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My blood boils at his audacity. He knows exactly what this means. The car bomb isn’t just a random act of violence—it’s a calculated warning. A reminder of how I failed to get to my father in time. A cruel echo of the past, meant to rattle me.
I take a step toward Gino, but he picks an invisible piece of lint off his suit jacket "Tut, tut, Angelo. No need to get violent. Just stating the obvious.”
His smirk fuels my anger, and I want nothing more than to wipe it off his face. But I force myself to stay in control. Beating Gino to a pulp would only show weakness and would invite a war. I need to stay sharp, think clearly.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I growl.
Gino shrugs, his grin never faltering. “I’m just saying, Angelo. Someone’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe you should figure out who it is before you start throwing punches.”
I lunge forward, but Marco catches my arm, holding me back. “Not here, Boss. Not now,” he says quietly, his grip firm.
I take a deep breath, letting Marco’s calm presence anchor me.
“Get the fuck out of my sight, Gino,” I snap, “before I change my mind.”
Gino gives a mock bow, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “As you wish.” He turns on his heel and saunters away, disappearing into the crowd.
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The other Dons are watching me, waiting for my next move. I can’t afford to show any weakness, not now. Not ever.
“Marco, get our men on this. I want to know who did this and why,” I say, my voice steely.
Marco nods, already pulling out his phone to make the necessary calls. I turn back to the smoldering wreckage of my car, my mind racing. Whoever did this is playing a dangerous game. They’ve made it personal, and they will pay.
The image of my father, lying in a pool of his own blood, flashes before my eyes. I wasn’t there to save him then, but I won’t let history repeat itself.
The street is eerily silent now, the flames having died down, leaving only the skeletal remains of my car as a grim reminder. The other Dons start to disperse, their whispered conversations hinting at the tension this incident has stirred.
“Boss,” Marco says, drawing my attention. “We’ll find them. Whoever did this won’t get away with it.”
I nod, appreciating his unwavering loyalty. “They think they can scare me with a fucking car bomb? They have no idea what they’ve started.”
I stepinto Romero’s car, my exterior calm betraying none of the turmoil I feel inside. The image of my smoking car keeps flashing in my mind, a stark reminder of how quickly things can change.
“Take us to see Genesis,” I order Romero, my voice steady despite the churning in my gut.
As we pull up to the Ardere Art Gallery, I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I dial Genesis’ number, and she answers with her usual abruptness.
“What?” she snaps.
“I’m here,” I say simply, then hang up.
Moments later, Genesis appears at the door. Her head is shaved close to her scalp, the massive tattoo that covers most of her burn scars clearly visible. Her dark eyes, glittering with intelligence and a hint of wariness, scan me quickly.
“Angelo,” she says, her voice a mix of surprise and concern. “What are you doing here?”
I meet her gaze steadily. “Gino’s back.”
Genesis’ eyes widen slightly, understanding the weight of those two simple words. She steps aside, gesturing for us to enter.
We follow Genesis into her studio, the familiar scents of paint and turpentine filling my nostrils. The large warehouse space is a stark contrast to the polished gallery front, with high ceilings and exposed brick walls covered in vibrant, abstract paintings. Various sculptures and installations are scattered throughout, some finished, others clearly works in progress. In one corner, a metal staircase leads up to a loft area where I know Genesis sleeps.
But Genesis’ real moneymaker is her counterfeiting abilities. Her alter ego, Fucina, is legendary in the New York Mob community.
“I’ve got some new clients headed your way,” I begin, trying to ease into the conversation. “And there are some documents we need forged for those custom cars going to Sicily?—”
Genesis cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Skip the small talk, Angelo. Tell me about Gino. Why is he back?”
Before I can answer, Romero chimes in. “Probably couldn’t hack it in Chicago, Alvarez. Had to come crawling back to cause trouble here.”
