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“Your old man always took a glass of wine. No matter what time of day, he wanted a little red, not too much, just half a glass. Something to sip. I don’t think I ever saw him drunk a day in his life.”
“He knew better than to let his guard down around you vultures.”
Rocco laughs and makes awhat can you dogesture with both hands. “You learned a thing or two from him then, I take it.”
“You remember how it was, right?”
He grunts and leans forward on his elbows, looking more subdued. “We called you his little shadow sometimes. Did you know that?”
“No,” I say, trying not to smile at the thought. “Did you really?”
“You were always fucking there. No matter what, if you weren’t in school or something, your dad would make sure you were by his side. We always figured you were the second most powerful person in the entire Famiglia.”
“Come on, now you’re just messing with me.”
“Nah, we didn’t mean it, but that’s what we said anyway. It was funny, you know? Seeing a little girl in some of those meetings? But we got used to it.”
“Looking back, I think Dad probably should’ve let me stay at home.”
“But if he did, where would you be now?”
He’s got a good point. Without all the training my dad gave me, I’d have practically nothing, no workable skills, no use to anyone. “All I know is crime,” I tell him.
And he laughs, because he knows how that goes. “Not that I’m fuckin’ employable either.”
“While it’s fun reminiscing with you, even though you did want to kill me—” I give him a hard look.
“No offense, you know? Just how things were.”
I ignore that. “I’m here to talk about Matteo Ricci.”
Rocco leans back and snorts with surprise. “What the fuck do you want with a murderous thieving scumbag like that piece of shit?”
“I guess you two aren’t on good terms.”
He curses in Italian. “That fuck’s been stealing from dealers all over Chicago for over a year. He’s a pain in my fucking ass, and he doesn’t give a shit what our history might’ve been. He says the Santoro are over and finished, and it’s just business, right? Fuck him, is what I say. What do you want with him?”
“I want to know details about his operation.” I pull a napkin over and start tearing it into strips. Each piece I put down like chess figures on a board. “Manpower. Money. Guns. Locations. Safehouses. I want everything you know.”
Rocco leans close. “You got some plans?”
“I have ideas, yes.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get the old Famiglia back together.”
I stare at him for a beat. It’s exactly what Ronan said—or at least something like it. Why do these men keep thinking I want to build a crime family, and why do they seem to believe I could pull it off?
“The Santoro Famiglia died with my father. Assholes like you put a stake through the heart of the corpse when you forced me into hiding.”
He spreads his hands with a grin. “Mea culpa, my dear.”
“Fuck you too. No, I’m not trying to rebuild the Famiglia.”
“I’m just saying, you have the name for it, and I bet you have the skills too. Your little plan to weasel your way into my business sure as fuck worked out well enough, though I hear Gregory is pissed.”
“Let him be pissed.” I drum my knuckles on the bar. “We’re worrying about what’s in front of us, right? I want what you have on Matteo.”
“All right, I can do that. Whatever you want to know. But if you do go after the prick, promise I can send a few of my boys. They’d be very keen.”
