Sempre (Forever Series #1)(16)

Genetics, Vincent thought, was a peculiar thing.

Although he was well known, few people saw the man behind the mask. Vincent felt like he lived two different lives, both equally real yet at odds with each other. He liked to believe he was the family man that others saw, but he was also deeply committed to a different type of family.

A family not bonded by genetics, instead forged by spilled blood and sworn oaths. LCN, the government called it, short for La Cosa Nostra, but it was known by many different names: la famiglia, borgata, outfit, syndicate. It all meant the same. The Mafia.

He’d taken a step back from the life years ago, moving away from Chicago and the center of the action, but there was no leaving the organization once it had you in its brutal grasp. He was kept on as an unofficial consigliere to the Don, Salvatore Capozzi. Vincent’s job was to play the middleman, to give advice when asked and come when called, and he did this obediently, taking care of whatever needed to be handled. But just because he was good at what he did, didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

Vincent sat in the smoky den of the mansion in Lincoln Park, holding a full glass of scotch as he listened to the swarm of men debate business. There were twenty of them, but Vincent wasn’t sure why half were there. They had no say in how things were run, some of them so new they hadn’t earned their buttons. There was no reason to trust them—no reason to confide in them—considering there was no blood on their hands.

Not to say he wanted them to be murderers. He envied their clear consciences and wished he could warn them all to turn away. Get out while they still could, because someday it would be too late . . . and that someday would probably end with a lengthy prison sentence.

Or a hollow-point bullet to the brain. Vincent hadn’t decided which outcome would be worse.

But he couldn’t warn anyone. He’d sworn an oath to put the organization first, and if the organization wanted these dime-a-dozen thugs, Vincent would deal with his ill feelings silently. He’d initiated young—one of the youngest made men in history. Usually guys struggled for decades trying to prove themselves worthy, most never surviving long enough to see it happen. But not Vincent. He’d slipped right in the door while his father was in control.

He wasn’t the youngest to do business with them, though. Kids were recruited fresh from high school, molded into vindictive soldiers to do the family’s bidding. The young ones incurred all the risk, while those at the top lavished in the fruits of their labor.

Blood money. Hundreds had died to pay for the mansion in which they sat.

“We cannot tolerate these things. They are savages.”

Giovanni was speaking, his thick accent making Vincent strain to pay attention. Sicilian by birth, he’d immigrated to America a decade before and moved up in rank to become their highest-producing Capo. Some of his crew was present, sitting off to the side. Vincent had a hard time remembering the names of the soldati, but one he was familiar with was Nunzio.

Nunzio had been lurking around for years. They called him Squint because of the way his eyes always seemed to be half-closed, his face frozen in a roguish scowl. He kept his head buzzed, a light dusting of brown hair showing, and his eyes were the dull color of cracked earth. The Don’s brother had taken him in as a baby, so Salvatore had a soft spot for the boy.

The men argued back and forth as Vincent swirled the scotch around in his glass, having no intention of drinking it. He remained quiet until the unmistakable voice of the Don chimed in, speaking directly to him. “What do you think, Vincent?”

I think I want to go home. “I think being hasty will backfire. I don’t like the way the Russians conduct business, but they’ve yet to hurt any of our people.”

“They will,” Giovanni warned.

“If they do, it’ll be handled,” Vincent said, “but until that time comes, who are we to police another group?”

Vincent looked across the room at where the Don sat in his favorite chair. In his late sixties, Sal was shaped like a balloon and sounded perpetually full of helium. He’d been the underboss when Vincent’s father ran things and succeeded rule after he died. Antonio had dubbed him Salamander. “If you scare a salamander, he’ll drop his tail and run,” he had said. “No skin off his back. Two weeks later, he’s good as new.”

Sal mulled over Vincent’s words. “You’re right. Maybe they’ll take themselves out with their stupidity.”

Squint laughed dryly, but tried to cover it with a forced cough when everyone looked his way. The guy beside him seemed annoyed by the outburst, another soldato whose name eluded Vincent. He thought it might be Johnny, one of about a hundred other Johnnys running around the streets. His looks certainly fit the name—generic, undistinguishable. Another number in the crowd, easily replaced, never missed. A tail, Vincent thought. Sal would drop him and keep going.

When Sal dismissed them with a wave of the hand, Vincent was the first out of his seat. He dumped the scotch and headed for the door, but Giovanni cut him off. “I think we are making a mistake, Doc. It will do us no good ignoring them now.”

“We’re not ignoring them,” Vincent said. “We’re just not going to instigate a fight. The last thing we need is violence on our streets over things that have nothing to do with us.”

Vincent headed for his rental car when Giovanni’s voice rang out once more. “Just because we do not know of anything does not mean they have not violated us. There will be war.”