2
Don
I barely get one glass of whiskey into Vin before he’s already heading up to bed.
“That fancy university has made you soft, whelp,” I scold him, horrified by his nearly full drink. “Be thankful that as a doctor, you won’t be expected to out drink a Russian informant while trying to secure a deal for a shipment.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were doing everything on the up and up these days?”
I scoff, but he’s right. While he’s been slaving away to earn those good grades, I’ve been on my own journey toward self-improvement. The new Donatello Vanici makes his wealth through legal means only. My first step in that direction was securing partial ownership of Hell’s Gambit’s sole port. The next goal in mind? Plaster the city with enough advertisements to overcome any hostile parties who might be trying to undermine me, be them Antonio Salvatore or Mischa Stepanov himself.
I’ve already covered the airport to capture any incoming businessmen looking to make connections here. I’d say that in a year, I’ll have my own shipping empire. Hell, even without the mafiya or the famiglia on my side, I’m nearly there anyway. Most of the legitimate commerce flowing into this godforsaken place comes through me.
And I’m proud to say that I haven’t stolen or extorted a single dime.
But going on the straight and narrow overnight can’t help a man’s reputation. There are still plenty of my enemies waiting to strike a blow—from law enforcement to jaded old families. The Salvatores being one of them.
And, as it seems, the Stepanov clan.
“Take Javier when you go up,” I command, swiping my hand through Vin’s hair. Like a good boy, I’d left the old bodyguard here while at the manor, but I know better than to let Vin wander around alone.
“I don’t think I need a nanny, Don,” Vin says, but the argument is half-hearted.
“A nanny wouldn’t look half as badass holding a gun as Javier,” I counter. One of the first professionals I hired after leaving the famiglia, I trust the man with my life—more importantly, I trust him with Vin’s. “Humor me. If you won’t carry a gun on you, at least stick close to someone who will.”
He eyes me sideways with far more maturity than a kid twenty-one should possess. “You’re drunk, Don.” His tone is resigned, belaying a truth that causes me to snatch up my glass rather than face.
He relays it regardless, “Though, to be fair, you’re always drunk.”
“I prefer the term ‘inebriated,’” I counter, saluting him with my drink. At least I’m not falling down pissing myself like my father. A few shots of whiskey on the regular keep me dulled enough to think with some ounce of sanity, let alone sleep until morning. Considering my track record when I was sober, I think it is a fair trade-off. Some nights it actually helps.
Vin disapproves of the habit. “Night, Don,” he says in that soft, sad way that makes me flinch with guilt.
“Night, Vinny!” I choke down my drink entirely and call to his retreating back, “As soon as you’re married and practicing as some renowned doctor, I won’t have to hide behind a bottle ever again.”
The sad part? I’m not joking. Maybe then, I’ll finally know peace. If my liver holds up, that is. I’m on my third glass when the seat beside me is taken by a figure who wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“How did I know I’d find you here?” Fabio grumbles while waving down the bartender. Rather than hard liquor, he orders a glass of water with a lemon wedge. Typical Fab.
“Shouldn’t you be dancing with the younger Stepanova by now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Stop sulking,” Fab scolds. “And for your information, no one got to dance with her. She never showed. At least not before I left.”
Frowning, I eye the gilded clock mounted over a fireplace at the other end of the bar. “We left what? Four hours ago?”
He nods, grabbing for the water glass the bartender sets down before him. “Four hours. You should have seen it. We were all milling about like scurrying cockroaches as the hors d’oeuvres dwindled. Soon it became a bloodbath for the last glass of champagne. It seems our little Stepanova found other entertainment tonight. A shame.” He shakes his head with a wistful sigh. “She was spared a hall of lecherous old men hoping to charm her in pursuit of her father’s favor. I’ll have you know that poor Antonio Salvatore looked like he might piss himself in disappointment.”
I chuckle at the mental image before another takes its place—Salvatore skulking around, hoping to claim the girl for himself. I wouldn’t put it past the sick bastard to want someone so young. He can’t keep a real woman long enough to tell the difference.
Eyeing Fabio, I ask, “Mischa ever say why I wasn’t welcome at his little party?”
I’m more curious than I let on. Anxious too. My foot bounces against the rung of my stool, and those dark thoughts start to gnaw through my alcoholic daze. Virgin mother Mary above, the man is lucky I’m reformed.
“No,” Fabio admits, but his grim expression confuses me even more. “I know a death glare when I see it, however. I explained you were my guest, but it did no good. I’d go as far as to say I may have just lost the Stepanov accounts from my clientele because of my association with you.”
“Bullshit,” I declare, lifting my glass and slamming it against his. “You’re the best damn accountant in the game. He’d be a fool to dump you, regardless of your ties to me.”
“I’m still convinced you haven’t told me everything about what’s going on between you two,” Fabio suspects, eyeing his lemon wedge. “That look… You don’t build up that kind of animosity for nothing. Come clean now, Donatello. You fucked his wife, is that it? She’s pretty enough for your tastes with that sweet, wholesome thing and all. If one of Mischa’s little whelps is yours, that would explain his feelings a bit.”
I scoff at the prospect. “No. Though, if I had, considering how fertile she is, I’d probably have an army of children by now. Then I wouldn’t be pining for Mischa’s approval, pissing myself with worry every time Vin leaves the country, and I certainly wouldn’t be spending my nights at the bar like some pathetic stronzo. Bartender!” I flag the man down and shove my empty glass toward him. “Another.”
“I’ll try to find out,” Fabio says softly. “If only to satisfy my own curiosity. The man deals with Salvatore, so it can’t be a moral standing. You may be no saint, but I’d bet my soul on you getting into heaven over him.”
Even I have to chuckle at that assessment. “Antonio Salvatore may be a cunt, but he’s never killed half as many men as I have,” I point out. At least not with his bare hands. The pussy prefers to hide behind mercenaries, covering his tracks. Or, as in the case of Gino Mangenello, manipulating others into doing his dirty work. Still, sin is sin, and I’ve spent my fair share of time in the confessional to be unable to judge anyone.
“It’s not a contest, Don,” Fab says.
“No. Though if it were, let me add up the score, then. Antonio Salvatore may have gone through four wives in his lifetime, but he lost them all to divorce—”