THIRTY-TWO
Benito
W ell, fuck. I ease the Defender into the assigned parking lot for my building and switch off the engine. You go looking for trouble, and trouble will find you—isn’t that what Petey always said when tasked with rounding us up as unruly youngsters?
I glance at the side mirror, sighing as my uncle’s reflection moves closer. He stops a few feet from the back of my car and slings his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to get out. Coming to my residence was enough of a put-out for the asshole. He’d never allow me to feel somewhat superior by coming all the way to me. No. He’ll wait until I get out and go to him .
I glance at the glovebox and consider pulling out the pack of smokes stashed inside. I’ve tried fucking hard to shake the habit, even more so since Nastasya came back into my life. But shit, times like this, I could spark one up and easily sit out the fucker behind me. Make him sweat a little.
No time like the present. Now is as good a time as any to discover how much he knows. I gather my keys and phone, breathe deeply, and open the door.
“Come now,” Ignazio drawls when he takes stock of my non-plussed expression. “You knew the job would catch my attention. Is it such a surprise I’m here?”
Not particularly. Just didn’t expect the devil to show so soon; I hadn’t touched a fucking Ouija board yet.
I shrug, sweeping one hand before me to gesture for him to take the floor and explain. What does he want?
Ignazio’s upper lip curls, chin rising a little. “I hated talking to you enough before I took your tongue, but now?” Ignazio shakes his head. “You bore me, nephew.” He nods to my hand. “Do you know how painfully tiresome it is to watch you tap away at that little screen like the pathetic cripple you are?”
If that’s how he wants to play it . I’d rather not waste my time on him anyway. Not yet. I turn and head for the elevator.
The cunt follows.
I place the fob on my keyring to the security panel and glance at him over my shoulder.
He raises his eyebrows.
Fucker is not stepping foot in my personal space. I’ve kept it clean of his influence for nine fucking years, and I’m not about to sully it now.
I spin to face Ignazio as the elevator car arrives, blocking his entrance when the doors open. Head tilted back, I lift an eyebrow and encourage the fucker to talk. He doesn’t even use a phone to get his words across, and yet, I’m already as bored of his rhetoric as he says he is of mine.
His jaw stiffens, and he fails to conceal his cautious glance around us. “What did they tell you?”
I wriggle my head from side to side. Who?
“You know who I mean, asshole.” Ignazio steps forward, shrinking the space between us to dangerous familiarity. “Got some grand ideas now, have you?”
Perhaps…
“Think you’ll play the hero? Go crying to your papa?” He laughs. “You couldn’t turn him against me. Unlike you, your father holds the bond of family in high esteem. He cares about me, even if he doesn’t understand why. He’d never turn on me because that would mean turning on himself. On what he believes.”
Don’t know why this asshole thinks I need my father to sort his ass out, but okay.
“How’s your mongrel fiancé?”
I send a fist directly into his smug grin.
Ignazio staggers back a couple of steps, hand lifting to pat his lips and check for blood. “Maybe we aren’t so different,” he leers. “Both breaking the rules when it suits us.”
Respect your elders. Respect family. I’d say I get a free pass on ignoring those traditional customs, considering he’s repeatedly flounced them over the years.
“They’re no loss to me,” he says. “Neither of those men. Or their whore.” He shakes out a handkerchief, using it to dab at the barest trickle of blood on his lower lip. “You think I’d place my best men on that job?”
His best men? I frown. Damn it. The fucker smiles when he catches my slip-up.
“That’s right. My men.”
The pieces swirl in my brain, shifting around until the picture slowly forms.
The killers spoke Italian when they shot Caroline.
The man I strung up in the stable talked about a league of dogs working the street, proud to have no association with a Family.
Arseni’s panic when Nastasya was targeted.
The way his wife, Irina, died.
Fuck. I don’t give a shit if he hates me using my phone—the asshole needs to have me say this.
Did it hurt when Giovi passed you over, huh? Did you have to start your own little playgroup? Pay for the friends you have?
Fucker swipes the device from my hand, the plastic making a horrific snap as it hits the concrete underfoot. “Does it not hurt you ?” He leans in, hissing the question in my face.
The elevator re-opens the doors, hopeful we’re ready this time.
“Tell me, Benito. How does it feel to miss out on your birthright? How will it feel to watch Dion take that role, knowing how you would have done things? Knowing you would have done it better.”
That’s where he’s wrong. My father believes my impediment makes it difficult for me to be respected due to my insecurities, not his. He never denied me for the role because he felt I wouldn’t be any good at it—like my grandfather did to Ignazio. He’s dismissed me out of respect for my desire to keep out of the spotlight.
Not anymore. Strange things happen when you find something to live for. Some one .
You stop giving a fuck about everyone else.
I will be don, and this motherfucker won’t know what the hell hit him when the day comes.
Because grief from injustice never heals. It festers. Grows and multiplies until it sickens everything it touches. That kind of trauma never goes away, and the ache for compensation never dulls.
“You’re still a child.” Ignazio turns away, fidgeting with his cufflinks. “Still dreaming of things you’ll never have. Still believing you matter simply because your parents tell you so.”
I bend to retrieve my phone as he rants, grinding my jaw at the spiderweb of cracks across the screen.
“You’re pathetic, Benito.”
Learned from the best, then.
“I sometimes think I should have just killed you that day.”
You and me both, buddy.
“It’d make what I’m about to do much easier.”
I stall in assessing my phone’s functions and lift my head.
“Ten years is a long time to wait, but the payoff for my patience will be worth it.” He huffs a little laugh. “So worth it.”
You don’t say.
I lift my brow, hoping to coax him into a little light elaboration.
He indulges. “I have Arseni right where I need him. I have people loyal to me . It doesn’t matter if you and Nastasya marry. It doesn’t matter if the brotherhood becomes your father’s greatest ally. It doesn’t matter because I already have everything I need to destroy you all.”
As do I, fucker.
My fucking heart pounds heavily in my chest. Partly due to the earlier confrontation and, in part, to the third cup of espresso that I’ve had in the past hour.
“I’ve reviewed the entire document, even though the majority is the standard verbiage,” Petey states, handing the printed papers to my father. “While we were the ones to draft this, it offers Nastasya as much protection as Benito.”
“Good.” Papa glances at the pages briefly before leaning forward in his chair and passing them across the table.
I set my drink aside and take the offered document. The confession stored in my phone burns against my leg, yet I can’t jump the gun.
Not when I’m so close to perfection. To making this fucking watertight.
“I asked Petey to amend the clause regarding alimony,” Papa explains as I skim-read the sections. “Traditionally, it’s stipulated that a man will be responsible for his ex-wife’s quality of life and that of any children born during the relationship. But, as we know, there’ve been instances in the past where the ‘quality of life’ phrase has been loosely interpreted, and men have been taken advantage of by angry ex-wives.”
I nod, setting the pages down on my leg until he’s finished.
“The clause now states that you will only be responsible for Nastasya should her income drop below a certain threshold, and then, only to a level as agreed between you before the marriage.” He slides his phone from the breast pocket of his shirt and checks the screen. “You’ll find the whole agreement keeps the same theme—equality rather than reparation. It’s about ensuring you both enter the marriage as complete individuals and, should either of you choose to end it, still be independent and capable of holding your own. I don’t want misunderstandings about who maintains the power between her house and ours. It’s a fair exchange or no exchange at all.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re unable to make alterations,” Petey clarifies. “I want you both to read it thoroughly and air any concerns before setting ink to paper.”
I nod, glancing down at the simple header that spells my future. Prenuptial Agreement. I never thought I’d reach the day when I held one of these in my hands, let alone one with mine and Nastasya’s names at the top. Yet another indicator of how young and naive we were back then.
We were kids, but we were also in love.
Reality didn’t reach us.
“There was one other special request,” Papa says quietly, glancing at Petey. “I asked to include a clause that ensures Nastasya’s discretion regarding your condition. She’s not to tell anyone outside the family why you don’t speak unless it can be proven that you gave your express consent.” He sighs. “I don’t want it used against you.”
I turn my head toward the doorway and idly lift one hand to scratch behind my ear. It was predictable, but it still made me feel like an inferior off cast from the family. A reject. An embarrassment.
“Secrets are weapons in our life, my boy.” Papa tugs his phone out again with a disgruntled huff.
“What is it?” Petey asks.
Thank fuck for someone being able to say the words I can’t. Even with sign language, I’d be fucked until Papa looked my way again. I get frustrated plenty by my lack of communication. But there are certain instances like this where it drives me to the point of violence.
I want to be heard.
I want to be seen when I’m in the room.
My father rises from his seat, turning back to retrieve what was left of his drink on the table and throwing it down in one gulp. “I need to leave,” he says simply before setting the coffee cup down and heading for the exit. “Take the document to Nastasya, Benito,” he calls as he retreats. “Let me know what she thinks.”
I catch Petey’s eye and shrug.
He smirks. “Too many irons in the fire.”
I lift the pages in my hand and start to read over the clauses again, yet my mind’s elsewhere. The words go in, but nothing registers. I’m so fucking close to making Ignazio pay that I’m stuck in a never-ending adrenalin high. I exhale for a count of five and start the paragraph again.
“Take it to her,” Petey offers as he leans to his side for his leather satchel. “You two can go over it together. There’s no urgency to read it all now.” He shoves unused papers back in his bag and then sets the satchel on his lap, hands braced around the thick handle. “There’s something I think you should know.” He glances to where my father left, pressing his lips together. “The boss is no stranger to these men on the street, like the one you pulled in the other day.” He pauses, glancing across the road before adding. “I know that’s why you got us to meet here.”
I set the prenup on the table and lean both elbows atop it. My heart receives a new shot of adrenalin. Does he know it’s Ignazio?
Pietro matches my stance, leaning closer also. “He’s had Vinny work a crew on these guys for a while now, gathering intel, making connections, looking for patterns.”
I lift both hands and shake my head. What did they find?
Petey shrugs. “Not much. At first look, these wise guys are all independent contractors. But you scratch the surface, and you’ll find they’re part of a new family. They’re all connected. The question is: by who?”
I lean back, drumming my fingers on the prenup. So they don’t know. Proving my uncle’s guilt triples in urgency now that I know I have a better case of convincing Papa if he’s already aware of the unrest in the streets. Pietro’s proven my gut instinct right, though: I knew that fucking guy was part of something bigger, and those dogs who took the payday for Nastasya’s life… it all seemed too coincidental.
“We’ve never heard them use a name for the boss. There’s nothing to go on,” Petey states, misreading my silence.
I pull my phone free.
Yes, there is.
“What?” He lifts his chin, brow slightly furrowed.
The fucks I knocked yesterday.
I tap the words on the screen.
He frowns harder.
With a sigh, I spell it out for him.
The triggermen weren’t even associated with the Albanians. Just the two guys they were with. Maybe the doll.
“You think it was the same people?”
I nod.
I know who paid them. It wasn’t any of our associates or the other families.
I stop short of telling him who. There’s no love lost between my uncle and Pietro, but that doesn’t mean his dedication to his job wouldn’t override loyalty to me.
I don’t know if I can trust him—yet.
“You told your old man this?” His shrewd gaze studies me.
I lean away, erasing the words on my phone. Shake my head.
“Why not?”
I move my flat hand in a spread over the table.
“You get that proof, and you bring it to me first. I want to set it out next to what we already know and see where things start to shape up the same.”
I nod at our trusted adviser and reach for my cup, sighing when I discover it empty. I should move this shit along, anyway.
“Go see your girl, Benny.” Petey pushes from his seat, slinging his satchel at his side. “I gotta go get myself measured,” he chuckles, patting his stomach. “Put on a few pounds since I last had to wear the Armani.”
I grin at the fucker, tracking his exit before I roll the prenup and shove it in a tight fist. Paper tapping my thigh as I move, I drum a beat for my exit, heading to the street outside.
It’s like fucking Christmas came early. Everything aligns so perfectly that I can’t help but be apprehensive I’m about to be met with a giant fucking roadblock.
The waitstaff nods as I pass, the barista giving me a wave—the same as he did Petey and my father. The cafe is just another one in our network of eateries spread around the city. Another place to be able to talk without fear of unwanted ears, thanks to the integrated audio jammers.
True freedom of speech is a luxury in the underworld.
I step out into the glaring, overcast afternoon and assess the opposite side of the street. Sure enough, the fucker I’d kept eyes on the entire meeting is still there, ass in barber chair yapping until his fucking heart’s content.
It’s all down to this guy. With any luck, he’ll be singing another tune shortly.
I move left and stride the twenty-five yards to my car, quickly stashing the prenup inside. A cursory glance over the roof proves the mark remains in place. I trade a document that assures a long and happy marriage with a stun gun and then pick my moment to duck through the traffic.
It takes a further eighteen minutes and my entire patience pretending to browse a nearby store before the fucker steps out into the dimming day. My arm is around the guy’s shoulders in under a minute, the apparent friendly posture steering him where I need him—my car.
“The fuck?” he squeaks, fading bruises still evident on his cheekbone from his last tryst in the stables. “I told you guys what you needed. What you doing?”
I nod to the Defender as I drag him through the crawling traffic.
“No way.” He leans against my stiff arm, attempting to backpedal. “No fuckin’ way.”
A half-second at fifty thousand volts changes his mind.
I guide him to the passenger door, disguising his muscle contractions as a stumble over the uneven road surface. Two taps to the window with the end of the gun indicate I need him inside.
“Fuck, man.” He rubs his side where I stung him. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
Everything. I want everything this time.
I stand by as the fucker climbs into the seat, grumbling his discord, and wait on him to buckle up. He frowns at me, lips turned down. I tip my head toward the sidewalk and waggle the stun gun between us, eyebrows raised. Dare me. Bet this fuck doesn’t aim for five miles on the treadmill every night like I do. Even in stiff ankle boots, I bet I could outrun the asshole.
He sighs, slotting the seatbelt buckle into its clasp.
I stick my free hand out, palm up, and waggle my fingers.
“You’re fuckin’ messed up. You know that?” He leans toward me to reach his back pocket and produces his phone, slapping it onto my expectant palm. “What’s wrong with buying a guy a beer? Huh? Don’t you know how to talk like normal people?”
I only he knew.
I slam the door in his face and ditch his phone in a nearby trashcan on my way to the driver’s side.
He remains the ever-dutiful passenger princess the entire ride back to my family home, bitching every so often about ‘how he got here’ or who should appreciate the shit he goes through for them. I get it. He’s the fall guy. The low-level worker who does what he needs to for a shitty price all so the fucking mob he works for doesn’t kill his wife or children.
But he’s the mouth. He’s the guy who can’t help him fucking self but talk.
There’s a reason why I picked him the first time around.
The fucker sighs, wistfully looking at the main house as we circle toward the stables, likely hoping somebody will come out to save him.
There are no saviors here.
Only a goddamn pole with his name still on it and fifty fucking questions about who the fuck runs his family.
Most of all, if they’re also a part of mine.