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"Luke—" He gets to his feet, hands fisting at his sides, and I shake my head.
"Get the fuck out of here. You’re on door duty tonight at Capo’s and every night for the rest of the month. Dani will tell you which toilets you’re cleaning after the bar closes, too?—"
His mouth drops open, and that cigarette hangs loosely from his fingers, like he’s forgotten about it. My jaw clenches.
"Don’t fuckin’ drop that. The carpet in here is older than you, and worth more, and if it’s burned, I’ll take the cost out of your goddam paycheck. And you can go help Frederico at the repair shop, and learn a little about weaving while you’re at it." His eyes burn in rage, but I know Matteo and Gio are going to back me up on this. Matt’s only a few years older than Ricky, but didn’t have the benefit of being spoiled rotten as the baby of the family. He’s already proven himself time and time again, and has been running his own crew for three years on his own now.
Ric should be ready. He’s older than Matt was when I set him his territory, Terminal City and Gas-Town, but he’s not.
"Go."
He doesn’t move, and I stare him down.
"You want me to ask the others if they want to give up a piece of the leadership to you, when you lost us a deal that was worth millions? You’re going to keep tweakers out of Capo’s and clean up vomit and piss, and you’re going to do it with a fucking smile."
"Yes, sir." The words are bitter, and his mouth closing, his jaw clenched as he stares me down. He flips me the bird by way of a salute, and turns on his heels, striding out the door.
I slump back in my chair and let out a slow breath.
I’m trying to do right by my family.
But sometimes it’s like they won’t let me.
My eyes slide over the dark-charcoal walls of my office, the linen wallpaper catching the light along its texture. There’s a painting above the door, a family portrait, the same one that used to hang in my parents’ house, with a hole torn through my father’s face, the killer’s mark from the assassination still present.
My cousins say it’s bad luck to keep it here, but it just reminds me of what he died for, what I live for. Every day, my focus is on protecting my family, everyone that falls under the Greco shadow. When I took over, when I was forced to take the reins, none of this was handed to me.
I fought for every scrap and nearly lost it all.
I was only eighteen. Just a kid, who’d never really had a childhood anyway, or a choice. The stars were aligned before I was born.
This is my place, my reason, my lifeblood.
There’s a knock at the door of my office and I sigh, wanting to rub my temples, but knowing that any sign of weakness from the boss will spread like fire through the ranks.
"Come in." I hide the weariness in my voice, and Dani’s face appears in the doorway.
"That bad, huh?"
"How much did you hear?"
"All of it. And I agree with you."
"That’s a fucking change." I raise my eyebrow at her and she smiles. Her dark face, usually closed and enigmatic, is amused.
"He’ll learn, cleaning up piss." She wrinkles her nose, trying to hide the laugh that I know is shaking her shoulders. A cousin, daughter of the black sheep of the family, my uncle Nero, who married outside of the Italian diaspora Boston to a beautiful classical singer. Dani inherited her mother’s good looks, dark skin, and excellent singing voice.
But she inherited the Greco temper too, and our sharp, calculating minds. She’d be out of place in any other city, but to me, she’s blood forever, family, and almost as close as a sister would be, if I’d had one.
"So, you came in to tell me how I’m not fucking up for once?"
She smiles and shakes her head, coming further into the room, shutting the door behind her.
"No. To tell you that the next shipment is ready." She cocks her head. Dani’s true gift, beyond singing and making meatballs that would make God weep with the glory of them, is an analytical mind that traps data and moving parts like a spider’s web. Nothing gets by her. She’s better than a computer, essential for our records-keeping so that nothing, or as little as possible, is written down or digital.
It’s the secret weapon behind the Greco family’s power as we’ve moved from the Rolodexes and Filofaxes of the 80s into the era where our whole empire could be carelessly left behind in a coffee shop, on some foot-soldier’s phone.
It’s why I don’t let her date. Or rather, I don’t approve of anyone she takes an interest in. That and she’s too good for the mouth-breathers in this city.
