“Find every Irishman and burn him alive,” Santo hisses, seeming annoyed at having to turn in his chair to address my second-in-command. “How’s that for a fucking plan?”
Durante is the biggest of us, with a soft, doughy face that doesn’t match his hard eyes and his giant body. His voice is deep and his words come slow. “He might have a point. Why did we bring the Italians here if not to wage war?”
Maury nods. He’s an albino with discomfiting red eyes. He speaks with a heavy Italian accent, since he lived in Rome until a few years ago. He’s even smaller than Santo. “Soldiers need war. Or else they will find … other distractions.”
“The Albino is right,” Santo says. “War, boss, that’s what we need. A bloody, down-and-dirty fight.”
I sip my whiskey as the men turn to me, awaiting any further discussion. My father taught me how to hold council. The best leaders always let their men vent before they offer up their own instructions. A man can seem like he knows twice as much if he speaks half as often.
“Fergal Sweeney,” Durante mutters, popping his meaty knuckles. “The Elephant never forgets. I’ve always found that nickname slightly ludicrous. Who in our business does forget?”
Nario makes a grunting noise that might be a laugh. We share a look and I know he sees the anger that flares through me like wildfire even if none of the others do.
I remember the day Sweeney tore my life to pieces so vividly it could be playing out in the ornate golden mirror that overlooks us all. But I shut my mind to it.
“He won’t forget my Wesson in his nut sack, I promise you that,” Santo growls. “Let me have ’em, boss, you’ll see.”
I take a small sip of whiskey and lean forward. “I would like to hear what Nario thinks.”
My lieutenant pushes back from his place and walks over to the table. He stands with his hands behind him, far too thin, as though the weight of his responsibility is gnawing at his bones. I must let Mother cook him a meal soon.
“We have to be strategic,” he says. “It’s true that sending a message is important, but we must choose the right message. All-out war is not good for business. How loyal will our soldiers be if half our businesses are destroyed?”
“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed last night?” I ask him. I see the lieutenants exchanging looks and ignore it.
“I have,” he says.
“And is it possible?”
He nods. “It is, but risky.”
“Risk, I can accept. Certain failure, I can’t.”
“What is this?” Santo scowls. “I don’t much like being kept in the dark.”
Nario raises an eyebrow at me, asking for permission. I can see the Albino and Durante are curious, too. I pick up my whiskey glass and gesture with it, indicating that Nario should not tell them. The fewer people who know about this, the better, at least until it’s too late to change anything.
“All will be revealed soon,” Nario says, with a rare smile.
“How fucking mysterious,” Santo sighs.
I sip my whiskey, enjoying the scorching down my throat as I think about what Nario can’t say.
We’re going to kidnap Benjamin Sweeney, the Irish prince. Fergal’s son.
Part of being the don is being seen enjoying the harem and the club and the pleasures that come along with it. The decadence, so to speak. It gives the men permission to do the same.
The dance floor is a wide-open expanse with stages arranged all around, women dancing in bikinis, pumping their hips in the flashing strobe lights. Nario is the only one who doesn’t partake, since he is the rare mobster who is both married and also devoted to his wife. Durante, Santo, and the Albino need no encouragement. They quickly wrap their arms around harem girls and disappear into various booths and shadowy alcoves.
Nario and I sit in the booth at the back of the room. It is raised on a dais so that we can overlook the dance floor. The music is quieter up here because the walls are soundproofed, though the door is open so some noise still filters through.
“It’s a good night for business,” Nario says, indicating the floor, packed ass to ass with people.
“You always have your head in the right place.” I smile.
“Business, money, staying alive. These seem like smart preoccupations to me. Do you need me for the night, Carlo? I promised Sil and the children I would try to check in.”
“No. Go, be with your family. Say hello to Sil for me.”
Almost as soon as he leaves, they come over—the harem girls. Two of them, one a dark-skinned Sicilian girl and the other a light-skinned Asian woman. Both are attractive enough, but the way they look at me stirs absolutely nothing. It’s like they’re robots preprogrammed to be attracted to me. But really, it’s just my money they desire—my position, my name.
“Where are you tonight, baby?” the Italian purrs. She makes to put her hand on my arm, stopping when I shake my head. “Come back to me. I know how to make you happy, honey, if you just let me.”
I shake my head, sip my whiskey, and nod down at the floor, where some of my soldiers have just entered. “Go,” I say.
They leave. I sit back and watch them go.
But, absurdly, all I see is Hazel.
The light shifts and there she is, dancing for me. But where these women wear vacant expressions or simpering smiles, Hazel scowls at me, goads me, taunts me, tempts me. She thrusts her hips and, in my fantasy, teases the hem of her dress ever higher on her thighs, showing me pale, untouched flesh desperate to be claimed…
This is ridiculous. I should be able to banish this woman, this stranger, from my mind. Nobody has left an impression on me like her, not once, not ever. Not even Jasmine, all those long years ago.
Hazel is different.
I knock back my whiskey, annoyed at myself. No, she’s not different. She’s just a woman and the sex was just sex. Going to the rec center the second time was a mistake—one I will not let myself make again.
But even as I promise myself this, I feel myself weakening. The memory of her body heat under my palms calls to me. The wavy craziness of her red hair, the spark in her green eyes, the tightness of her sex, the way she doesn’t just say what she thinks I want to hear… It’s a siren song, tempting me towards a horrific end.
Fuck that.
I leave the club by the back door. I don’t want anybody to see me go.
I’m glad the mansion is sleeping when I get home. I have never much minded sharing a home with my mother and sister, but a man like me needs a space of his own. Silence. Solitude. These are the things that give a man time to harden, to think, to conquer.
I strip out of my suit and change into my gym gear, and then lock myself away at the rear of the mansion. I punish my body with a grueling workout. Every time I feel my mind straying to Hazel, when it should be fixed on Fergal and the war, I do another set. I do ten sets of bench presses, increasing the weight each time, and then jump straight into a back-shredding pull-up workout. I drop down straight into weighted squats, enjoying the feel of the bar digging into my neck.
I play Vivaldi on the sound system, conjuring memories of when Father used to grin as he slid his records into place. The classical music calms me somewhat.