Be nice, the look says. We don’t want a war.
Part of me begs to differ, but he’s right. But want and afford are two different things.
Franco is a wide man bedecked in gold jewelry. At his throat and wrists and on his thick fingers, gold glitters. His comb-over fools nobody in the stark lighting, showing his shiny head beneath. He’s only a few years older than me – he’s fifty, I’m forty-two – but he looks worn-out.
His consigliere, Ottavio, stands beside him. He doesn’t look anywhere near as drunk as his shiny-faced don. He’s thin and tall and completely bald. He stands with his hands behind his back, always observing.
“Fucking traffic,” Franco says when he stops in front of us, our men crowding around us, the taste of near-violence in the air. “Some asshole wrapped his truck around a streetlamp. Can you believe that shit?”
No, I can’t fucking believe it.
“Nobody knows how to drive these days,” Aldo says after a pause.
“There is a table prepared for us.” Franco nods briskly. “Hope you don’t mind, Luca.”
“Not at all,” I say coldly to the man who may have killed my father.
I don’t know for sure who left my old man bullet-riddled in his car, but I wouldn’t put it past Franco. He was just a soldier back then, like me, and he would’ve done his own grunt work.
We take our seats and Franco drops into his with a loud huffing breath, as though the effort of sitting is beyond him. He reaches immediately for a tumbler of whiskey and knocks back a mouthful, grunting in what could be satisfaction or what could be disgust. It’s hard to tell.
“Got a lot of variety tonight, Luca.” He wipes his mouth. “A nice civilized show. Skinny girls. Big girls. Asian girls. Black girls. White girls. Anything a man could want. I’ve pulled out all the stops to make up for that damn misunderstanding we had.”
Aldo flashes me a subtle look, the message clear in his eyes.
Misunderstanding.
The motherfucker purposefully stole from us.
I nod and stare down at the stage. I don’t trust myself to say anything, because I know my words might become a beast’s growl and I’ll maul him right here, smashing his face against the golden railing before throwing him over the edge.
“Just don’t tell my wife, eh?”
He cackles and slaps his knee.
Who the fuck actually slaps their knee in real life?
“You haven’t settled down yet, have you, Luca? A man like you must have them lining up. What’s the holdup?”
“I haven’t found the right woman,” I tell him, my voice cold.
I’m aware my men are listening. The whole function hall is listening, our voices echoing across the chatter and rising into the air.
I need to be careful I don’t say the wrong thing, something that will embarrass Franco and make him angry, even if that’s what I secretly want.
To fight – to bleed, to hurt, to wage war – burns through me like a primal need.
I wonder if there could ever be a woman who ignites this kind of atavistic compulsion inside of me, and I know there isn’t. I know I’d go crazy if I spent the rest of my life searching for her.
“We’ve kept this nice and civilized,” Franco goes on, pouring himself another glass. “No nudity, a nice fancy sort of deal. We can see all the tits and slits we want later at the club, eh, fellas?”
His men cheer, but mine know better than that. They keep quiet because I keep quiet, even if they’re as enthusiastic about the prospect as the Rosso’s are.
I note that Franco’s consigliere Ottavio glances with disgust at his boss, but quickly masks the expression.
Interesting… perhaps there’s something to work with there.
“What’s up, Luca? Not thirsty?”
He gestures at my glass.
I simply stare at him. It’s one thing to sit here and indulge in this fucking fashion show – which is ridiculous in itself – but it’s another to get hammered and laugh and make a fool of myself like he is.
“More for me then, eh?”
He winks and drains another glass.
“Shall we start the show soon?” Aldo says, cleaning his glasses again.
The glasses are already clean, but I know it helps him to focus when he’s nervous. I can’t blame him for being on-edge. My cousin has been around me enough to sense when I’m on the verge of a rare explosion, bloody intent pumping around my body like a war song.
“Yeah, sure,” Franco says. “But first we gotta decide what we want to see first. My vote is for the plus-size models. Ottavio here has got a taste for them so we had to include them, right, Otto?”
Ottavio flinches slightly at the use of the nickname, but again he quickly masks it. There is tension simmering beneath his consigliere and Franco is too blind to see it.