Page 8 of Stolen Compliance

Dominic is leaning against the wall, typing on his phone when I make it to the foyer. He gives me a brief up and down look, scrunching his nose in distaste. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to do… There must be something wrong with your watch, though.”

“I’m exactly on time,” I grit out. It may have been close, but the fucker knows I hit the half-hour mark perfectly.

Snorting, Dominic pushes away from the wall. “On time is late. Especially for the bottom rung.”

He turns sharply, heading out and ignoring me as I scramble to keep up with him. I slide into the SUV after him, hating being near him. Twisted heat curls inside me, wanting to explode. The need to plunge a knife into him is strong enough my hands shake from it. But I refuse to shame Il Padrone like that.

The urge to call my friend, my former Master, and beg for help is strong, though. I want to blow these fuckers off the map. Hell, who cares about taking over when they need to be exterminated? But I can’t. He made it clear. This is my job, my task. If I want to be a Boss, I need to figure it out.

Right now, the only thing I know is when I’m successful—because I refuse to consider anything else—Dominic will be first on his knees in front of me. He can beg all he wants, but I’ll pull that trigger with no regrets at all.

“So tell me, what does a Second actually do on the East Coast?”

Dominic’s question brings me out of my violent fantasies. I barely stop myself from cringing at his derisive emphasis on the East Coast. Fucker. We’re better than the rest of the Organizations in this country. Hell, even the Amatos are better than these assholes, and that’s saying something. They’re a thorn in our side most of the time, although when I left, there were tentative plans to get together between the Martellis and them for Christmas.

“I did what’s needed,” I reply vaguely. “I…coordinated. Amongst the Boys, the suppliers, whatever needed done. I kept track of our assets, our plans. I helped strategize with Il Padrone. It wasn’t an easy job, especially as Il Padrone believes in leading from the front, so we definitely got our hands dirty regularly. But it was useful.”

“Was?” Dominic queries flatly, the corner of his eyes tightening as he watches me.

I flick the question away. “Yes, was. As in, right now Lio is acting Second. I’m here to learn, to study. After that, I’ll go home and assist with the new venture. I’ll be a project manager in a sense.”

“That’s quite a step down,” Dominic muses.

Considering I’m spewing bullshit… Still, I play it off. “That’s short-term thinking. Especially as you have all pointed out the profit margins on this. Not to mention, my position will always be secure.”

“Hmm. Odd. You know, I’ve never met anyone who has ever reclaimed their position after being effectively demoted. Even if they didn’t realize they were on their way out at the time. Perhaps your Il Padrone is hoping we’ll take you out. Food for thought, I suppose.”

It’s timed perfectly as the SUV stops and he’s out of it before I can form a rebuttal. Instead, I choke on the words, knowing they’re untrue but unable to explain why. Shaking my head, I scramble to follow.

Fuck. This. Day.

And fuck these assholes. I’ll play the game, but at the end they’ll learn. The East Coast always wins, including when one of us comes for our own fucking territory. Because these fuckers don’t deserve it.

Fucking with the guy is almost too easy. So quick to trip over himself to defend his Boss, and not nearly as controlled enough to hide what a hot button it is for him. There’s being loyal and then there’s…a dog on a long leash. It’s clear which side of the spectrum Luca falls under.

Disgust rolls through me at being saddled with him for the day. Fucking Teo. But…he was right, there are some secrets the fucker hasn’t earned yet—if he’ll ever get to that point. And with what Sergio is grooming his son for, I’m the unlucky bastard that gets babysitting. Joy. Just when I got rid of needing to drag Teo around with me to make sure he didn’t fail the Boss, now I have this stuck-up asshole.

For all his claims that they got their hands dirty often…I find that hard to believe. The East Coast is soft, believing their legacy and names will keep them in power, stagnant and unwilling to expand; until now. It’s all bullshit and enough to make me scoff, but if Luca wants to pretend he’s a big, bad mafia Second, he can. I’ll be keeping note of how many times he fails.

Leading him into one of the stash houses where we house the drugs before distribution, Luca follows me like a good little duckling, and it’d be amusing if it wasn’t so pathetic. At least the guy is good at the “seen and not heard” part. It doesn’t give me charitable opinions of him and what he did for his Boss, but at least he doesn’t give me a headache with his unnecessary chatter.

There’s a brief pause in operation when I walk in with my charge and I make a note of that. They know better, nothing stops unless ordered to, and a trainee, or whatever the fuck Luca ends up being, isn’t something that necessitates such orders.

The door to the small, cramped office in the back is open, and the man in charge of the distribution stands in the doorway. He greets me with a small incline of his head. “Everything is prepped and ready, sir.”

“Good.” Brushing past him, I’m happy to see the scales out, as well as the money counter; I hate wasting time with unpreparedness.

“This part of your duties?” I ask Luca, curious to know what type of bullshit job he actually had.

“…Not exactly. As I said, I coordinated with the Boys. Il Padrone believes in delegation, so he has trained Boys to oversee different parts of the operation, and I coordinated with them to make sure everything was on par.”

I snort. I knew the whole “got our hands dirty regularly” was a crock of shit. They simply handed off all the hard parts and allowed someone else to do them.

I don’t need to bring up my last check’s numbers, but for show, I do, uncaring if Luca can see the profits we’re working with. Let him take back to his Boss how successful we are in all avenues, not just the merchandise of the human variety.

I count the money first, careful to keep a log of what it should be versus what it is; it wouldn’t do to be even a cent off. Lost money is lost money, and someone has to pay.

That done, I grab the scales and head back out to the main room. Like a well-oiled machine, all the packages are bundled and ready for the drug runners, they simply need to be weighed a final time and recorded so we can keep track of which area is bringing in the steady numbers.