10. — everyone pays.
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Staten Island, New York
Salvatore, Russo Estate
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Salvatore’s phone dinged as he crossed the cobblestone driveway of the Russo family home. He couldn’t give Larkin’s reply to his earlier question more than a cursory glance as a black-haired, green-eyed girl tossed aside her tablet the second she laid eyes on him.
“Mister Gallo! Mister Gallo!”
The pride and joy of the Russo family skipped from the bottom step of the front door to meet Salvatore on his way to the house.
She beamed a perfect smile up at him, practically blinding him with her happiness.
She looked so much like Nico the two could be twins, if not for the obvious age difference.
Even their dimples matched. An inherited trait. Just not from their father.
She never changed, that one. Happy from the day she came into the world. Loved by everyone who had the fortune of knowing her. Carmen Russo wanted for nothing.
“I haven’t seen you in...forever!” she proclaimed.
To a child, a couple of months could feel like years. He’d learned that with his own daughter.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.” He patted the top of her head, smoothing down the stray black strands that flew every which way in the light breeze. Eleven going on twelve, she looked more like eight or nine given her small stature and tiny voice. “But guess who I talked to recently?”
“Who?” Carmen asked.
Salvatore smiled. “Nico.”
Her squeal echoed over the manicured yard. “No!”
“Yep.”
There wasn’t a soul on earth that loved Nico more than his little sister and vice versa
“But...but...but Mama said—”
“Mama said what, now?” came a new voice joining the fray.
Salvatore passed the woman leaning against the railing of the front steps a nod hello. She returned it subtly, but her focus remained on the girl bouncing on the spot in front of him.
“Is he coming home? Is he coming to visit? Why did you talk to him, but I can’t?”
Again, Sal looked to Vanna. Not quite forty, the Russian didn’t look a day over thirty, if that. Her straight black hair always gleamed under the sun and her blue eyes could freeze a man where he stood.
At the moment, that man was him. To be fair, Salvatore knew better. Wherever little Carmen went, her guardian surely followed.
“Vanna,” Salvatore greeted. “Beautiful day.”
“It is, isn’t it? Someone wants gelato, go figure.”
He smiled, but she didn’t return it.
“I think they’re waiting on you to begin,” she told him, referring to the boss’s quarterly dues.
“I better not keep them, then,” he agreed.
Vanna’s gaze never wavered from him as he climbed steps and made for the front door. All the while, the constant refrain of Nico, Nico, Nico echoed from Carmen. He could practically hear her silently cursing him.
“The boss is waiting in the dining room with the others,” the enforcer manning the front door informed Salvatore.
“You act like this is my first time.”
He didn’t wait for the response and almost missed the sound of the man exiting the house to stand at the ready outside with the snap of his loafers against marble floor.
The whole damn house might as well be carved straight from Italian marble.
Salvatore hated every inch of it, despite having quite a bit of Calcutta marble himself throughout his own home.
Perhaps, he despised the way the man procured it more than its prominence, but that would take emotional energy he didn’t currently have to expend just to dig into it all.
And that would do him no good now.
While he had a moment, Salvatore pulled out his phone to give more than a passing glance at Larkin’s earlier reply.
Sal’s text sat directly above the response: What time did she come up to the main house?
Larkin’s reply had his molars sore. Same time she has been—about two-thirty.
In the fucking morning.
His daughter’s sudden need to spend her late evenings and early morning hours with Nico at the guesthouse was yet another thing he couldn’t deal with right now.
The sight of Matty standing on one side of the closed doors at the entrance of the large, stately dining room of the Russo home reminded him of that fact.
Marco, poised on the other side, minding the appearance of his fingernails, as an unmade man could not attend a proper tribute with made men, really hammered the nail home for Salvatore.
He sent off a quick text to Larkin so he could deal with at least one half of the equation that had become Frankie and Nico: I want to see Nico as soon as I’m home.
Larkin’s reply buzzed after Salvatore pocketed the phone. He didn’t need confirmation to know his head of security would make sure his instruction was followed to the letter. As for his daughter, he would circle back to that.
“Matty,” Salvatore greeted.
Marco’s gaze slid Salvatore’s way as Matty replied, “Good to see you, Sal.”
“I’m not that late, am I?”
“Late enough,” Marco muttered.
Salvatore had been foolish to hope Marco would, if not outright avoid him, remain silent in his presence during the visit.
He hadn’t seen him once since the accident.
He wouldn’t, however, pretend to even stand to be in Marco’s presence.
Whatever remaining grace he used to give Giorgio’s eldest son had been left behind in a ditch, along with parts of Salvatore’s favorite Mercedes.
“I’m sorry,” Salvatore said, turning his attention with a shift of his head in Marco’s direction, “were you addressing me?”
Marco’s jaw clenched and his reply came out tight. “No.”
“Oh, because it sounded like you were.”
His lips moved to deny it again.
Salvatore stepped closer. Too close if the way Marco instantly pressed his lips together and looked down at the floor was any indication.
That meant Giorgio had done something. At the very least, he warned Marco. He didn’t just poke at a scab when he put Frankie’s life in real danger. Marco tore open an old scar.
“A reason, Marco,” Salvatore murmured, not even caring if Matty could hear the threats that would very likely be taken back to the boss as soon as the meeting ended. “That’s all I need from you after what you did. A fucking reason. Give me one, please.”
Slowly, Marco’s gaze lifted, full of venom and fury. He said nothing, though.
“Daddy’s got that leash on tight, huh?” Salvatore asked, smirking. “Good. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll use it to hang you.”
Matty cleared his throat, then. “The boss is—”
“Waiting. Yeah,” Salvatore said, heading in. “I know.”
He opened the fucking door himself.
“Finally!” boomed Giorgio the second Salvatore entered the space.
He said nothing as quiet chatter passed from man to man down the long table. The glittering, car-sized chandelier hanging from the center of the vaulted ceiling took most of his attention as he headed his usual spot at the far end nearest to Giorgio.
“I started to think you weren’t going to show,” Giorgio muttered around the rim of his glass.
Salvatore sighed. “Me, too.”
Only the request of Big Mike, and the rumor that Christiano Lombardi would somehow be flying in from California, encouraged Salvatore to make the trip to Giorgio’s estate on a day he would rather be doing literally anything else.
He paid differently than them.
But they all paid, nonetheless.
“Did you speak with Marco?”
“Barely.”
Giorgio eyed Salvatore from the side. “How much longer are you going to continue this?”
“How fast did you have his Jeep chopped up so what he did couldn’t be traced?” Salvatore asked back, not missing a beat.
Their quiet conversation went totally unnoticed by the rest of the table. Piles of cash fell out of bags at the seat of each Russo capo.
Big Mike, from Jersey.
The Vargas, two brothers, situated in Vegas.
Christiano—he did show up—from Cali.
Anthony Carcoli sat alone and quiet. The LaRocca arm headed in from Maine, as did his son. The two capos out of Chicago sat together nearer to the other end of the table.
And finally—
“It’s been a while, Sal,” said the man to Salvatore’s right.
“Johnny,” Salvatore replied in kind. “How’s Brooklyn?”
“Loud. Stinks. I can never see the stars. And the rats, Jesus.”
Salvatore chuckled. “Get a cat, cousin.”
The last of his remaining family, Johnny had taken over for Salvatore’s father controlling the better part of New York while sharing some territory with Anthony Carcoli.
But, like everything else that followed his family’s demise, even giving the button to Johnny had been a strategic choice by Giorgio meant to control his consigliere.
Johnny nodded at the mention of a cat. “Hmm, maybe. The pizza, though, cazzo. I heard a certain someone won—”
“Enough chitchat,” Giorgio grumbled, quieting Johnny before he could bring up Francesca’s achievement. “Pay and speak up.”
Salvatore shrugged at Johnny’s passing look.
Most of the made men did what they typically would whenever tribute came up. They spent as little time in the boss’s presence as they could before dropping off their dues and heading the fuck out.
Nobody wanted a problem here.
Nobody wanted the boss to make a problem.
Only three capos remained at the table when it was all said and done. Anthony stood to pay his tribute, but Big Mike stopped him from moving an inch further with a single finger pointed in his direction.
“Not yet,” the New Jersey capo said.
“Excuse me?” Carcoli asked.
“I didn’t fuckin’ stutter.”
“Well...” Giorgio cut a cigar after pulling it from his inner jacket pocket. A sure sign they might be there for a while. “What’s this?”
“A conversation we’ll have when Christiano takes his leave,” Mike replied frankly.
At that, Christiano Lombardi pushed his chair back and stood. He plucked the black duffle bag up from the table and headed down to the boss. “I may not make the next one.”
“You made this one,” Giorgio replied.
“Ah, ah.” Christiano wagged a finger playfully. “Another man was on that privately chartered jet, not me. Allegedly.”
Anthony Carcoli and Big Mike continued their stare down.
Salvatore propped his elbow to the table and used his hand to rest his head. “Have you given any thought to the offer I made when I first visited?”