CHAPTER
ONE
Luca
“Not going to indulge?” Patton says, a teasing note in his voice.
I look over at my cousin, shaking my head with a smile. Or what passes as a smile with me, anyway.
“You’re lucky this isn’t a business meeting,” I tell him.
Patton grins and gestures with his bottle of whiskey, waving a hand toward the tattoo studio.
We stand on the raised balcony, which overlooks the bar area. Nobody in this city would guess that the upscale, hipster studio belonged to the leader of the Lucciano mafia – or that the usually non-alcoholic bar is flooded with booze the second the lights go off.
It’s the same with countless businesses all over the city. We’re behind the scenes, making our money, trying to keep the streets clean from the blood and other filth.
“A drunk consigliere is a good consigliere. Haven’t you ever heard that phrase?”
I smirk, letting out a short laugh. “Can’t say I have, Patton.”
My cousin grins wider, patting his belly in a contented way.
People make a habit of underestimating Patton, mainly because he’s short, unfit, and wears big round glasses that magnify his eyes.
But when it comes to making money, he’s one of the best in the game.
If a man like me can have friends, he’s my closest.
But not even he knows why I own so many tattoo parlors and the place they hold in my heart. If I can even say that I have a heart at this point.
“Any of them meet your fancy?” he says, nodding down at the assembled crowd.
Everybody here is mob-related, either Italian or Irish. Once upon a time, it would be unthinkable for the Irish and the Italians to mix, but since I took over, peace has reigned.
Everybody has become rich.
And, if any bastard decides he wants to get greedy and start dealing powder or needles or any other shit, I put them in their place.
Patton isn’t talking about the men in their slick suits and styled hair. Or the more casual Irishmen in their leather jackets, smoking their cigarettes.
He’s talking about the mob women who circulate, some of them wearing dresses that climb halfway up their asses. They give men suggestive looks as they pass, fluttering their eyelashes, making it clear they’re available for whatever the men desire.
I turn away, biting down on a harsh response, not against the woman. They’re doing what they know, making money the best way they can.
It’s the men, the stupid slack-jawed smiles on their faces, as though they don’t know these women are faking every interaction.
“No,” I grunt. “I’m not interested.”
I walk away from the railing, the pumping music growing quieter. Dropping down into the booth, I move my finger around the rim of my coffee mug.
It’s black, strong, steam rising.
“What about Conor?” I ask when Patton joins me.
He frowns, placing his whiskey down. “He’s distracted. He’s supposed to lead the Irish, but he’s too busy playing his weird harem games.”
“Harem?” I ask.
“His wives,” Patton says.
“Ah.” I nod. “How many has he got now?”
“Legally?” Patton coughs out a laugh. “One. But everybody knows he keeps at least five women, all of them demanding more and more of his attention. Plus, he’s marrying the Bonetti girl.”
Lena Bonetti is the princess of the Bonetti Family. When her mother and father were killed in a war with the Irish, her aunt took her in. The rumor goes that her aunt is selling her to Conor for a profit.
It's fucked up, even by mob standards. Conor was the one who ordered the hit on her parents, and now she has to marry him.
“I don’t give a shit about his excuses,” I snap. “If he’s late on a shipment again, there will be a problem.”
“He knows, Luca. I told him…in more diplomatic terms. But he knows.”
“Good,” I grunt, taking a sip of my coffee. “Conor isn’t coming tonight, is he?"
Patton shakes his head. “The wedding’s the day after tomorrow. I heard he’s getting the honeymoon suite ready. That man, cousin…the way he talks about the things he does, with his wives, with other women – there’s no shame.”
I grind my teeth, my temples pulsing. “It’s a shitty life sometimes, isn’t it? Having to deal with bastards like that.”
“Imagine how much worse it would be if you weren’t here to keep him in check.”
I sigh, nodding. “You’re right. I know that. If it wouldn’t cause a war – if it wouldn’t result in even more shit happening – I’d put a bullet right between his eyes.”
“And I’d dig the hole,” Patton growls. “I’m with you. But we have to be smart. Everybody’s doing well. Everybody’s making money. We haven’t had a war in years or even an altercation.”
“You’re telling me stuff I already know.”
Patton chuckles. “Well, you’re acting like you don’t. Sometimes you need reminding.”
“Has there been any more talk?” I ask.
Patton turns pale for a moment, glancing at his whiskey bottle, then back at me. “I should never have mentioned that.”