Chapter One
Vincent
* * *
I was the kind of man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Unfortunately, so was my father.
When I received the summons for lunch, I figured it was just to give me a new assignment or update me on issues we were currently having with any of our operations. However, Carlo Russo was the kind of man who liked to combine business and pleasure. Between myself, Marco, and Dante, we weren’t just a capo, an enforcer, and an associate to the family. We were also his sons. So he insisted on taking us out to lunch when he gave us a new job or needed to discuss something important—just to make sure it felt personal.
I’d always suspected it was our mother’s idea—God bless her soul. Mom had always found a way to bring out the best in Dad, to make sure he put forth some effort to bond with his sons, but he’d never admit to anyone when a suggestion was hers. Couldn’t have any other families talking about how the head of the Russo family was led around by his dick, or thinking he was soft.
No, my father was hard, ruthless, and even sometimes cruel when the situation warranted. But when it came to his sons, he at least tried to compromise on certain things, even if he disapproved of our choices. Other matters, however, were non-negotiable.
Dad wanted us to meet at the Italian place he preferred, where he had his own private table in the back, the manager treated him like royalty, and the staff catered to his every whim—a sign that this meeting was important. Dad only conducted meetings at that place when he wanted us to remember how rich and powerful he was, when he wanted us to be on our best behavior so that we didn’t embarrass him with any loud arguments or disagreements.
Not that I’d ever acted out like an arrogant or patronizing asshole—not in public and never to my father’s face. I was considered the loyal, trustworthy son, and had become a capo through my own hard work. Dad wasn’t one to give into nepotism. Nepotism was how families fell apart from the inside, too weak to maintain their hold in the world because they’d had everything handed to them and never faced any real adversity.
The two bodyguards sitting at the little table by the door nodded at me as I entered. I nodded back. Jack was fairly new, fresh off the boat so to speak, but Paulie had been with the family for years. He didn’t wink at me as I walked past—not a good sign. Paulie always winked to let us know everything was a-okay.
Dad had already ordered the wine but politely waited to get his meal until I arrived. I took it for the sign of respect that it was.
“Father.” Unfastening the button on my suit jacket, I nodded at him as I sat down. Dad didn’t go for the whole ring-kissing or bowing schtick. He felt it was the sign of an insecure man, to demand a show of fealty every time one of his underlings spoke to him.
A true leader needs no reminders of his place, he’d say. And he doesn’t need to remind his men, either.
I always took Dad’s advice in stride. After all, I was going to be in his place one day, if everything went how I planned. I knew Marco had his eye on the damn prize too but he was a soldier, and way too reckless, so there was no way Dad was going to let Marco take over everything. Especially when the idiot couldn’t stop chasing after strippers.
When the time came, I was confident dad was going to choose me, not just because I was the oldest, but because he knew out of his three sons, I was the one who always listened to him. I was the one he could always count on to get shit done. I was the good kid.
Okay, well, technically Dante was the good kid, at least in the eyes of the law. But I was the good mafioso. I was the one who understood the importance of family, of tradition, of our way of life and what needed to be done to protect our empire. It was only a matter of time until Dad officially said I was next in line.
Could that be why he’d called me in today, I wondered. Was that why Paulie had been so serious—to keep from giving the game away? Was Dad about to finally tell me that I’d earned the title of heir?
“Vince,” Dad greeted, then nodded towards a waiter, who came forward to show us the menu.
We ordered and Dad asked for the entrée that he always did. I never understood why he would make a show of looking at the menu when he always ended up ordering the carbonara.
Dad swirled the red liquid in his glass before taking a few sips of his wine. I sat back in my seat and didn’t say anything. I’d learned very early in my life that Dad appreciated patience. Today he wore a navy blue fitted suit, with his dark hair—graying at the temples—slicked back from his face in an old school style. Even nearing his sixties, Carlo Russo was still an extremely good-looking and fit man.
“How are things?” he asked at last.
“Good.” I filled him in on the latest until our food arrived. Our businesses were running smoothly, no late payments that needed to be addressed, nobody squeezed to the point of running dry, shipments were on time… frankly, things were quieter than they’d been in years.
Dad shook his head, his dark brows furrowed. “Never trust that lull. There’s always something.”
“There isn’t anything that I can foresee,” I said honestly, though I wasn’t an idiot. I always kept one ear to the ground, watching and listening for even the slightest shift in what was going on within our various operations, and with our rival gangs.
Dad nodded his thanks at the waiter as our food was set in front of us, then sipped at his wine again. “If it’s too quiet, then mark my words, a big storm’s brewing. That’s how it is. How it’s always been. If things are good for you and bad for others, that’s just business. If things are good for you and good for everyone… something’s about to collapse.” He gave me a grim smile. “Or explode.”
I knew he wasn’t talking figuratively.
“I’ll keep our guard up,” I told him.
“You’ll be doing something else, too.” Dad dug into his heap of pasta. “You’ll be finding a damn wife already.”
I’d taken a sip of wine at just the wrong moment and nearly spit it all over my Linguine di Mare. I grabbed my napkin to wipe my mouth and swallowed the first words I wanted to say, which were what the fuck, Dad, and said instead, “Not sure that’s a priority right now.”
Dad fixed me with a look colder than a glacier. “You’re half past thirty, Vincent. Do I really need to tell you how important it is that you find yourself a wife?”
My liaisons with women were brief and discreet, for a reason—because none interested me beyond a few nights in their company. I had no time or inclination for a clingy or demanding wife, and I’d yet to come across a strong, capable woman who could handle our dangerous world with aplomb. Someone who was more my equal and understood and accepted the criminal elements of mafia life.
Someone confident and reliable, like my mother had been.
I swallowed a bite of my own pasta and shrugged. “I have a lot of things on my plate.”
“Make room for it,” my father said in that strict tone of voice that brooked no argument. “I’m not getting any younger and I need grandchildren, for starters, and you need to produce an heir. I need to see my sons settled down.”
“Maybe you should talk to Marco about it,” I said, with a little more smart-ass rebelliousness than I should have. “He’s probably given you five grandkids already that you don’t even know about.”