to marry off three of his children in a single meeting. My father and Ronan only managed two each. The East Street Kings come out of it best, only one of them is walking away with a spouse.
The conversation shifts to timelines, venues, announcements, and a dozen other details nobody can seem to agree on.
Thirty minutes later, the bosses are still arguing over dates.
Thankfully, any delay is better than none.
The only good thing about the conversations is that the weddings are to take place next year, if not the year after.
The meeting concludes and everyone says their goodbyes, but before I can get to my feet, my father gives me a look that tells me to stay seated. Once everyone else has left, it's just my father, Ciro, Giovanni, and I remaining.
"You have questions," our father says, his brow raised as though he's challenging us to dare question him.
Ciro speaks first, he has never been good at staying quiet when something matters to him. "Elisabetta is eighteen." She’s his twin, he’s extremely protective of her. While he’s close to me and is training to become my right-hand, no one means more to him than his twin, Elisabetta does.
Our father inclines his head in acknowledgment. "She is."
"You're going to force her into a marriage with a man she doesn't know," Ciro practically hisses and I tense, unsure of what's about to happen. It's very rare that my brothers or I challenge our father.
"I'm going to ensure this family survives," our father says, his voice is flat, a sign that this isn't up for debate. "That requires sacrifice. From all of us."
Ciro's jaw tightens, he doesn't push it further, he knows better than to challenge our father further.
Giovanni looks at my father carefully. "And us? Will we be next?"
"In time," Cesare says. "For now, the priority is Lorenzo's wedding. The engagement will be announced publicly. You will all present a united front." His eyes move to me. "You understand what this is."
"I understand," I say.
He holds my gaze for a moment, as though he's looking for some sort of anger or disapproval. He taught me better than to show any.
"Good," he says. "That's all."
We leave the room and I take a deep breath. This is what is needed in order for me to cement myself as my father's right hand. I don't want to become consigliere, I want to be his underboss and when the time is right, I want to become Boss.
I leave the hotel with my brothers and father, but instead of going home, I head straight to the office. The meeting is over, the decisions have been made, and there's nothing left to do except live with them.
I spend the next hour working through reports, trying to catch up on everything that accumulated while I was sitting in a room listening to old men decide who everyone is going to marry.
A knock sounds at my office door. "Come in."
The door opens and Marco steps inside. "Enzo's here."
I look up from the paperwork in front of me. "What does he want?"
Marco shrugs. "Said he needs to speak with you."
I close the file, get to my feet and button my jacket. "Where is he?"
"Sitting room.”
I nod and head for the door. Marco falls into step beside me.
Enzo doesn't come looking for me unless something needs fixing, and in our world, something always needs fixing.
I enter the sitting room and see Enzo sitting along with two of his soldiers, one of which is, Sal Romano.
The second I see him, I know what this is about.
Sal manages one of our construction sites in the North End.
On paper, it's legitimate. In reality, a lot more moves through that site than steel and concrete, and Sal has not been doing his job correctly.
I walk to the end of the table and stop. Sal watches me carefully, sweat glistening along his hairline.
I fold my arms across my chest, nobody speaks, so I let the silence stretch. Enzo knows better than to interrupt it. Marco does too.
Sal shifts in his chair, looks at me and then glances away. Eventually, exactly as expected, he cracks. "I can explain."
They always can.
I remain silent.
His throat bobs. "It wasn't what it looked like."
Another lie. The numbers never lie. People do.
I had Marco pull the site accounts two weeks ago when the discrepancies became impossible to ignore. The first one showed up four months ago, it was tiny, barely worth noticing.
But then there was another, and another; not enough to act on, not yet. I brought it to my father after the second month; we agreed to sit on it and gather information rather than move too quickly and risk accusing the wrong man.
So we watched, we tracked the payments, and we followed the money. Eventually, the pattern became impossible to explain away. Four months of shaving money off the top and hoping nobody would pay enough attention. Unfortunately for Sal, paying attention is part of my job.
"I was going to pay it back."
I almost roll my eyes. "Of course you were."
Sal shifts uncomfortably. "My wife got sick," he says. "The insurance wouldn't cover everything. Then my son needed surgery and I...”
I hold his gaze. "How long have you worked for this family?"
The question catches him off guard. "Eleven years."
I nod. Eleven years. Long enough to know better. Long enough to know exactly what happens when people start helping themselves to money that isn't theirs.
"You stole from us for four months."
His face pales. "I was going to repay..."
I cut him off with a look. Immediately, he shuts up. "You stole from us for four months," I repeat. "And the only reason you're sitting here explaining yourself is because you got caught."
His shoulders sag, because we both know it's true.
I unfold my arms. "You're done at the North Boston site."
His head snaps up. "Please—"
"No. The site's no longer yours." I take a step toward the table. "You're going to repay every cent." He nods rapidly. "With interest." Another nod. "You have thirty days."
Relief flashes across his face, which is a mistake. He thinks he's getting mercy, he's not.
"My father gave you a second chance."
The color drains from his face. Good. Because now he understands exactly how close he came to death.
I hold his gaze. "If this decision had been mine alone, you wouldn't be sitting here explaining yourself."
The room goes completely still; I watch as Sal swallows hard.
"My father believes eleven years of service is worth considering."
I don't, not when weighed against four months of theft.
"Don't mistake his decision for kindness."
His breathing is shallow now, he’s panicked. As he should be.
"You stole from this family once." I take another step toward the table. "You will never get the opportunity to do it again."
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"If I ever find you stealing from us again, there won't be a meeting."
Understanding settles over him, real understanding, not the relief he'd walked in here hoping for, no it’s fear. "I understand."
I hold his gaze for another second and then point at the door. "Get out."
Sal doesn't need to be told twice. He's on his feet immediately. Within seconds, he's gone.
The door closes behind him, Enzo leans back slightly, and the tension in the room breaks. I don't relax, because I need information.
I look at Enzo. "How's the site?"
He doesn't need me to clarify which part of the operation I'm asking about. "The construction side is on schedule. Concrete goes in next week."
I nod. "And the shipments?"
"Two came through last month."
"Any problems?"
Enzo shakes his head. "None. Everything was moved within forty-eight hours."
Good, the less time product sits anywhere, the better.
"Next month?"
"Three shipments are scheduled."
I consider that. Three is more than usual, but not enough to raise concern.
"Storage?"
"We're good for now, the warehouse has capacity."
I glance at Marco and he gives me a nod, which means he's already checked the numbers.
"What about distribution?"
"No delays," Enzo says. "Southie, Dorchester, Roxbury. Everything's moving."
Good, a disruption in supply creates questions. Questions create attention, and attention gets people killed.
"Any heat?"
"Nothing unusual."
I tap my fingers once against the table. "Keep it that way."
Enzo inclines his head. "I will."