Sempre (Sempre 1)

“But I wish to eat here.”

The two men stood at an impasse, Vincent’s hand still hovering near his gun. Ivan was unaffected, though, and appeared impatient as he scanned the price menu on the wall.

The door opened again as Corrado walked in. He didn’t look at Ivan as he stepped around him. “Volkov.”

“Moretti.”

“Leave.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be forced to kill you if you don’t, and I’m wearing my favorite shirt. It’ll ruin my night to get your filthy blood on it.”

Ivan said nothing in response as Corrado casually strolled up to the counter. The two men moved out of the way when Corrado reached into his coat. Everyone tensed, a suffocating silence blanketing the room, but instead of pulling out his gun, Corrado retrieved his wallet. “I need a small deep dish with sausage and mushrooms. Light on the sauce. You know how I like it.”

Tarullo rang him up, the chime of the register magnified in the edgy restaurant. “$17.78.”

Corrado handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change.

Ivan sighed, motioning for his guys to leave before turning to Vincent. “We will see each other again.”

Vincent nodded. “I’m sure.”

The Russians left, their voices loud once more as they stepped into the street. Vincent looked at his brother-in-law. Corrado eyed him peculiarly as he leaned against the counter, waiting for his pizza. “They’re trying to provoke us.”

“I know,” Vincent said. “Did you get a call to come here too?”

“No, I wanted some pizza.”

Vincent stared at him. “You know we’re expected to meet Sal for a sit-down, right?”

“Yes,” Corrado said, looking at his watch. “But I’m hungry.”

* * *

Sit-downs to la famiglia were nothing like the movies. When he was growing up, Vincent envisioned elaborate meetings held like court, and he’d laugh, imagining his father in a black robe with a gavel, sitting on a bench while the parties argued their sides. The guilty man lost and justice was served, another case put to rest.

No, sit-downs were nothing like that. They more than often happened while on a casual stroll, sometimes adjourning with no words spoken. You didn’t plead your case, and it didn’t matter if you were innocent. Judgment had been passed before you showed up.

Vincent stood near the pier overlooking Lake Michigan. The Federica floated not a hundred feet from him, a woman moving around on deck. She looked young, maybe late twenties. A goomah, a mistress, attracted to the lifestyle and turned on by the power they held. Vincent thought them to be nothing but glorified prostitutes, exchanging sex for gifts and trips abroad.

“Is Carlo coming?” Giovanni asked. Vincent turned away from the yacht, glancing around at the men gathered. Giovanni looked frozen, bundled up in a thick coat.

Sal shook his head. “He’s gone back to Vegas.”

Carlo had taken over their operations in Las Vegas a few years back, so he rarely appeared in Chicago anymore. Vincent resented him for the special treatment he received. He’d moved away, too, but was still expected to show up.

“So, fourteen pinched,” Sal said, getting down to business. “Two stool pigeons singing.”

There was collective grumbling among the men. Fourteen members of La Cosa Nostra had been arrested and two had turned state’s evidence, cooperating with the government.

“You gonna silence them?” Squint asked.

Vincent looked at him, still wary the boy was invited to these meetings. “There’s too much heat. They’re being guarded.”

“So?” Squint said. “Take out the families. They’ll get the message.”

Vincent and Giovanni both opened their mouths to interject, but Corrado’s voice rang out before they could. “No.”