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“You have five seconds to make your request before I take any chance of fulfilling it away,” I tell her.
Camila leans back in her seat. “You owe me, Nicolas. I convinced my uncle to support you.”
“Which begs the question for the third fucking time. What do you want?”
“I want a seat at the table,” she finally says.
Her request catches me off guard. I was expecting her to demand access to more buildings. I thought she wanted to branch out of the club business and test out other waters. This request is completely unexpected.
“A woman has never sat at the table before,” I say slowly.
The Italian mafia as a whole isn’t a very progressive organization. The worst of all the families are in the Chicago outfit. This has to do with the fact that we run a more centralized unit in this city. In other cities, like New York, there are several Dons who command equal, or at least a similar amount of power. Recently, one of the families even produced a female Don.
But in Chicago, most of the top dogs are traditional old men with unshakeable principles and values. Adrian and I are the youngest men who hold a seat of power, and while he might have inherited his position, I had to fight my way to get to where I am now.
There’s also The Shadow. I have my suspicions that he’s not that old either, considering the Don gave him a seat at the table only a couple of years ago. Still, there are fixed rules—age-old traditions. Camila can’t just sit there and demand a position most made men in the outfit would kill for. And I can’t give it to her, not when my rightful position still hangs in the balance.
“That’s really sexist of you, Nico,” she says disappointedly.
“And your request is ridiculous. I understand that you hold a lot of sway in the outfit, Camila. But you’re not a made man.”
“I like to think of myself as a made woman,” she says lightly.
I cross my arms over my chest as I study her.
“No one’s going to hand you a seat at the table.”
“Of course not. Which is why I’m supporting you. So you can give it to me when you become Don.”
Give it to her? Hilarious. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. And she reminds me of a particularly infuriating brunette in my life. No wonder she and Aurora used to be close. They’re annoyingly similar.
“I still haven’t heard a good enough reason for why I should give you anything. And enough with the bullshit about supporting me. Marco would have fallen in line sooner or later. I want to know who you’ve got backing you. There has to be a reason why you’re confident enough to make such a request.”
“Perceptive as always,” she notes, sitting forward. “If you give me a seat at the table, I’ll give you the keys to the Bratva.”
That has me leaning forward in surprise. The Russians in Chicago are notable recluses. They don’t bother us, and we don’t bother them. The few times our organizations have clashed, there’s been casualties on both ends. A few Dons in the past have tried to build a relationship with them, but they’ve refused every single time.
Again, I blame our long-standing principles. In addition to the sexism, most men in the outfit are also pure-blood idealists. It’s why I’m having such a hard time. They don’t want a made man with Mexican roots at the head of their table. That’s not how it is everywhere else, though. The Dons in New York have an easier relationship with the Bratva because they’re good at intermarriage and forming alliances.
The Cosa Nostra here though, has stood stubbornly alone for decades.
“And how do you plan to do that?” I ask, although I already know the answer.
I suppose I’ve always had my suspicions, but it isn’t until she confirms them that I realize the truth.
“My husband has connections with the Bratva,” Camila states.
And there it is. I knew there was a reason her uncle assented to her marrying a man like Lukas, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere. I looked into him and found an ironclad background. He’s a Russian orphan who moved to America in his teens. He started working for Marco, incorporating himself into his household. He served in the army for a while, and when he returned, he got married to Camila. I realize now that Marco had an endgame all this while.
The Bratva sent a damn spy, and Marco helped them with. My fists clench. I should kill that old man.
“Why the fuck should I help you when you’ve been lying to the outfit this whole time?” I snap.
“Because it’s in all our best interests if you do. Lukas and I have been biding our time. Waiting for you to assume your position now that Valerio’s gone. The Bratva wants to build an alliance with us.”
“How high up is he?” I ask in a low voice, referring to her husband’s position in the Bratva.
Camila simply shrugs. “That doesn’t really matter, does it? Now that all the cards are on the table, what do you want to do about it? It’s your choice, Nicolas. Are we going to have a non-Italian Don for the first time in the outfit? Or are you going to let Sebastian win?”
