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“You realize I’d never let you launder my shirts,” Darius jokes.
“Do you even own any collared shirts?” I jibe with my now friend. He could still kill me if he wanted, but I’ve bulked up enough to where I’d at least go down with a fight. He was even right about my face; it’s cleared up since I cleaned up my diet. The self-confidence? That’s still a work in progress.
He chuckles. “Fair point. Good luck, my man.”
“Thanks.”
Darius strolls out with death hanging from his gloved finger, and I walk back down the steps to turn off my lantern and make sure everything’s in its place. Locking up, I walk up the stairs and close the door, covering it with a tarp.
I turn around to find Nonna standing there with her arms wrapped around her stomach. She breaks down into tears before running away.
In a way I envy the woman; not because I just broke her heart, but because she has the ability to cry. I wonder what it’s like?
I bounce in the passenger seat of Darius’ car as we barrel down a deserted highway, headed to an address just outside AC. “Thanks again for driving me.” I’ve got more than enough cash these days to buy my own ride, but I try not to flash it in my nonna’s face. Things have been tense between us ever since she found my workshop.
“Of course. Not every day a friend gets made; that, or you’re about to get popped,” he muses.
“What the fuck, Darius? I’m already nervous!” I don’t think I’m being called to the carpet; I just saw the news story of the city councilman who had a “heart attack” thanks to his poison shirt. And word is the books are open, so I have to believe I’m being summoned to my made ceremony.
He chuckles. “I’m just messing with you. Besides, I’d know if there was a hit out on you,” he points out.
“You are not helping.” Glancing over to the man who’s feared by everyone on the street, I feel lucky to know the real Darius. And hopefully, I’ll be lucky enough to never personally know Diávolos.
“What?” he asks.
“Thanks, man. For everything.”
“Wait, is there a hit out on me?” he jokes.
“I’m being serious, you fucker. It feels wrong that I’m about to be a made man and you’ll…”
“Never be? Nah, don’t sweat it,” Darius assures me, but hurt flashes on his face for a split second. “Just remember me when you’re a big shot.”
I snort a laugh, knowing damn well there’ll be years of me paying my dues before that’s even a possibility. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be a bigger badass than me.”
“True enough,” he agrees, flipping on the radio to classical music.
We arrive at the address, pulling into the back of a warehouse. Getting out of the car, we walk to the door to find Matteo huddled with a group of soldiers smoking cigarettes.
“Lookie who we’ve got here. If it isn’t the Greek,” Matteo announces loudly, stubbing out his cigarette. Matteo is part of his father, Sergio’s AC crew, and because of that, he thinks his shit doesn’t stink. “See, Venom, this is why you should never feed a stray dog. They keep coming back for handouts,” he advises; the nickname having stuck with me after my successful hit of the city council member.
The guys in the AC crew snicker, and I glance over to my friend, who is about a second away from laying Matteo out. “I’ll see you later,” I tell Darius, stepping in front of him so he doesn’t do something crazy.
“Yeah, listen to your buddy, Darius, and get the fuck outta here. Italians only,” Matteo taunts.
“Didn’t realize you’d been promoted to the boss and called the shots, Matteo,” Romeo says, joining us, with Sam beside him.
Matteo ducks his head; a show of respect to the boss’s son, but it’s bullshit—there’s not a respectful bone in Matteo’s body. “Course not. But this is family business.”
Romeo fist bumps Darius and says something to him in Greek, and Darius returns something with a laugh.
Sam and Darius fist bump, and then Darius fist bumps me. “Good luck,” he tells me quietly.
“Thanks.”
“Call me if you need a ride back to Newark.”
“He won’t,” Matteo interjects. “The family’s celebrating tonight. Gonna go out and get some pussy.” He rubs his hands together, and his crew cheers.
