“What are you looking at?”
“A full shipment,” Wolf replied.
“Of the handguns.”
It wasn’t even a question.
“Sì.”
The olive-toned, dark-haired man on the other side of the table nodded. “One-hundred grand, then.”
Nearly fifteen-year-old Cross Donati’s brow furrowed as he surveyed the guns on the table again. He knew a thing or two about guns; he liked them. He liked them a whole lot for longer than he could remember. Instead of porn stashed under his bed, he had Guns and Ammo.
Nearly seventy percent of America’s black market gun trade was exclusive to handguns, with a large majority being semi-auto pistols. A very small percentage of that market went to rifles. It wasn’t where the money was.
All good dealers—the illegal ones, anyway—went where the money happened to be.
Cross glanced back to the table just across the way, where he’d left his backpack hidden underneath with his phone inside. The calculator on the damn thing would help him figure out the numbers, but he was sure—
“Cross, eyes on the table,” Wolf snapped at the back of his head.
Shit.
“I just wanted to get my—”
“We’re doing business, principe. What does that mean, huh?”
Cross rolled his eyes while his back was still turned. If his father’s consigliere saw him doing that, Wolf wouldn’t hesitate to smack him for it. “Means eyes on the table.”
“So get them there.”
The man who had brought the guns into the strip joint that Wolf owned chuckled, so did the three guys that accompanied him.
“He’s grown quite a bit, hasn’t he?” the man asked, watching Cross with a hard stare that betrayed his kind tone.
Wolf kept his gaze on the guns, even as he answered. “Quite a bit this last year, actually. Puberty kicked in hard with him a couple of years back before anyone knew what the fuck was happening.”
“Calisto’s got him under your feet, I see.”
“Somebody needs to keep an eye on the principe when his zio can’t do it,” Wolf said absently.
“How old is he now?”
“Four—”
“Almost fifteen,” Cross interjected before Wolf could finish. His mentor—for all purposes—gave him a side-eye that warned him to pipe down without even saying a thing. “Well, I am.”
Wolf lifted a hand and waved it at Cross as if to ask, what can you do with him? “He’s still learning, but he’s quick. He has a good interest in this sort of thing, and it would be a shame to waste it. Problem is, he’s also got a mighty attitude that can’t seem to be cured. Maybe it’s puberty, or maybe he’s just going to be one of those cocky shits when he gets older. Who the hell knows? Right now, I have his attention focused. That’s what Calisto wanted me to do. Focus him on something other than easy pussy, idle hands, and trouble. Mostly, he listens. It’s the best I can say for him.”
“Hey!”
The men ignored Cross’s indignant mutter, and went back to discussing the weapons on the table as though he wasn’t even there to begin with.
“One-hundred G’s, you said?” Wolf asked, scratching at his lower jaw.
The guy nodded. “That’ll get you a full shipment of these handguns and the pistols.”
Without a word, Wolf bent down and pulled one of two bags out from under the table. Both had cash in them, as Cross had seen Wolf check, double-check, and then triple check both bags before his … associates arrived.
Money was another thing Cross liked.
A lot.
Wolf set the heavy bag on the table with a thud. “There you are, all large bills.”
One of the three men that had been standing back stepped forward to stuff the guns into duffle bags, while another man grabbed hold of the bag with the cash.
“Leave the pistols,” the man told his man, “just pack up the rifles.”
Cross kind of wanted one of those rifles.
He stayed quiet.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Puzza,” the man said, smirking.
Wolf offered the same back. “And you.”
“Say hello to the principe’s zio for me. It’s been a while, but you know how the Marcellos are. We don’t mingle with other families very often unless it’s for business. How Giovanni gets away with it and doesn’t get himself killed, I’ll never know.”
“I’ll tell Calisto you asked after him, Lucian.”
That was the first time Cross heard Wolf use the man’s name since he had entered the strip joint an hour earlier. He stared at Lucian Marcello’s back as the man’s men flanked him from the sides and behind to follow him out.
Cross blinked out of his daze when Wolf’s hand ruffled through his dark hair, messing up his curls. He smacked the older man’s hands off his head. “Fuck off, Wolf.”
Wolf laughed loud and hard, turning back to the table. “Just figuring out who that was now, are you?”
“Lucian Marcello.”
“Yeah, yeah. But why is he important, kid?”
Cross bristled at the kid comment, but spoke anyway. “He’s Dante Marcello’s underboss.”
“And?”
Cross was not a stupid teenager, despite what Wolf liked to sometimes say. Besides, he was pretty sure Wolf told people stuff like that to keep them from looking at Cross too hard. Like then they might see that Cross had a better understanding of the shit happening around him than anyone was aware of.
He knew who his step-father was in New York. Although, technically Calisto Donati was his cousin, despite the fact Cross referred to him as an uncle, who had married his mother when he was just a baby. A mafia boss, running a criminal organization and living his life by the Cosa Nostra code.
Cross figured all that shit out when he was younger, and realized no, not everyone got a bodyguard like he did when he played in his own backyard during turbulent times. No, not every kid had rules that dealt with things like respect, honor, and dignity repeated to them over and over again by every man in their life. And no, not every kid got someone like Wolf to take them on trips and business meets that they weren’t allowed to talk about with people outside the family.
Also, family meant a whole different thing to Cross compared to other people.
It wasn’t just blood.
It was famiglia.
No, Cross wasn’t stupid.
“Cross,” Wolf said.
“What?”
Wolf gestured toward the front door of the strip joint where Lucian had disappeared out of earlier. “And?”
“And the Marcellos dominate organized crime in New York,” Cross said. He parroted the same words that had been repeated to him a thousand times in an effort to teach him about the rules, families, and expectations of a business that his step-father kept telling him he couldn’t keep his nose out of.
“So what does that mean to us?”
To the Donati family, he meant.
Cross heard the unspoken words loud and clear.
“We defer to the Marcellos,” Cross said, “on stuff that might affect their business or streets. It’s what’s right.”
“It’s the proper thing to do,” Wolf corrected. “It’s about the respect and the point of the matter, Cross.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Wolf picked up one of the handguns from the table and tossed it over to Cross, who caught it easily. The weapon was empty of bullets, for the moment. Cross flipped the gun over in his hands, looking over the shined metal and enjoying the weight of the weapon.
“I think he ripped you off,” Cross said, remembering why he had wanted to grab his phone.
Wolf was already heading toward the bar.
Cross followed behind.
“Why is that?”
“The last time you grabbed a shipment of semi-auto pistols, it was almost twice the size and only thirty-thousand more.”
“Get on with the point, principe,” Wolf said as he gestured for the bartender to get him a drink.
“Well, if I could have gotten my damn phone, I could have worked the numbers out like I wanted to.”
Wolf shook his head, glancing to Cross as he sat on one of the barstools. “Eyes on the table, Cross, always.”
“Or the men, I know.”
“Not on a phone screen.”
“But I was gonna do the numbers and—”
Wolf leaned over and pinged Cross right in the middle of his forehead hard. “You’re almost fifteen, shithead.”
Cross scowled and rubbed at the spot, suddenly finding the urge to hit Wolf back with the gun in his hand. Somehow, he pushed the urge down. “So?”
“So, I’ll overlook the fact you think you need a goddamn phone in your hands to automatically do numbers for you, Cross, but I’m not going to overlook it after today. You’re a smart kid for such a cafone. Most of the time. You don’t need a phone; you need to use your brain. That thing right—”
Cross managed to smack Wolf’s hand out of the way before the guy could poke him again. “Do that again, and I’ll break your fingers.”
Wolf chuckled. “You could try.”
“Someday I will,” he muttered under his breath.
Apparently, not quietly enough.
“And when that day comes, you will thank me for all of this, Cross.”
“I doubt it.”
Wolf smiled. “You will, principe. Trust me.”
“I think he did, though. Rip you off.”
“He didn’t. The street value has gone up, and Lucian still has to make a profit. He changed suppliers a while back, and unlike my last guy, can’t sell closer to wholesale price like he got them before. That’s why they’re more expensive. But …” Wolf looked to Cross with a wider grin beginning to grow, and clapped the teenager hard on the shoulder; a pride shined heavily in his actions. “That was a good catch for an almost fifteen-year-old kid.”
“Will you stop calling me that?”
“Not in your wettest dreams, principe.”
Cross glared.
Wolf winked right back.
Whatever.
Cross’s attention was already onto something else. “Basically, these guns have gone through too many hands, and their price has been upped again and again to make sure the next guy at least gets his money back. Wholesale is where the money is, right? That’s what you’re saying.”
“For a proper arms trafficker?” Wolf sipped from his whiskey. “Damn right. We’re not doing that, though. We’re just keeping our supply up and having a little extra stored away for a few deals coming up. Nothing more, nothing less. You know how we make our money, and it isn’t through selling guns. We don’t have the contacts to make it work, frankly.”
No, they made money through drugs, extortion, and a bunch of other shit.
Cross liked guns, though.
“You give me a bit of hope, Cross,” Wolf said out of the blue.
“For what?”
“When it’s you doing this, with a head that quick and a brain that smart, nobody will get shit past you. It’s why Calisto forces you to school when you don’t want to go, and why he drags your ass out of bed to go with me on the weekends. You don’t get to just stumble and flounder into this life like a fucking idiot hoping to make something of yourself because you like guns and have a mafia boss for a step-dad. You have to learn. I mess with you to make you learn in a way that best suits you. Remember that—eyes on the table, principe.”
Yeah, he got it.
Again.
“I swear to God, I am going to put a bullet in you one of these fucking days.”
Cross didn’t bother to look up from the gun he was dismantling at his step-father’s threat because he knew it wasn’t meant for him. Sure, Calisto probably sometimes wanted to put a bullet in Cross because he was, according to the man, mouthy, difficult, and stubborn as shit, but he never actually said it.
Wolf sighed across the table from Cross. “Come on, now, Cal.”
“What did I tell you?” Calisto came to stand by the table, picked up Cross’s drink of Seven Up, and sniffed it before setting it back down. “I told you one thing about today, so what was it, Wolf?”
“He was fine. He’s still fine.”
“In a strip club! He’s not even fifteen, for fuck’s sake!”
Cross tipped his head to the side, eyeing one of the girls dancing mostly naked on a stage with a pole just a few feet away from their table. All she had on was a G-string, but he had something better to pay attention to in his hands. His new gun.
“Jesus, look at him, Cal. He’s not even interested.”
“Oh, he’s interested. He’s—”
“Twenty-one seconds to dismantle,” Cross piped up.
“Where’s your kit I gave you? You should clean it while it’s opened up,” Wolf said as though he weren’t managing two conversations at once. Then, he went back to Calisto. “It’s not the first time he’s been in here, or a place like it, Cal. Relax. You said it, he’s almost fifteen. Let’s not pretend like he doesn’t have a stack of pussy mags hidden somewhere like we all did at that age. But if he doesn’t, well … Seriously, he’s not even interested in the girls. Kind of makes me wonder if he’s a little—”
“Not gay,” Cross interrupted.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Wolf replied.
Cross scowled. “Lies. You were. And I’m not.”
“I wasn’t going to say it loudly.”
Calisto grinded his teeth and glared up at the ceiling. “I want to ask if you are fucking with me right now, but I don’t even have to because I know you’re not. I’m not sure if that should piss me off more.”
“I’m not gay,” Cross said again.
“Yes, Cross,” Calisto muttered under his breath, “I do know that, son.”
“But you could be a little more interested in …” Wolf trailed off, and tipped his head in the direction of the dancing stripper. “I’m just putting that out there.”
“I see his phone history once a week,” Calisto groused. “It gets sent to me in a nice little email. Trust me, the kid is not gay. But that girl is not his preference, either. Too thin, too light, and way too blonde.”
Something that felt a lot like embarrassment filled Cross, but it was quickly replaced with another feeling that was foreign to him—anger. At least where his step-dad was concerned.
“How do you do that?” Cross asked.
Calisto looked down at him. “What?”
“Get stuff from my phone emailed to you.”
“I had my guy put an app on it after I bought it and—”
“You track my phone?”
“Cross.”
“You track my phone?” he demanded again.
Calisto pressed two fingers into his temple. “I have to monitor something when I can, don’t I? Have I ever brought it up to you? Have I ever spoke about the stuff you search or look up, or the people you text? No, because I don’t have to. Don’t give me a reason to, and I won’t.”
Cross stared at his step-father. “I want a new phone. Without a tracking app.”
“Buy one then.”
“But—”
“I bought this one. I do what I want with it. You buy one, do what you want, Cross.”
“Seems fair,” Wolf said more to himself than the table.
“And you,” Calisto said, turning back on his consigliere. “Stop bringing him into these goddamn strip joints. It’s not even about the girls. It’s the way the fools here act about the girls. Like pieces of ass, nothing more. Meat on display. It’s ridiculous, and I won’t have him getting those ideals in his head.”
“He’s going to see it one way or the other, man.”
“Not when I can help it, Wolf.”
“Whatever. Fine. You want a drink?”
Calisto waved as if to say, go for it. Wolf was gone from the table a second later, and then Calisto took the man’s vacant seat.
“You’re pissed at me now,” Calisto said.
It wasn’t even a question.
Cross shrugged as he pulled out a small vat of oil and a brush to clean the gun. “I follow the rules. Don’t see why you need to spy on me, Cal.”
Sometimes, he called his step-father his papa.
Sometimes, it was just Cal to Cross.
It all depended on his mood, and who was around to hear it. As he grew up, there were far too many men who liked to remind Cross that the man he loved as his father, wasn’t really his dad. They liked to point out as often as they could that Cross’s biological father was a bastard who had betrayed their thing—their Cosa Nostra—and left his young mother Emma with a baby and divorce papers before never being heard from again.
Like a coward.
They said those things like they were Cross’s stains to wear.
As though he was stained, too.
“Because you’re almost fifteen,” Calisto said quietly. “That means I don’t see you as much. I don’t get very much say, and there’s no leash short enough to keep you where I would like to have you, Cross. It means even though I have told you again and again what you should or shouldn’t do, where you should or shouldn’t go, and all the rest, I still need to sometimes make sure you’re still listening.”
Well …
“All right,” Cross said.
But he still wasn’t okay with it.
Not entirely.
“What did you mean about the other thing?” Cross asked.
“Pardon?”
“Ideals, you said.” Cross subtly nodded toward the girl that was leaving the stage in preparation for another girl to come and take her spot. “What did you mean?”
“Women aren’t property, Cross. Too many men who hang around these places, and too many in our business, like to believe women are something to be owned. They make a show out of their women; they display them like trophies. As though they’ve won them; it’s not a competition. You earn a good woman by being a good man, that’s it. You can’t do that by treating a woman like your personal toy because then she becomes that ideal to those around you who are watching.”
Calisto sighed, and rested back in his chair. “Make men wish they were you; make them wish they were lucky enough to be you. As for women? Make them want to be with you, or want to be the woman standing next to you. But you don’t do that by putting a woman on display like a trophy you didn’t earn. Got it?”
Cross nodded. “Yeah, I got it.”
“It’s just like Wolf said, huh? You’re not interested in the show here at all, are you?”
“The show?”
Calisto sat straighter in his chair. “The girls, Cross.”
“Not really. What’s to be interested in? They’re letting it all out, anyway. I’ve seen tits and ass before. It’s not new.” Cross went back to his gun on the table. “And like you said, they’re not my type.”
Calisto laughed under his breath. “True. How did football tryouts go yesterday? Ma took you, right?”
“I killed it.”
Calisto smirked. “Didn’t expect any different. First string?”
“Quarterback.”
His step-father whistled low. “Well done. You know they’re probably not going to put you on first string when you enter the upper Academy next year for tenth grade.”
His private school only went from grades sixth through ninth before the higher grades, tenth through twelfth, were separated into what the school called the upper Academy. The upper grades were in an entirely different section, with private grounds and wings from the lower grades, effectively cutting off the younger kids from the older. The school as a whole was just known as the Academy of Westforth.
“It’s just that most of the time, younger grades get placed on second string.” Calisto made a dismissive noise under his breath. “If they even get picked at all.”
Cross shrugged. “I hope they like losing, then.”
“Arrogance is unbecoming.”
“I don’t know, I think it works for me.”
Calisto shook his head. “You’re fucking terrible, Cross.”
Wolf came up to the table, and set the glass of what looked to be vodka down in front of Calisto. “Yeah, but that kind of works for the little shit, too.”