Page 128 of The Don’s Omega

“He won’t.”

He presses his lips tight, obviously still not trusting Marcello is a good guy.

“You know,” I say, “Once you’re strong enough, you won’t just have to take online classes anymore. You can pursue your teaching degree like any other student.”

“Yeah, although I’m not sure that’s what I want anymore.”

“I thought it was your dream to be a teacher.” I frown.

He lifts one shoulder. “To be honest, that wasn’t really my dream. Mom was a teacher and I think I wanted to honor her memory. Plus, it sounded safe, respectable, practical. I wanted to make you proud by getting a good job after all you sacrificed for me.”

My chest tightens. “You don’t owe me anything, Fabio. I did what I did because I love you. I just want you happy. Healthy. That’s it.”

His smile is pensive. “Well, I’m on my way to being healthy. Now I need to figure out my happy.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “I get it. We haven’t had much time to think about what would make us happy. We haven’t had the money to dream. We’ve been scrambling to survive for too long. But we have the luxury to dream now. And even though you might hate hearing me say this, it’s because of Marcello.”

“I just pray he doesn’t destroy us.”

“Nah. He’ll only protect us.”

“Hope you’re right,” he murmurs.

I ignore his pessimistic comment. “And yeah, we’ve been through some rough times in our life. But the hard times just made us stronger. What’s that Ernest Hemingway quote Dad always used to tell us? ‘The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.’”

He looks thoughtful. “I’d forgotten he always used to say that.”

I smile. “How about we do our best to be strong at the broken places, Fabio?”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I like the idea of being the strong one for once.”

Chapter Seventeen

Marcello

Paulie Segretti is a moron.

That’s my unwavering assessment. He spent three months skimming fuel surcharges from the port operations, hiding the shortfall in paperwork errors any first-year accountant would catch. He actually thought he could get away with it. He thought when I came in with new management I wouldn’t pull the invoices.

Little did he know I’m an untrusting bastard.

I’m at the waterfront warehouse watching my enforcer, Abramo, work on Paulie. My man Abramo is good at his job. Methodical. He does whatever is necessary to get the information out of men, but he doesn’t enjoy the work. He’s not cruel for the sake of being cruel. That’s why I value him. Men who enjoy this kind of work are unstable. Abramo treats torturing the men who steal from me more like a plumber than a sadist. He finds the leak, he applies pressure, he stops the flow.

After a few hours under Abramo’s care, Paulie has confirmed what I suspected. He acted alone. He’s not connected to anyone. He’s just a man who saw an opportunity in the transfer of control of the ports from Lucchese to Foschini, and decided to exploit it. That mistake is why he’s now sitting in a metal chair, zip-tied and bleeding, agreeing to pay back every dollar or else. Works for me.

I check my watch. 4:20 p.m.

Fuck.

Carlo left an hour ago to pick up Fabio from Harbor View. I told Elio I’d be home by 4:00 p.m. I assured him I’d be standing in the foyer with him when his brother walked through the door. Instead I’m in a warehouse watching a man spit blood onto a concrete floor.

“We’re done here,” I tell Abramo. “Clean up. Make sure he understands the terms.”

Abramo nods. I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin by the door, and walk out into the daylight. I let Abramo do ninety-nine percent of the wet work today. I just slapped Paulie around a little so he knew I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. You can lose men’s respect when you outsource all the unpleasant shit. My late brother didn’t like to get his hands dirty, but I don’t mind. I came up as an enforcer, so it’s familiar work for me.

The afternoon is cooling, October starting to bite, and the salt air off the harbor is sharp enough to taste. Anthony has the car running. I get in the back and we go. I don’t call Elio. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and a phone call will only give him time to get angrier. Better to arrive, apologize in person, and deal with whatever he’s feeling when I walk in late. I don’t want him upset, but I already fucked up. It is what it is. I can’t turn back time.

The drive takes thirty minutes because a truck jackknifes on Federal and Anthony has to cut through the marina district. I sit in the back seat scrolling through messages, trying not to stress out about letting Elio down. It wasn’t my intention. Time just got away from me. I’m not someone who feels a lot of guilt, but I do when it concerns Elio. I never want to let him down, and I did today.