Umberto nodded. "Guess we have you to thank for that, huh?"
"Guess so."
Umberto's gaze left his, scanning the darkness. "You come alone, Dante?"
"Does it make a difference?"
"Not really," Umberto said. "Just trying to figure out your end game."
"I've already told you my end game."
Umberto looked at him again. "Refresh my memory."
"To make sure the man who ruined my life pays for it."
"Ah." Umberto looked down at the asphalt, toeing a few small rocks, kicking them toward the curb. "And to think I used to believe you meant Barsanti when you said that."
"Who says I don't mean him?"
"The fact that you chose to draw me outside instead of coming in says so. Not to mention the fact that you made a scene and are steering clear of the shadows because you think I won't shoot you if people can see—that's kind of a dead giveaway, too. Toss in that you've thwarted our plans and that you outright refused to come when your father sent for you, and I'd say it's pretty clear who you see as the enemy."
"My father's not my enemy," Dante said. "He's a bully."
Umberto laughed. "Bully, huh? You gonna go tattle to the grown-ups about the mean ol' bully shoving kids around out on the playground, stealing lunch money and picking on your friends?"
"No, I'm going to protect what's mine."
"Like a certain female down in Little Italy?"
"Exactly."
"You know, I'm not sure any pussy is worth turning your back on your family," Umberto said. "But hey, what do I know? Your little Brazzi girlfriend is cute, so maybe she's worth it. Bangin' ass body on that one, that's for sure. I was certainly admiring every inch of it earlier."
Coldness swept through Dante before intense rage exploded in his gut. Before the last syllable even spilled from Umberto's lips, Dante swung, punching him right in the mouth. The blow was so hard he stumbled, knocking into his car, triggering those shock sensors and setting the alarm off. Umberto regained his footing, ignoring the obnoxious blaring as he reached up, wiping away the blood that streamed from the corner of his mouth.
Umberto looked at his hand, at the blood coating his fingertips. "Okay, I'll give you that one."
"Stay away from her," Dante warned him, flexing his hands as they itched to pummel him for those words, for having the fucking nerve to look at her, to invade her privacy and violate her body like some goddamn pervert. "I swear to fuck, Bert, if I ever catch you near her…"
Umberto spit blood on the asphalt and shut off the car alarm. He looked around the darkness, scanning the neighborhood, before his gaze settled back on Dante. "So you are alone."
"Does that surprise you?"
Umberto shrugged, like that was the only answer he had, before he took a few steps back, out of the light, into the shadows. He was considering doing something. Dante could tell. His tongue ran back and forth along his busted bottom lip, his eyes everywhere as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's not too late, you know. All you have to do is walk in that house right now and your father will welcome you back with open arms. I haven't told him about the incident at the hospital. Haven't told him you refused his order."
"You should tell him," Dante said. "He won't like you keeping that from him."
"Yeah, well, he's not going to give you another chance after this. This will be it. If I tell him…"
"I really am the enemy."
Umberto nodded.
"You should tell him," Dante said again. "Go ahead and pass along the message."
Umberto frowned, closing his eyes as he lowered his head. It was only a brief second, but Dante sensed the sadness. He felt it, too, stirring deep inside of him. It was the sensation of the last bit of lingering hope dying a miserable death.
"Get out of here, Dante," Umberto said, stepping up onto the curb, "while you still can."
"I'll go once you give me what you took."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You took the gun when you broke into the apartment. I know you; that's what you do. Never leave a gun behind. I want it back."
Umberto considered that, staring at him again, before stepping over to the car and unlocking it. He reached inside, beneath the passenger seat, and pulled out the small .22 caliber pistol before slowly approaching. "This one?"
"That's the one."
"I'm guessing it's registered to her, huh?"
Dante didn't answer that.
Umberto stalled in front of him, standing toe-to-toe, holding the gun. He raised it, pressing it to Dante's chest, pointing it where his ribcage protected his rapidly beating heart. Even through layers of clothing, Dante could feel the muzzle digging into his scarred skin. "And what's to stop me from pulling the trigger?"
"I don't know," Dante answered, reaching up and snatching ahold of the gun, gripping it tightly. "But if you wanted to shoot me, you already would've."
Umberto let go, letting him have the gun, and started back away. Once he stepped up on the curb, he turned around. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you real soon, Dante."
"I'm sure." Dante watched him stroll back to the house, his steps leisure, and called out, "So what's to stop me from shooting you right now?"
"Integrity," Umberto said. "You'd never shoot a man in the back."
"You sure about that?"
"Absolutely," Umberto said, turning around to face him. "Besides, there are no bullets left in that gun. I've already used them."
Dante waited until Umberto was inside before checking the gun. No bullets. He slipped back into the shadows, concealing the gun in his hoodie pocket as he made his way to his car down the block. Taking a deep breath, he sped from the neighborhood, driving straight back to the apartment.
Gabriella was sprawled out on the couch, watching an episode of some medical drama. She sat up when he opened the door, her eyes wide, on alert. He locked up before strolling over to her, pulling the gun from his pocket and dropping it on the coffee table.
"Where did you…?" she asked as she picked up the gun. "I mean, how did you…?"
She didn't finish those questions. Good thing, too, because Dante didn't want to answer them. He yanked off his hoodie, tossing it on the arm of the couch. "Doesn't matter, but we're not keeping it. There's no telling what it's been used for."
As soon as he said that, she dropped the gun, letting it clatter back to the coffee table. She wiped her hands on her pajama pants, as if whatever figurative blood was now on the gun had somehow transferred to her skin.
Dante headed to the bathroom to shower, standing under the scorching hot spray until he no longer felt the sting, letting it warm his body and wash away the memories of that evening. After he was finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped back out, heading for the bedroom. He made it a few steps before he heard the male voice in the living room. He came to an abrupt stop, his blood running cold at the sound of it, but he was too late to turn back or do anything. The apartment was so damn small he knew he was spotted, especially when the clipped voice asked loudly, "Do you make a habit of walking around my daughter's apartment naked?"
"Daddy!" Gabriella groaned from the kitchen. "He lives here, too, remember?"
"I remember," Alfie said, glaring at Dante as he just stood there, trapped in that void of space between the bathroom and the bedroom, hoping like hell the towel stayed in place as he uncomfortably crossed his arms over his chest. "We're still going to be having a talk about that, young lady."
"I'm twenty-six, you know."
"Talk to me when you're forty-six," he said. "Until then, I don't think it's too much to ask for him to respect you enough to show some restraint. Hell, he at least ought to have enough self-respect to keep his clothes on when you have company."
"He didn't know we had company," Gabriella said as she appeared in front of Dante, grabbing him and forcing him past Alfie, shoving him into the bedroom. She slammed the sliding room door closed once they were inside and looked at him,
smiling sheepishly. "Sorry, he kind of just… showed up."
"He's your father," Dante said, dropping the towel. "He can visit you whenever he wants."
"Yeah, well, he's not here for me."
Dante cut his eyes at her, brow furrowing, as Alfie shouted from the living room, "Put on your best suit, kid. We've got somewhere we need to be."
Chapter Twenty-One
Decades earlier, eight hundred miles away, a man named Al Capone believed the key to coexisting was distribution. The pie was big enough for everybody to have a slice of it. The bosses in New York at the time bought into that theory, divvying up their territory.
Five boroughs. Five families.
They believed it was fate.
And just as it all came to a screeching halt for Capone, the harmony in the boroughs didn't last long, either. Greed set in. Sharing was no longer caring. Everyone, it seemed, wanted Manhattan, staking a claim and nitpicking neighborhoods. The Amaro family had it all first, it had been rightfully given to them, but then the Barsantis and the Galantes swooped in.
As they say, the rest was history.
Some booms, a couple bangs, and a bunch of spilled blood later, Dante found himself again crossing the state line into New Jersey, sitting in the passenger seat of a black Crown Vic, with Alfie Russo steering them toward Victor Brazzi's property. A family meeting, he'd said, one that had been in the works for weeks. He'd called it a last-ditch effort to establish peace within the network, but Dante knew what they truly were heading into: an intervention.
They were going to try to stop Primo's reign of terror.
"When you say all of the families," Dante asked, his voice hesitant, "do you mean all of them?"
"All of them," Alfie confirmed. "Chicago, New York, and New Jersey."
"I don't think I belong at this thing."
"Why?"
"Because I don't represent the Galante family."
"I know," Alfie said. "You're coming as a Brazzi."
"A Brazzi?"
"Yeah, you got a problem with being a Brazzi?"
"No problem."
Dante wasn't sure how the hell that was going to work, but he figured he ought not ask, opting to remain silent. Tension bunched his muscles when they approached the gate in front of the house, two men dressed all in black standing guard yet again, barely detectable, blending into the darkness. It was late, or maybe really early, well past three o'clock in the morning.
The gate shifted open and Alfie drove through, subtly nodding to the guys as they saluted him. Cars lined the driveway, a chain of black sedans. Alfie pulled up near the door, parking.
As soon as they stepped in the foyer, Alfie raised his hands, letting himself be patted down by another guard, hands barely touching him before the guy moved on to Dante. His touch was rougher, the search more thorough. Dante gritted his teeth, standing still, enduring the prodding until Alfie laughed. "At ease. He's okay. He's with us."
Right away, the man backed off, and Dante fixed his disheveled shirt, tucking it back in.
He followed Alfie up the staircase to the same ballroom they had been in months ago. It had been altered, the small tables replaced by larger interconnected ones. Men filled chairs surrounding the tables, sitting around, food spread out in front of them. They chatted and ate, drinking Bloody Mary's as they laughed at each other's jokes. The atmosphere was easygoing, like they were nothing more than old friends catching up, enjoying pleasant company over buttermilk waffles and chopped up fucking fruit, instead of guys who would gut each other in their sleep without an ounce of remorse.
Dante's eyes scanned the array of faces, recognizing most of them, but not finding the one he sought. Primo was noticeably absent, as was everyone else from the Galante family. Barsanti, too, was nowhere to be found.
"Would've been here sooner," Alfie said, waltzing into the dimly-lit room, a smile on his face, "but someone took forever to get ready, like he's some broad that needed to put on his fucking face or something."
Alfie motioned to Dante, who lingered near the entrance, all eyes in the room shifting to him.
"Ah, young Mr. Galante," Victor greeted him, waving to an empty chair to his left. "Join us. Have some breakfast."
Breakfast… at three o'clock in the morning.
Dante wasn't going to question it.
He strolled over and sat down, while Alfie helped himself to the food before sitting to Victor's right. Not wanting to be rude, Dante grabbed a pastry, setting it on a plate.
"Something to drink?" a woman in a black uniform asked, approaching them. Hired help.
"Bring me a Mimosa," Alfie said.
"A Mimosa?" someone called out. Vince Genova, head of another of the five families, the one that stuck to Staten Island, away from the madness. "You got a cunt between your legs, Russo?"
"Oh, fuck off," Alfie said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "I got a cock you can suck, Genova."
"You'd probably like it too much, you little Mimosa drinking bitch."
The men around them laughed. Even Alfie snickered, not offended by the insult.
"And you, sir?" the woman asked, looking at Dante. "Something to drink?"
"Uh, orange juice," he mumbled. "Vodka."
The woman offered a smile before scurrying from the room.
"What, nobody's going to say shit?" Alfie asked. "He practically ordered a Mimosa, too!"
"Don't even try it," someone else said. "The kid asked for a fucking Screwdriver, not that bubbly ass pussy shit you suck on."
"Says the schmuck over there drinking homemade Sangria."
"Your wife's homemade Sangria," someone chimed in.
A resounding chorus of "ohhhh" echoed around the room, guys drumming their hands against the table, creating a ruckus and laughing.
"Alright, alright," Victor said, fighting off a grin. "You guys rib Russo all you want, but leave my daughter out of it."
A few more joking jabs were traded as their drinks were delivered. Dante downed his, swallowing every drop, grimacing as the burn lit up his chest. It was damn near instantaneous, his nerves easing and muscles relaxing. He ordered another drink and took a few bites of the pastry, listening to their conversations.
Dante's eyes eventually fell upon Gavin, sitting at the end of the table, standing in for his father. The head of the Amaro family. He sat beside another man, one Dante recognized: Corrado Moretti out of Chicago. They were deep in quiet conversation, there at the table but not entirely present. After a moment, Gavin's gaze flickered Dante's direction. Nervous.
"You look confused," Victor said from beside him. "I know this isn't your first family meeting."
"No," Dante said, "but the others weren't this, uh…"
"Casual?" he guessed.
"Yeah." Dante watched in disbelief as Alfie used his fork to fling a strawberry down the table, hitting the boss out of Buffalo with it, interrupting the man's conversation. These guys... they weren't the type to tolerate insolence from others. They demanded respect; they prided themselves on strength. Dante had no idea half of them even had personalities. "They're acting like they're friends."
"That's because they are," Victor said. "We've all known each other a long time. Hell, I remember when some of these guys were born. We've worked together, and sometimes, we fight… we don't always agree, or get along, but that doesn't mean we're not friends. You don't have to like people to love them."
"Love them."
"Look, when I die, these are the guys who will show up at my funeral, the ones who will make sure I'm sent off with the respect I deserve… the respect I've earned. One of them will probably put me there, you know, but the rest will carry my casket, and I trust them to do their part, whatever it might be."
"Trust them."
"Yeah, trust them. That's how family is. No one will ever understand you better. Appreciate that. This life is in our blood. We all have that in common. We all want the same thing here. So you know, maybe we'll wake up enemies tomorrow because of it, but today, i
t's what makes us friends."
Dante shook his head. "I don't know what to say."
"Not surprised, considering your father." Victor motioned around the table. "He has a way of pissing on everyone's parade, if you know what I'm saying. Guy has no idea how to make friends, and on the off chance he does make one, he doesn't know how to keep them."
A voice cut through the room then, edgy but somehow still cordial. "Am I late to the party or something? You started without me."
Roberto Barsanti strolled into the room.
"You're always late, Bobby," Alfie said, still eating, "but is it ever a party without you?"
"I like to think not," Barsanti said, plopping down into the first seat he came to. The woman approached him, not needing to ask for him to answer her question. "Scotch, straight up. You know what? Just bring me the damn bottle."
"A bit late for a whole bottle, isn't it?" Victor looked at his watch. "Or rather, a bit early…"
"Yeah, well, I didn't choose the time. What happened to sundown? We used to do this then. That too late for you now, old man? Need to be in bed by seven so you're up at the ass-crack of dawn for the Early Bird Special?" Barsanti waved all around the table. "God forbid we eat breakfast at normal hours like civilized human beings instead of geriatric animals."
"You're sounding awfully bitter, Barsanti," Victor said. "Finally realize you'll never live long enough to enjoy a senior citizen discount?"
Barsanti cracked a smile at that, one that didn't last, as his gaze shifted to Dante. He stared at him in silence as the conversation moved on, downing some scotch as soon as it was brought to him. The atmosphere had again turned casual, laughter surrounding them. Gavin even relaxed, cracking a few smiles, although the man beside him appeared strictly business.
Dante had heard that about Moretti, though. He didn't associate with the Galantes, but Primo held a certain respect for him, anyway, appreciating a man who didn't bullshit.
An hour passed. Maybe it was only thirty minutes. As soon as it happened, Dante knew it hadn't been enough time. The change was palpable, a charge in the air sweeping into the room. Laughter died on a breath, smiles dwindling, eyes growing guarded as heavy footsteps approached the ballroom.