Chapter 18 Dom
DOM
When I got home last night, the shooting target’s paper heart was obliterated.
I stood there for a while, playing with the velvet box in my pocket while she finished dinner.
I’ve trained a lot of men over the years, and there are three things I’ve learned to look for that make them a good fit for the Family.
A man who takes initiative.
A man who keeps his fucking mouth shut.
A man who can be cruel when he needs to.
The last part is the easiest to find. Lots of people are cruel.
I’m cruel. My dad and his dad, before him, were cruel.
The tricky part is finding someone who can turn off their viciousness to be a normal part of society.
Some people can do it. They can go home to their wives and kids and compartmentalize the rest. Others, like me and Turi, always have cruelty lurking underneath the surface, waiting for the chance to show its ugly head.
It’s easier for us to reach, but also harder to hide.
Annetta is the rarest combination—a person who uses cruelty when she has to, but is also compassionate. It’s not a malignant part of her personality—it’s an evil necessity.
It’s why she won’t understand.
After my first bite of under-seasoned pasta, I knew something was wrong. I ate my entire plate anyway—no use arguing on an empty stomach, and even her half-assed meals are still pretty damn good. Once my belly was full, I turned to face my wife.
She looks like a painting tonight.
Behind her, the night sky is obscured by dark clouds and light pollution from the golden streets weaving through glittering skyscrapers.
She’s sitting at the dining room table, in black leggings and a flowing black top, her hair scraped back into a sharp bun.
She snips at a rose stem with a violence that suggests she has castration in mind.
She looks beautiful, though I’m not so stupid as to voice that thought aloud.
I’m already late to threaten some asshole city council member at his family dinner, but I’m in no rush to leave. If she’s upset, it’s for good reason.
She’s supposed to be working on the arrangements for Aceto’s party, but this doesn’t look like any of the elegant white and cream designs I’ve seen her make before.
A fan of black plant fronds stabs into the open air as she fills the rest of the vase with blood red flowers.
Maybe this is an artsy outlet for what she’s feeling—or maybe she’s sending a message. In either case, I’m ready to listen.
“Let’s hear it,” I say, leaning back on my elbows against the kitchen island.
She huffs a heated exhale and points her snips at me in a way that has my balls tingling.
She shoves the rose into a terracotta vase. “Why didn’t you trust me to get the deposit back for Valeria?”
That’s what this is about?
I drum my fingers against my thigh. Sounds like that little worm Neil ratted me out—a shame, too. I liked the kid.
“No,” she says, like she can hear my thoughts. “Don’t bother him anymore. You already did plenty. I need to know why you went and threatened him.”
I shrug. “I was following up for you. That’s what I’m here for, reginetta. I back you up.”
“No,” she repeats with more force and drops the snips on the table. I’d guess she spoke with Neil this morning and has been letting anger fester the entire day until I got home. “You didn’t back me up. I had it handled. What you did was undercut me.”
“Is he not giving you back the deposit?”
“We live in a penthouse. I spend the same amount on his deposit on flowers every day! Would you have even noticed if I paid for his deposit with the card you gave me?”
“I already said you could spend whatever—”
“So then money is not the problem. The problem is that I had a solution. Neil is broke. I was going to buy him a piano, and he was going to play at the party. He didn’t need to return the deposit.
We had an arrangement worked out, but instead of getting to call Valeria up and let her know I took something off her plate, I had to spend the entire morning calming Neil down and promising him that no, my husband wouldn’t break into his apartment and chop off all his fingers! ”
Ridiculously, it’s the thought that she was consoling that fucking kid all day that has me folding my arms across my chest. She shouldn’t have had to waste her time fixing something I took care of for her, and she definitely shouldn’t have had to emotionally coddle another man because of me.
“I wanted to help you—”
“Threatening some poor kid with violence isn’t helping.”
That’s where the line is? Was I supposed to read her fucking mind?
“Where was all this morality when I had Mikey’s life in my hands? Was it you who told me to hurry up, or am I just imagining that?”
“That’s different, and you know it.”
“Not to me. If a man tries to disrespect you, it’s my job to fix it.”
“Neil wasn’t—” She sucks in a breath. “I am thankful you protected me from Mikey. You saved me. But I’ve been disrespected by men my entire life, and you being a big, scary badass won’t change that.
But you know what? I don’t care. The only man I need to respect me is you, and last night you showed me that you don’t. ”
Shit.
I stand up.
Annetta gives me a look of tired disappointment that buries a knife into the center of my chest. “Going out?”
I want to tell her no, just to prove her wrong, but I need to leave and think. “I’m late. I’ll be back tonight.”
Right on cue, Eduardo steps into the apartment. I stride out and Annetta’s disapproval follows me like a dark cloud.
Sometimes, being a big, scary badass has its downsides.
The councilmember who hasn’t been playing nice with us took one look at me as I stormed into his restaurant tonight, and he promised me the world on a silver platter.
Hell, if I’d stayed a moment longer, I’m pretty sure he would have offered me up his brand new BMW, and the only reason I didn’t stay to find out was because I’m not in the mood to fuck with people tonight.
I’m in a different kind of mood.
I’ve long since given up wondering if my need to hit things was a learned or born trait, when the answer doesn’t change a thing. I get mad and I punch things, just like dear old dad. Except, unlike dad, I don’t direct my fists at my wife and kids—generally, I prefer a target who hits back.
I park outside my favorite warehouse in Southside. It’s frigid and dark, but it’s Saturday, so there should be at least a few poor bastards inside. Hopefully, at least one of them is stupid enough to help me burn off this excess energy. I need to clear my head before I go back to Annetta.
My boots crunch across the gravel as I stride toward the muffled buzz of a crowd. Even in the dark, the lookout tonight—Devin—recognizes me enough to open the door for me without question.
About ninety people face the fighting ring in the center of the warehouse, most of them men and sex workers, watching the two fighters with muted interest. A haze of cigar smoke filters the harshness out of the overhead fluorescents.
I take a deep inhale. This is the place I take all the wannabes to see what they’re made of, and when I can’t go to the woods for a week, I come here.
I shed my coat in the sudden blast of body heat and scan the crowd for any sign that this might not be a waste of time.
Giovanni Russotto—our newest capo and almost certainly a spy for Turi’s dad—stands a head taller than the rest. He’s gotta be the only guy in the entire place who’s wearing a full suit as he watches the fight, looking like he’s bored out of his mind—which makes sense, given his unsavory reputation as Ottavio’s former right-hand man.
There are about forty people between us, but somehow, the sly bastard must sense that I’m looking at him. He glances in my direction.
The second we lock eyes, I grin and jerk my head toward the ring. For a while, he doesn’t move as the crowd rumbles around us. Then he lifts one shoulder in a eh, fuck it gesture.
Turi’s going to be stoked. He and I have been wanting to get Giovanni alone for a little one-on-one for a while now, and what better way to measure a man’s character than when you’re breaking his nose?
When I go to find the MC for the match, he nearly pisses himself with delight at my impromptu matchup and dives into the crowd to hunt down his bookie.
I search through the mix of faces who are stealing glances at me, and land on the gaunt, skeleton-face of my new best friend Riccardo. He doesn’t seem to have noticed me come in yet, and I take great joy in sneaking up behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder.
He startles, nearly slapping my hand away until he realizes who I am at the last moment.
“Riccardo!”
“Dom,” he says in his mopey little voice.
“I got a job for you. Hold my coat and my phone for the next fight.” My fingers linger around my phone. “And if Serafina calls, I want you to get the MC to stop the fight and let me know.”
Riccardo gives me a solemn nod. “Yes, sir.”
I slap his shoulder again. “I knew I could count on you.”
The energy in the crowd tips into buzzy anticipation as the news of the next fight spreads. When the fight ends—with a knockout no less—only a few people cry out in disappointment. The rest are busy stealing covert glances at Giovanni and me.
The frustration I felt with my fight with Annetta tonight fades into the background.
I go to the meditative place inside myself that exists when I’m looking down the scope of a rifle or my bow, or when I’ve spotted something unusual across the street.
Or when I’m eating Annetta out on the kitchen counter and she’s giving me a look like I’m the answer to all her prayers.
The MC’s excited voice, the noise of the crowd, it all melts away as my gaze zeroes in on Giovanni.
He slings off his coat and his suit jacket and carefully undoes his waistcoat and button-down until he’s shirtless.