Chapter 15 Giovanni #2
“Right now, as a matter of fact,” Rico answers, his voice carrying that distinctive blend of Brooklyn streets and Manhattan privilege. His eyes slide past Dom and lock onto mine. The hatred in those eyes burns as brightly as it did when we were children.
Rico LaRiccia. Son of my father’s sister, Arianna Bavga LaRiccia.
A beautiful woman I have no memory of.
The woman whose blood ties our families together in the most complicated of ways.
The woman whose infidelity sparked a war.
My aunt Arianna was killed by Rico’s father, Luca LaRiccia, after he discovered she was having an affair with her driver.
Both parties met the same fate—three bullets to the chest.
Arianna’s death ignited a conflict between the LaRiccia Crime Family of New York and our smaller Bavga operation in Pittsburgh.
A war we couldn’t win but didn’t entirely lose.
My father, Salvatore, eventually had to concede that Arianna violated family loyalty. He was forced to accept the uneasy truce that followed, despite the fact that his sister’s blood had been spilled.
Even back then, the LaRiccia family had three times our numbers, ten times our connections, and a New York City foothold that gave them access to ports, politicians, and power our Pittsburgh operation could only dream of.
We were outmatched in every conceivable way.
But my father negotiated terms that kept us alive, though permanently in the LaRiccias’ shadow. That shadow has fallen across my entire life, with the LaRiccias demanding tribute, respect, and occasional non-negotiable favors that my father couldn’t refuse.
For twenty-seven years, my father has carefully maintained this peace, knowing that one wrong move could restart a conflict we cannot survive.
Twenty-seven years of swallowing pride.
Twenty-seven years of strategic submission.
Twenty-seven years of staying alive by staying in line.
And now Rico is here, on our property, unannounced.
Why.
“Giovanni,” Rico says my name like it’s something stuck between his teeth. “Long time.”
I nod slightly. “Rico.”
Dom, aware of the bad blood between Rico and me, but always willing to defuse a situation, claps Rico on the shoulder again. “Man, you should’ve called! We would’ve had something set up for you. Got some girls from town or something.”
Rico’s eyes never leave mine. “Don’t worry, Dom. I brought my own.”
“Why are you here?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
Ricky sidles up beside me, sensing the rising tension. “So, uh, yeah. What brings you to our neck of the woods, Rico?”
Rico finally breaks eye contact with me to glance at Ricky. “It’s a party.” Those eyes meet mine again. “Didn’t your father tell you?”
Party? That’s not possible. The families maintain careful distance—we handle Pittsburgh, they handle New York, and we meet only when absolutely necessary. These boundaries keep the peace.
“He didn’t, did he?” Rico’s smirk widens slightly.
He shrugs his shoulders in that arrogant way pricks like to do.
“Well, I guess it’s up to me to fill you in.
He asked me to keep an eye on the estate while your family took a last-minute holiday.
Imagine how surprised I was when I was told you didn’t go along.
I figured… well, hell. It’s been a long minute since I saw my baby cousin Giovanni, we should hook up and have some fun.
Your father did say that I should make myself at home while I’m here.
So…” He spreads his arms wide. “That’s what I’m gonna do little cousin. I’m gonna make myself right at home.”
My childhood with Rico LaRiccia consisted of escalating cruelties disguised as cousin rivalry, enabled by adults too entangled in their own bloody history to intervene.
Every family gathering, every holiday, every Sunday dinner Rico was there envisioning new ways to hurt me while the adults looked the other way.
“Well… what a nice surprise,” I lie.
Rico laughs, the sound sharp in my ears. “Yeah. Whatever. Did you even know about the deals? The new partnership? Oh, that’s right. You’ve been reassigned to… what’s the name of that little shithole on the river again? Mud Town?”
Deals? Partnerships? How long has this been in the works? Months, at least. Maybe even as many months as I’ve been in Riverview.
What the fuck. My father cut me out? So… they could make a deal with the LaRiccias and I wouldn’t get in the way?
“Hey… well…” Dom comes to the same conclusion I do at exactly the same moment. “Deals? Wow. That’s cool. Yeah…” He smiles big. “Let’s party.”
But Rico isn’t paying any attention to Dom right now. He’s looking at me like we’ve got business to settle. He steps closer, invading my space, reeking of expensive cologne applied with a heavy hand.
“It was you,” I say. Not a question. “That was your text that called me home. How—"
He cuts me off. “You don’t know shit about what’s happening, do you? Little Giovanni, always the last to know.”
I grab my phone, keeping my face blank. My fingers move with precision while my mind catalogs escape routes.
To: Marco Bavga, Angelo Bavga, Salvatore Bavga
Where the fuck are you? I’m at home. Guess why.
The responses arrive simultaneously. Three variations of the same message.
Marco: cabo. why the hell didn’t you come with?.
Angelo: party, party, party! who dis?
Father: if you’re in the middle of confronting Rico LaRiccia, stop. do not make problems for me while we’re having a nice time in mexico. We’re on good terms with the LaRiccia family right now and he’s been given the run of the estate for the week. Big changes are coming soon. Don’t fuck it up.
So. That’s where I stand, I guess.
Rico engineered this. He fabricated a family emergency to lure me here. And he practically got my father’s permission to do so.
I pocket my phone and look up. Behind me stands the pool house with its glass walls and electronic locks. Inside waits Emmaleen, protected by nothing but a door.
“Everything good, cuz?” Rico’s voice slides through the afternoon air.
His smile hasn’t changed in twenty-four years—all teeth, no warmth. His eyes move from me to Dom to Ricky, collecting reactions like trophies.
“Perfect.” I keep my voice neutral. “Just confirming details.”
The crunch of tires on gravel pulls my attention to the driveway. Black SUVs and European sports cars arrive in steady procession.
Ten, eleven, twelve vehicles.
They park near the main pool entrance rather than approaching the pool house.
“You’re gonna stick around, right?” Rico asks me. “I’ve got ladies,” he says, whispering the last word like prostitutes are something special and unique.
“Sure,” I say, lowering my eyelids to a lazy position. “I’ll stick around.”
Rico shifts his weight. Laughs. Rests his hand on Dom’s shoulder with false camaraderie. “Fantastic. Let’s get this party started.”
Dom looks back at me as Rico wraps his arm around his shoulder, forcing him to walk with him through the tunnel of wisteria vines that lead from the pool house to the pool.
I shake my head. That shake says, Don’t do anything. I’ll handle this.
Then I turn back to the pool house where Emmaleen Rourke has no idea what’s coming her way.