Always so damn vocal of his discontent for how our boss and leader has been dealing with the issue. Of course, the asshole is still sore about losing his role as consigliere the minute Vince took over the reins of the syndicate. I, however, thought it was about damn time The Butcher lost some of his power. If it had been up to me, I would have dismissed the fucker with a bullet right between his eyes as his severance package. But Vincent, in so many ways, is still very old school. He lives by the fucking code his uncle enforced on him, and I am certain, if someone were to take away Vincent’s honor, he would be a shell of himself—more than the cold bastard he already is.
Luckily, he has me.
One of the best decisions our capo dei capi ever made was nominating me as his consigliere. To most of these old fuckers’ surprise, I rose to the role in ways Bianchi never could. Sure, lo cazzo was proficient in torturing our adversaries and striking fear wherever he went, but at the end of the day his tactful, sadistic brawn was no match for my brain. My revolutionary ideas made all these bastardi richer than they have ever dreamed possible, and for made men like us, benjamins speak louder than bullets any day of the fucking week—a truth The Butcher resents and is mindful of keeping in check, as not to lose his own percentage.
Fucker.
But here we are, all in a debate at the old Romano estate, when in reality we should be at his fucking house, paying our respects to a woman that upheld the Omertá and famiglia code to her very end. The asshole couldn’t even throw a wake in Anna Maria’s honor, and instead, he’s here sobbing about how one of his restaurants was burned down this week.
“I’m sure your insurance will cover any loss and then some,” I hear Vincent calmly reply above all the fevered shouting.
“That isn’t the point! You have to do something to appease them!” Bianchi howlers at the top of his lungs. I’m seated right at Vincent’s side, while the asshole is at the end of the table, and I can still see his freaking tonsils from way over here.
“Do I?” Vincent rebukes with his brow lifted.
The genius bastard already has plans for the Cosa Nostra, and appeasing our Italian comrades will not be one of them. I crack a smile at Bianchi’s discomfort as the whole table of made men grows silent, waiting to learn what Vincent has up his sleeve.
“Of course you do! Do you expect us to do nothing and let them burn to the ground all we have worked so hard for?” Bianchi continues on.
Hard work? What a joke.
The asshole hardly lifted a finger to grow the syndicate to what it is today. Once Vince took away his favorite pastime of being the boss’ right-hand man, he just sat back and reaped the profits. The fortunate bastard was lucky his men and associates were more willing to sweat and bleed for our cause. And if it wasn’t his nationwide restaurant chain being the perfect front for money laundering, what use would he have to us? Not a single one in my book. And if all goes to plan, not in any other’s either, soon enough.
“I have no intention of letting any of our hard work go up in smoke, Silvio. But negotiating with New York is not on the table,” Vincent informs, seemingly unfazed with The Butcher’s aggravations.
“Not a solution? It’s our only solution!” Bianchi refutes, outraged.
“Settle down, Silvio. You might like the idea of being New York’s bitch, but some of us might think differently. If you’re so gung-ho in taking it up the ass, I know some ex-cons that roll that way,” I wink at the bastard, blowing him a kiss to add further insult to his fragile ego.
The devil turns red to absurd proportions, and I mentally memorize that glorious shit for future enjoyment. The young capos in attendance also like seeing the old fucker humiliated and laugh silently at his expense. Even Dom, standing in his favorite corner, hides his own snicker under a fake cough. If The Butcher were a cartoon character, there would be fumes coming out of his ears right about now. Lo stronzo might want to cuss me out and retaliate, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Because second to Vincent, these mafiosos know just how important I am in lining their pockets. My online gambling ring and black market ventures have made sure of it. And the plans I still hope to set up will make the last three years’ accomplishments seem like pocket change. I’m their lottery ticket, and they know it.
“I know it might not seem like it, but our Sicilian brethren aren’t as strong as they arrogantly deem themselves to be. Of course, they can deliver a pinch and be an annoyance from time to time, but if we keep a cool head, we can establish we are far more of a threat to them than they can ever be to us,” Vincent recounts, gaining the attention of his capos.
“As you are all very aware, once we got rid of the Bratva organization from our territories, the Russians made their way west, but not before attempting to gain ground in New York. Sure, they were unsuccessful, but the damage they caused was enough to weaken the Cosa Nostra. And this, gentlemen, is the real reason why they seek an alliance now. Not to have access to our operations and funds, but to have protection—one they so urgently require.”
A rumble of agreement surges amongst the men in attendance, and I lean back in my seat, watching Vincent do what he does best—lead us to greatness.
“New York is weak and vulnerable, contrary to what they lead us to believe. If there was ever a time to expand the Outfit along the East Coast, it is now. Instead of bowing down to their demands, I say let’s take advantage of their shortcomings instead.”
“You can’t be serious. The famiglia will kill us if we try,” Silvio interjects.
“Not if we have help,” I counter with a sly grin.
“Help by whom?” Alonzo Fratelli, one of the younger capos questions. I see in his eyes that he’s intrigued with the idea, as are most of the younger generation seated at the table. Only the old farts seem to twiddle their thumbs in silence.
“The Irish,” Vincent informs stoically.
“You must be joking,” Silvio scoffs, looking at every man in the room with his mocking face.
“No, I’m quite serious in fact. I have even initiated talks with Boston, and they are quite flexible at entering an arrangement with us.”
“But they are buffoons. Arrogant, foul-mouthed, drunk buffoons,” Silvio persists.
“Hey, don’t knock it, Silvio. Some of the best times I’ve ever had were with foul-mouthed, drunk buffoons,” I goad unashamedly.
“I’ve had enough out of you, DeLuca. You will respect me!” he commands, but his empty threats no longer worry me.
There was a time that I might have feared his actions, especially where it concerned his ruby-haired daughter, but those years are long gone. There is nothing the devil can do that could cause the same amount of damage already delivered by her hand.
“Silvio, your outbursts are getting tedious,” Vincent interjects, and only upon closer inspection would any capo see that my calm-and-collected best friend has had enough of Bianchi’s bullshit for the day.
“Well, excuse me if I don’t agree with what you intend to do with our business. Getting in bed with the Irish is ludicrous.”