Chapter 2 – DARIO
DARIO
I stand behind my desk, staring at the shattered laptop and the crack in the drywall, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ache, the cords in my neck straining.
There’s a dull roar in my brain, as irritating as a vacuum in the middle of a meeting or a lawn mower outside an open window.
I miscalculated.
I never miscalculate.
Posy Santoro was always a risk, but that’s what I do. I manage risk. I excel at it. Low risk equals low reward. I make big bets. If Dominic Renelli knew how much of his money I lose in a given day, he’d shit himself. But I make him twice as much by the time the market closes, so everyone’s happy.
If this was Wall Street, I’d be king, but this is the Renelli organization. I’m the wizard behind the curtain.
I don’t mind. I don’t like people. My work suits me.
I should have fucked Posy Santoro a few times to get her out of my system and then dropped her. That was my intent. It would have made sense. Everyone knows she’s loose. Her family name is garbage, and it’s not like she’s a mafia princess. No one would bat an eye if I had hit it and quit it.
She was good at chess, though. Very good at Stratego and Risk. She can master the rules of new games in one session of play, and her winning percentages range from about thirty percent for Scrabble to almost fifty percent for Risk.
And she’s a great lay.
It was inconvenient to invest hours in wining and dining her so that we could get to the games, so I moved her in. She doesn’t bother me when I’m working, and she’s hot. Better looking than any of my associates’ wives or girlfriends. Their horny side-glances amuse me.
It comes rushing back. The video. My chest tightens. The urge to beat and destroy flails inside me, fighting for release, dark and loud and mindless. I didn’t get enough.
I want her back. I want to break her again and watch her cry. Hear her beg for mercy.
I want her terrified and cowering, covered in snot and her own piss.
She wasn’t sorry at all. She feigned innocence and played the victim. So predictable. You’d think someone as skilled at strategy would be a better liar.
Everyone has seen her take a cock in her ass now. Frankie airdropped the video to the whole organization. Everyone has seen another man taking what’s mine.
It’s good I sent her away. If she were here, I’d kill her. After him. Frankie’s already fucking dead; he’s breathing on borrowed time.
I need to go downstairs to the gym. Expel this rage on a punching bag before I do something stupid. Like call Ray to bring her back.
She had the nerve to narrow her eyes at me when I asked for the watch.
As if she was disappointed in me. White hot fury races through my veins.
I let her get too comfortable. Kept my mask too firmly in place.
She doesn’t like to play when she’s cranky or hormonal, so I bail when she irritates me.
I should have let her taste the back of my hand once or twice.
Fear is a much better motivator than loyalty.
If I’d treated her like everyone else, she’d know to be afraid. Then I wouldn’t be here with this goddamn deafening roar in my brain.
I don’t have time for this. They haven’t rung the bell in New York yet, and I’m expecting a rally of the stock I’ve been shorting. I grit my teeth until my gums ache.
I should call Ray and have him drag her back. I let her off too easy. She needs to pay for messing up my equilibrium. It was satisfying to break her heart—torch those dreams she’s been spinning in her head—but it wasn’t nearly enough.
She’ll just fall in love with the next man who pays her any attention. As easy as transferring funds. Like she did when she went from Frankie Bianco to me. I knew I had her when she mooned at me the exact same way she’d mooned at him, big blue eyes drugged with her favorite delusion.
With a sigh, I squat and collect my broken laptop, plucking each shard from the carpet. Hurling it at the wall was foolish. I lose millions a day, and I don’t break a sweat. With risk, loss is inevitable. Posy was a bad bet. That’s all. I don’t dwell on bad bets.
I did like this laptop, though.
As I drop the last of it into the trash, there are three loud knocks at the door. Ivano. He bangs like the cops.
“Enter.”
I don’t have time for this—whatever this is. Posy stole hours of my day, and my time has a steep price tag.
The door opens and a half dozen guys shuffle into my office, stinking it up like cigarettes and old man’s cologne. I don’t need this right now.
“I don’t have you on my schedule.”
There are a few chuckles and they part, allowing Dominic Renelli to make his way through. His veined hand shakes where it grips his ivory cane. I force myself to straighten and clasp mine in front of me in a show of respect. It’s expected. Habits ingrained from youth are hard to break.
Renelli never makes the trek out to my domain. I meet him in the city. He leaves me to my own devices, and I make him a god among men. It’s a convenient arrangement.
“Dario. My boy.” He grabs my shoulders in a surprisingly firm grip and kisses my cheek. He smells sour. “Let’s sit.”
His shuffling steps are careful, and he eases himself down, sighing as he sinks into the cushion. He’s getting old. Tony Graziano, his balding consigliere, takes a seat beside him. They’re remnants of another age. Cufflinks, suspenders, and pocket handkerchiefs.
The others spread out, making themselves comfortable.
Lucca Corso takes the armchair across from me.
His second, Tomas Sacco, looms behind him.
A memory from school flashes in my head.
Lucca tearing down the soccer field, breaking for the goal, Tomas driving his shoulder into the torso of a guy coming in for a side tackle. Inseparable then as they are now.
Frankie Bianco props his ass on my desk.
The brass balls that motherfucker has, showing his face here.
I’ll deal with him in good time. A sickly sense of satisfaction fills me at the prospect.
I’m gonna cut his dick off and shove it in his ass.
I’ll take a picture and be sure to send it to the group chat.
I flash him a smile so he knows I’m thinking about him.
Vittorio Amato rounds out the number. He stands by the door with Ivano, surveying the scene and straightening his cuffs. In his day, Amato was the man. Now he’s short-tempered and reeks of booze. And he’s been making mistakes.
I’m the money man. I don’t concern myself too much with operations, but I hear things. Amato’s not as razor sharp as he was when we were coming up.
Renelli eases back and rests an arm along the back of the sofa, exhaling noisily and sweeping his bland gaze around the room.
“Two generations, eh?” he says. “The older and the younger. The circle of life.”
Renelli’s not a big talker. I appreciate that about him. When he does speak, though, he sounds like a philosopher. Like some don from the movies. I’ve never heard the man talk about pussy or the ponies. It’s all loyalty and honor and other meaningless shit.
He seems to be waiting, so I incline my head. Lucca, Frankie, Tomas, and I came up together. Lucca broke my first bone. I torched his first car. We’re not friends, but we have history. There are secrets and debts between us.
“We’re brothers, eh?” he goes on. “If not by the blood in our veins, then by the blood we spill. True?”
Everyone mumbles affirmation like we’re at mass. What the fuck is this?
“I understand there’s a video,” he goes on. “I’ve not seen it myself. I leave the internet and the email to Tony, yeah?”
Tony nods, his shark eyes gleaming. He’s seen the video. My muscles bunch, and acid rises in my throat. I swallow it down. Incline my head in acknowledgement.
“Tony tells me about this video, and I think to myself—these modern times are crazy. We didn’t use to tape the evidence.
” He barks a laugh, and Tony joins him with a braying guffaw.
Renelli bobs his gray head. “So different from when I was young. But some things never change. We don’t let whores come between brothers, eh? ”
He waits, piercing me with his rheumy, hooded eyes. He wants an answer. So that’s what this is. He’s forbidding retaliation.
My skin heats. Fuck that. Frankie Bianco disrespected me. I don’t let that shit pass.
Renelli raises a gnarled finger, pointing it at me.
“I see what you’re thinking. I was a young man once myself.
You can’t let a thing like this go. I understand.
It’s a matter of pride. But with the wisdom of age, you’ll see.
This thing of ours comes before these petty considerations.
This idiot nephew of mine has done you a favor. Saved you from marrying a whore.”
“Bullshit. He didn’t come to me like a man.
He clicked a button like a bitch.” I smirk at Frankie while I say it.
He rises to his full height and squares his shoulders.
He’s got forty pounds on me easy from hanging at the gym for hours.
I’d still take him out in thirty seconds.
He’s slow, complacent, and overconfident.
I bare my teeth and wink at him. I’m gonna take a video of him bleeding out with his castrated cock in his ass and put a soundtrack on it. Some special effects. Like those dance videos.
There’s a nudge at my calf, and I startle. Renelli is tapping me with his cane. “Be that as it may, it’s a squabble between brothers. Go to the gym. Kick his ass in the ring. Get it out of your systems and leave it behind.” His last three words are an unmistakable order.
Frankie snorts at the idea of us in the ring. No one else does.
It’s been a long time since Saint Celestine’s when I was the kid with his nose in a book and Frankie Bianco was getting sucked off behind the bleachers. Frankie’s still the man in his head, but the rest of us have moved on.