3. — the prodigal problem.
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Staten Island, New York
Nico Russo, Gallo Estate
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“All right, princess, rise and shine,” rang a deep baritone that woke Nico straight out of a dead sleep.
He opened his eyes and promptly squeezed them shut again.
Maybe if he ignored the sudden pain in his ass, then it, like its noise, would go away.
The clapping didn’t help. “Up and at ‘em. Let’s go.”
Nico groaned through the piercing headache. “The fuck did you just call me?”
“I didn’t stutter. Move.”
“What time is it?”
“You ask too many questions for someone in your position. Think about that a little and get up. Last warning.”
Nico cracked one eye open and seriously considered homicide. It felt early for those types of thoughts, although he didn’t have a clock to tell him so. “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty. Plenty of time to get you up to the house if you would move.”
“Who rolls their ass out of bed before ten?”
“Most of us,” the bald man replied. “Weren’t you just at university or something? Pretty sure a requirement there is you getting up and going to classes.”
“If that’s what you want to call that shithole down in Florida.” Nico had plenty of other names for the UoM, too. None of them nice. “Only idiots take classes before eleven in the morning. Not even professors want to be there that early.”
“Funny,” Larkin deadpanned. “Next step is an ice bath in bed and trust me when I say, I already have the bucket waiting.”
The guy’s voice droned on while Nico stared at the ceiling of the guest home’s master bedroom and wondered if he could get away with killing the consigliere’s head of security.
His old therapist called those thoughts intrusive, but Nico didn’t mind them so much anymore.
It wouldn’t feel normal if he didn’t have a constant stream of snarky, internal dialogue telling him how the world would be a better place with one less dumbass in it.
“The boss wants to see you at eight sharp this morning, and you’re not making me look bad again, shithead.”
“Do you give everybody stupid nicknames or am I a special case?”
“You earn it, I’ll use it. It’s a call-it-how-I-see-it type of thing.” Larkin flung the curtains open, and warm light spilled across the bed and pillows. “After what you pulled on me last night, you know you earned it.”
Shithead, he could handle.
Princess? Not so much.
Nico had been called worse on a good day, but disrespect never settled well with him.
It had a way of lingering with him until he properly answered back.
Those doing the disrespecting felt more inclined to do it again when left unchecked.
Being called princess sounded a lot like disrespect first thing in the morning before he had a coffee or taken a proper piss.
“Which boss?” Nico asked after clearing his throat of morning grogginess.
“The only boss I answer to. Now move. I’m serious, enough with the back and forth. I’m not here to work on your conversational skills, and I really don’t care to talk with you at all.”
“Ow,” Nico replied, pouting for the act of it all, “that hurts my feelings.”
Larkin barked out a laugh. “What feelings?”
Well, he had one question answered about Salvatore’s head of security. It made the thoughts of killing him even easier to entertain if only because getting away with it would be minutely simpler given his non-affiliation to the mob.
“So, you’re not a made man,” he said, finally sitting up in bed.
Larkin paused in the doorway; his back turned to Nico. “Did Sal introduce me as a friend of his yesterday evening when you arrived?”
“He wouldn’t tell me anyway,” Nico said of Salvatore Gallo. “I’m not made, either.”
Some of them still followed the rules. Like Sal.
“Look at you, answering your own questions.” The man eyed Nico a moment longer. “And I hope you know that you ain’t gonna make one, what with the way you’re going lately, kid. A Don’s son or not.”
As if people hadn’t said that kind of thing to him for his whole life. That wasn’t even a new insult. Nico wished the comment stung.
“Be dressed and at the front door in fifteen minutes, do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Nico replied blithely, but he didn’t care. Therein lay the difference between the two of them. One would get his ass chewed off when he showed up late and feel some kind of way about it. The other? Didn’t make a wave in his day. “And hey.”
It wasn’t a question. Larkin still turned around like it was. “Yeah?”
The crystal dish from the bedside table smashed into a thousand tiny, glittering pieces from where it landed against the doorframe. Mere inches from Larkin’s bald head. Nico outright smirked as the other man glowered. Glass shards tinkled onto the cream-colored carpet like raindrops on a rooftop.
Satisfaction had a nice ring to it.
“My aim’s a little off,” Nico lied, “lucky for you.”
“That so?”
“Mmhmm. Call me any name but my own again, and I’m gonna get so much worse for you. You don’t know how hard I can make your job, motherfucker. Last night was easy for me. Know it and act accordingly.”
If he had to be here, as per his father’s demand, then what mattered more came down to everyone else around Nico understanding exactly who the fuck he was and how he moved.
If they started shit, he’d start back. If they wanted trouble, here he was.
Larkin’s chin tipped up subtly, letting the younger man know he heard the threat loud and clear, and would likely take it seriously. As he should. Nico didn’t have the patience for empty or idle threats. If he said it, he meant it.
“You’ve got five minutes now.”
Nico rolled his eyes and threw the blanket to the side. “Choke on a dick. I’ll be down when I’m down. Make sure you tell Salvatore I told you that, too.”
···
Nico sipped hot coffee from the mug he’d brought along while Larkin strolled ahead of him by a few paces. He didn’t rush into the study-slash-office space currently occupied by an annoyed Salvatore.
He gave the consigliere credit—the study had a good vibe.
It wasn’t full of wood paneling, and it didn’t smell like cigar smoke how Giorgio’s did.
Slightly off-white walls matched the shelves and desk while a massive gray rug, circular in shape, tied the middle of the space together.
The same gray color coated the crown molding and the rest of the trim in the room.
He also didn’t get the feeling that he was about to get his head bashed in the second he stepped inside. Another new experience for him even if he did deserve it occasionally.
A seating area made up of a loveseat and matching white leather recliners surrounded a glass coffee table and sat in front of an unlit fireplace.
A chess board waited to be played, the moves still evident and left where the players had walked away from an unfinished game.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves hugged every nook and cranny, stuffed full of books and too many other things to properly acknowledge, except for the massive windows behind the desk.
Nico didn’t want someone to think he had a reason for staring too much or too long at the things on the shelves.
Particularly, the pictures of Salvatore and his daughter that took up a lot of residence on the shelves at eye-level.
As if those were the items on the shelves which the owner of the space wanted seen the most.
Something pinched inside his chest at the framed memories. Not because the two looked contented, or had clearly done a lot of traveling together, which meant time well spent, and probably happily.
So, why the pain?
Because that sort of thing existed at all.
A bond between a father and child that made them smile and look like they meant it.
A particular glint, like joy, lit up Frankie’s face in the pictures when she gazed upon her father.
He didn’t look at his daughter with annoyance or barely concealed hatred. Just with love. It was real.
Nico couldn’t relate.
The windows behind the desk overlooked the front of the property. With a simple turn of his chair, Salvatore could see from his front door to the gate at the end of a long driveway. It was the only thing about the space that felt...expected.
Nico pretended to admire the shelves closest to his spot near the door as a quiet word passed between Larkin and Sal.
A vinyl records collection made up an entire section of wall.
The record player to enjoy said collection sat on a table beside the corner of the desk where Sat rested in a moderately sized leather office chair which was proportionate to the size of the room.
Men in power had a bad habit of thinking the bigger, the better. Salvatore seemed to balance it. Speaking of him...
“You’re awfully quiet over there for someone who, as I hear it, had plenty to say this morning,” Salvatore said to draw Nico’s attention away from the shelves nearest the door.
He made a sad face at Larkin who stood with his arms crossed beside the desk. “Aww, did someone tattle on me?”
Larkin inhaled deeply. “You said, and very clearly—”
“I know what the fuck I said,” Nico interjected. “And I meant it.”
Salvatore sighed noisily. “I asked for you to be here at eight this morning. It’s nearly nine.”
“Given the state of my current circumstances,” Nico replied, half smiling the whole time, “I don’t think an hour is gonna hurt any of us. Other than improving my mood for this chat you want to have.”
“Did it improve your mood?”
“Marginally.”
Not even drugs and sex did that for Nico anymore, and those used to be a given to get him feeling a good kind of way. Shit disturbing was really the last thing he had to enjoy at this point although, that usually found him in trouble, like now.
Larkin grumbled something that sounded a lot like, “What improved his mood was throwing things, but who is asking me?”
Salvatore acted as if he hadn’t heard the man while his gaze locked in on Nico and didn’t waver. “Did it not factor into your choices at all that, oh, I don’t know, I might have had something to do this morning?”
Nico gave him a look. “Did you?”