Vincent’s tight jaw locks up, enough for me to know he’s grinding his teeth to keep his icy persona in check. When we were younger, it was a trait I hated about him, but through the years I’ve come to rely on it to keep our enemies guessing. Once, his blank features were an enigma I loathed; now they are as easy to read as the Sunday newspaper. At least to me, anyway.
I don’t even have to see him tilt his head to the side, toward our brother in the corner, to know exactly what his intentions are if The Butcher continues to insist in swaying his way the opinion of every capo in this room.
We will strike an alliance with the Irish.
Vincent announcing it as a plausible solution is nothing but a mere pleasantry to the older crowd. The boss has made the decision, and his word is the only that counts.
“So what do you propose?” I ask, curious as to what The Butcher feels is the best course of action.
“Honestly, I say we do nothing to instigate the Cosa Nostra. I say we negotiate with them instead and come to an arrangement that will appease both organizations. What Romano is suggesting is a war among the mafia families—one that will bring nothing but bloodshed to our doorstep,” he warns triumphantly to the men stupid enough to hear his counsel.
“And since when have you ever been afraid of spilling blood?” I taunt, wanting the beast to come out and bite the hand that’s feeding him. Give him enough rope, and he’ll hang himself with his own careless words.
“Fear has nothing to do with it,” he jeers.
“No. Not fear, but greed. Your greed is what makes you offer my commilitoni such a lukewarm proposal—one made by a man with little vision. If greed is what motivates you most, then rest assured that every decision I make is to guarantee the affluence of the syndicate,” Vincent informs, enunciating each word perfectly to drive his wishes home. “If you aren’t on board, have the decency to maintain your silence, because this is happening whether you like it or not,” he sneers, rubbing his family heirloom ring, a small piece of jewelry that is a reminder of who actually holds the power in this room.
“I was consigliere to your uncle for decades, and we flourished just fine,” Silvio counters, summoning Big Sal’s name as his biggest asset.
Every man sitting at this table still mourns the loss of such a charismatic, astute leader, and Silvio knows that linking his name to Salvatore Romano is the only card he has left to influence this particular crowd.
“I’m not saying the contrary. But let’s be honest, since I’ve taken command, hasn’t your account balance tripled? Don’t you like the benefits of what I’ve given you? If not, I’m perfectly content of stripping them away,” Vincent threatens with an amused tone.
“I worked for that money, and I paid your dues as ransomed!”
“You’ve paid your dues to the syndicate, Silvio, just like every member of this family. Do not think your contributions have been greater than any made man here!” Vincent snarls at him in disgust.
“I built this Outfit, boy! Without me, this syndicate would be nothing!” Silvio shouts, slamming his fists on the table, finally coming to his wits’ end. “I will not stay here and be insulted! Porca miseria!” he growls, attempting to stand up from his seat.
But before the insolent fool has a chance to move a muscle, Dominic is already peering behind him and with a quick flip of the knife, launches it straight into the middle of Silvio’s hand, binding him to the table.
“Arghhhhhh!” Silvio grunts, trying to remove the blade, but Dom won’t allow the asshole to move. Instead, he grabs hold of his head by his short hair and forces him to face Vincent.
“Take a long hard look, Butcher. The man at the head of this table is the fucking Outfit! You’re nothing but a cockroach eating up the crumbs he gives you,” Dom whispers loud enough in Bianchi’s ear for everyone to hear.
This day might have started off depressing, but watching Silvio Bianchi squirm in pain, just made it extraordinarily pleasant. The Butcher continues to let out piercing squeals of agony while Vincent just pinches his temple at the annoying sound, and waves to Dom for him to let the devil go.
“Cease your whining, Silvio. It’s but a mere flesh wound compared to the cut inflicted by your disrespect,” Vincent advises, bored with the whole ordeal.
Dom takes back his knife with a smirk and cleans the blood off on Silvio’s shirt.
“Disrespect?! And what do you call this? You dishonor your uncle’s legacy by letting this ogre attack me, Vincent. A dishonor!” he wails, looking behind him at Dom, spitting on the floor to make his point while holding his bloody hand to his chest.
Dom just continues to play with his blade over his overgrown blond beard, keeping the same menacing smile in place.
“Tread carefully, Silvio. The only one I see here that has no notion of what that word even means is you. It is true that our code prevents me from taking a capo’s life without traitorous due cause, but nowhere is it written that I can’t maim you for your faulty behavior. I’d be more careful if I were you,” Vincent cautions, glaring at the villain.
“This is preposterous!” he continues to belt out, looking at every man seated at the table for backup.
I can’t help my big smile when he sees there is no one to support his cause. I guess that’s what you get when you’ve been a dick most of your life.
“Sit your ass down, Butcher,” Ciro advises mundanely, taking it right from under me the little joy I had in this small show of discipline.
The Thorn at my side has been silent throughout today’s meeting but chooses now to make himself known. His voice alone irks me the wrong way. Dom places his strong, imposing hands on Bianchi’s shoulders, forcing him to sit and making sure he doesn’t budge.
“You’ve had a trying day, Silvio. I’m going to overlook this little temper tantrum to the fact you buried your wife today. But insult my organization and me again, and the next thing Dom will cut out will be your tongue. Are we clear?” Vincent warns arctically.
Bianchi has the good sense in keeping his trap shut and nodding his understanding instead. The blood seeping onto his shirt is warning enough that his opinions should be kept to himself. Still, I wouldn’t mind seeing Dominic wield his knife again and cut the devil further. Maybe he’ll be foolish enough in the future to tempt Vincent’s wrath.
One can only hope.
The meeting proceeds with Vincent announcing that he will depart for Boston to negotiate with the Irish later in the week, while Ciro will head out to New York and stall our competition with false promises of a joint venture. Ciro’s true mission, however, will be to get intel and seek out weak spots that we can use to our advantage. This is the only part of the plan which raises my hackles. As consigliere, I’m to stay in Chicago and keep the business flowing in Vincent’s absence, which I understand, but I don’t trust Ciro to go to New York alone either. But then again, I wouldn’t trust LaSpina to head the syndicate if Vincent were to order me to go in his stead. A catch-twenty-two if I ever saw one.
Once the meeting adjourns, every capo comes over to the head of the table, paying his respects by kissing Vincent’s ring, as custom calls for it. When Dom ushers Silvio to do the same, I see just how much beaming rage fuels within, brimming out of Satan’s eyes. Having to bend and show fealty in this way must sicken him, and it’s too good an opportunity to pass up.