2. Dominic
2
DOMINIC
Trust the sun to fucking shine on the day we bury Don Giuliano Scalera. It doesn’t help with my mood which has been pretty sour for the past few months. That’s not exactly new, but it’s become worse ever since the fucking Don came up with his last requests and dragged us back into a world we’ve been trying to break away from.
Dad, the psycho, has been dead a week, and none of us would have cared a flying fuck to give him a proper burial if it weren’t for keeping up pretenses and appearances. Now’s not the time to appear weak or weird.
Good news travels fast. There’re at least two hundred people here, most of them men. Beyond the swath of somber suits and bowed heads, I spot the two black SUVs crawling past. I know the cops when I see them, even disguised in unmarked vehicles. Always keeping an eye on us; even more so when there’s a shift in leadership.
My clenched fists unfurl, and I stretch my fingers to release some tension. As always, my left-hand pinky battles the movement as if the Don still restrains my whole body through this one digit alone, and I push down hard on every emotion I’ve bottled up for years. This finger serves as a reminder. Know your place .
Matteo glances at me, then at my hand. I shrug, and with a sigh, he tracks how I’m taking in the solemn crowd of mourners. People will meet his bold, confident stare, but as soon as my eyes land on them, they all look down.
“Don’t scare the children now, Nicky,” he mutters under his breath.
A smile hides in his voice, making me suppress a smirk. Seeing me here is unsettling because most people think I’ve left Il Consiglio . Good. That’s a rumor we like to keep circulating. There’s another one keeping people on their toes around me: Don Scalera trained his son Dominic to be his interrogator.
Yep, everybody here is right to shit their pants if I so much as glance at them. And no, I haven’t left Il Consiglio . As if I’ll ever leave my family. I’ve only been running the back office. My legit security company and thriving business is the perfect front to make people think I’ve left the Mafia…except I’ll always have a role to play.
The pallbearers lower the coffin into the grave, and eventually, the soft thuds of soil hitting the wood sound through the eerie quiet of the gathered crowd. The priest has done his thing, but we all know Don Guiliano Scalera is going straight to Hell, where he’ll be keeping seats for us. You don’t become the most feared and hated Don on the East Coast without paving the way there with sin. As for us Scalera boys, I’d like to think we’ve toned things down, though Heaven is very far from rolling out the red carpet for us when our time comes.
“Come on. Let’s go.” I nudge Matteo with my elbow. “Enough of this shit. By the time they line up, you have to be in the right headspace.”
Moving on—that’s what we need to be thinking about.
“You really want to do this today?” he grunts under his breath.
“As the new Don?—”
“I can make my own rules.”
“Maybe, but fuck it, Matty, you can’t afford to put this off a single hour.” If someone comes for Matteo, especially now he’s had the idiocy of getting a wife, I’ll protect him with my life. But fuck knows, I’m not in the mood for a blood bath. “You now have Tasha to think of, too, and appearing weak could cost her.”
Matteo draws in a sharp, if controlled, breath. “Fuck it.”
“Yep, you have no choice.”
And neither do I. I’m now his lieutenant, and the second in command. I never willingly assumed this position but was shoved into it the night our brother Alex got killed.
Matteo takes the lead as he turns away from the grave first. I fall in beside him. We’re headed for Don Scalera’s compound, where the capos at the funeral will swear allegiance to my brother. I’ll take roll call, and those members of Il Consiglio who fail to show up today… Well, I’ll have some questions to ask. By the surreptitious glances these men shoot me, most here know better than to let me interrogate them.
As we walk abreast and part the crowd, we’re signaling the new hierarchy to everybody here.
Matteo Scalera, the new Don of Il Consiglio .
Me, his second.
And then, the mystery of the other Scalera brothers. Luca, Stephano, and Benedict aren’t at the funeral. Lucky fuckers. Keep them guessing was the Don’s slogan. It won’t pay for us all to be seen together, never mind being photographed so people can identify us as the core of Il Consiglio.
Our bodyguards flank us, and soon we’re in our bulletproof SUV and heading out to the exclusive and wildly expensive neighborhood where Don Scalera had his fortress. The tree- lined road winds through a forest that camouflages the walls of one of Massachusetts’s most prestigious estates. At some point, we’ll need to decide what to do with this showpiece. None of us are interested in living in a place that holds few good memories for us.
We drive through the gates, and after another bend which hides the mansion completely from the road, the driver pulls up to the double front door. The house is ready for today, the doors wide open, letting in the summer air.
One of Don Scalera’s guards walks outside to greet us as if he’s the fucking butler, and Bruno comes to stand in the door, nose in the air, sniffing. The mutt has been roaming around the property like a lost fart for the past week, trying to figure out where the Don has gone.
We scale the few stairs, and Bruno takes a hesitant step forward, his tail giving an uncertain twitch. The dog is almost blind, but there’s nothing wrong with his ears or nose. He homes in on me with a soft whine and ignores Matteo. It’s as if something in me reminds him of the Don. It’s my face, but from where Bruno stands, it’s probably my gait, or my scent. The way he almost shuns Matteo as we reach the door is comical.
“Biased little fucker,” Matteo grunts as he walks inside the house, ignoring the dog as much as Bruno ignores him.
I can’t help but lean down and give the dog a fond rub behind the ears.
“Hey, Bruno,” I coo. “You’re going to growl on cue for me today?” Bruno leans into my leg, and something in me sags. Fuck it. Poor beast had a rough start to life, and that he’s come this far is somewhat a miracle. Now, he’s nuzzling my jacket pocket, and I chuckle. “Still good for some things, hey?”
I straighten, give the dog a last encouraging pat, and pull the Don’s ring out of my jacket pocket where Bruno smelled the old man’s scent. I hold it out to Matteo.
“What is it?” he asks.
“You must wear it.”
He takes the Don’s insignia ring and studies it in the light from the foyer’s chandelier. “Fuck it, Dominic, I don’t care for this shit. You know that.”
“Put it on, Matteo. Make them kiss your hand and drop their blood on the ring as they make the vow that comes with it.”
“You’re for real?” He stares at me, eyes wide. “Never took you for one to stick to creepy fucking traditions like this. Never mind opening myself up to get Hep A and B?—”
Is my brother for real? He doesn’t want the title and seat—I get it—but he’s saddled with it. The sooner he gets that into his head and makes peace, the better for all of us. The safer for all of us.
“We’re only signaling that the Don might be dead, but with Il Consiglio , it’s business as usual. If any dust kicked up in the past week, this would make it settle.”
Matteo heaves a resigned sigh and shoves the ring on his pinky finger where it looks dull next to his wedding band which he put back on as soon as we got in the car and left the funeral.
“You know, all I want to do is go home and fuck my wife.”
Jesus Christ. He’s also pussy-whipped to the point of being delusional. It’s kind of funny to see him this besotted with Tasha Armstrong, the last woman any of us should have gotten involved with. I’m happy for him, and I can’t say I didn’t see this thing with Tasha coming from a mile. The very first day, he left his mark on her skin, and by the time they flew to Sicily, I knew he was fucked. Lucky bastard.
“You can fuck your wife to your heart’s content once we’re done here. Two weeks ago, you kicked the hornet’s nest in Europe when you eliminated Randazzo. We can’t let that chaos spill into our lives here.”
“I hear you.”
Matteo meets my gaze, and a silent promise travels between us. We have each other’s backs, no matter what.
With Don Scalera and Don Randazzo dead, a new era is unfolding. From what we’ve seen on the dark net, shit’s still flying round and hitting the fan. When I went over there more than a month ago to secure Matteo’s security detail while in Sicily and Cannes, I didn’t foresee anything spinning out of control like this. There’s more to his resistance to doing this initiation than merely stepping into Don Scalera’s shoes. Matteo was the last person to see the Don alive, and well, beyond Tasha and the need to fuck his wife, my brother has been weirdly distracted lately.
Cars are coming up the driveway, and I signal to our bodyguards to do crowd control.
“Party’s starting, Matty. Best get ready for a line-up. The capos are right behind us, and they can’t wait to kiss your ass.”
“Fuck’s sake,” he grunts as he pulls off his wedding band and makes it disappear into his jacket’s pocket again. With resignation, he turns towards the wide corridor and makes his way to the Don’s office.
I don’t blame him. I’ll never be the idiot to get hitched because that’s just courting trouble, but if I did, I wouldn’t soil my wedding band with the capos’ blood, either, even if it were just a droplet. We might all be sinners, but crime doesn’t belong within the confines of sacred wedding vows.
It’s almost midnight by the time we’re done.
I hold out a printout of the five members of Il Consiglio who haven’t bothered to show face and swear the oath of omertà to my brother yet. This isn’t something you do over a Zoom call, and if you know what’s good for you, you prioritize this in-person meeting.
“I’ll give these fuckers two weeks.” I toss the paper to his desk. “We’ll make examples of those who don’t show up.”
You never know what slackers do in their spare time. I’d love to find out.
Matteo leans back in his seat and rubs down his face. “Fine. Deal with them as you see fit and do it here.”
“Here? In the basement? Your place is easier.”
Not only does Matteo have his own special room for interrogations, but he also has an elevator directly to the promession site to deal with bodies.
“Let the butcher deal with it,” he says as he stifles a yawn and picks up his phone.
“Fine.” I don’t relish the prospect of any of this, but I’m loyal if nothing else. I lean back in my chair, nursing a whiskey as I scroll on my phone. “I see they’ve identified Randazzo’s body. His death has finally hit mainstream news in Europe.”
“Took them long enough.”
I glance up. “You’re worried about it?”
This could be bugging him. He might have eliminated Randazzo, but that doesn’t mean the police aren’t going to hunt down the assassin.
“Should I be? The mole assured me that all video footage of that day or any other evidence got destroyed. We’ve covered our tracks. Nobody involved in that operation will talk, not even the Trapanis.”
The Trapanis aren’t my biggest worry. Don Trapani wanted Randazzo dead. But we’ve put an enormous amount of trust in one man. The mole better live up to the promises he made. If he doesn’t, we’ll move to the defense. I’m not worried. Not for now, at least. There’s a reason why I started a security company: my brothers will always be protected by every layer of modern security out there.
I’ve been on the giving side of interrogations. There was only one time where I got caught on the receiving end, and it was a lesson I only needed to learn once. By instinct, I reach for my left-hand pinkie and rub the scar ringing the digit. All the physiotherapy in the world and the little fucker is still as stiff as a corpse.
I made a vow that day: no kin of mine will ever end up in such a situation. None of them would be subjected to what I’ve been subjected to. Over my dead body we’ll get into a situation that can break us.
In our brotherhood, there is no weakest link.