Gio
Mario snapped his fingers in front of Gio's face impatiently. “Hey! Are you fuckin' listening to me, or what?”
Gio blinked, waving Gio's hand away. “Yeah, Papa, sure, I heard you.”
In fact, Gio had completely tuned out from his father's latest lecture. Instead, he'd been savoring the sweet memory of Carla's expression when their eyes met during the moment of climax—scared, awed, utterly powerless, like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a hungry snake—and he'd just started thinking about what he'd do to her during their next session when Mario had interrupted his reverie.
From the look on Mario's face, it was clear that he didn't believe Gio at all. “See, you coglione, this is exactly what I'm talkin' about,” he observed, rolling his eyes. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, withdrew a large Cuban cigar, and neatly trimmed the tip with a letter opener before lighting it and taking a puff.
Gio tried not to cough as the thick blue smoke settled in the air around his face, but he couldn't keep his eyes from stinging and watering. He'd always hated the smell of his father's cigars. Mario often bragged about their quality and expense, but to Gio, it just stank like exhaust from a garbage truck—and it brought back too many memories of stern lectures in Mario's study, like the one he was enduring now.
“You can be a pretty bright kid sometimes, Gio,” Mario continued. “You ain't no genius, but you're still a damn sight smarter than a lot of the meatheads who hook up with our organization. You play your cards right, keep your pay-ups regular an' show some initiative, an' you could be a capo with your own crew by the time you hit thirty. Then underboss a few years later, an' after that, you could find yourself takin' over for me if—God forbid—anything should happen to me.
“But in order for you to start walkin' down that path, you gotta show you're dedicated,” Mario continued. “Focused. Responsible. Willing to make sacrifices, capice?”
“I am, Papa,” Gio insisted. “Ain't I always done what you told me to do?”
“I ain't talkin' about just followin' orders,” Mario growled. “A fuckin' trained chimp can do what it's told, but that don't mean it's got what it takes to run this family. You gotta show how committed you are, an' that means lettin' go of distractions that could get in the way.”
“What kinda distractions?” Gio asked. He tried to keep his voice casual, but he didn't like the direction this conversation was taking.
Mario gave him a don't-shit-a-shitter look. “You know exactly what I'm talkin' about, kid. You're really gonna make me say it? When I was just a few years older than you are now, Big Ed Colicchio got whacked by those crazy Russians comin' out of his weekly card game, an' I had to step up as boss. You would've been about five years old then, so you probably remember that for about two years after that, I barely even had a chance to see you an' your mother. That's how hard I was workin', makin' the moves that had to be made an' tryin' to show everyone I deserved their respect.
“You think I would've been able to accomplish the things I did—lead this family like I did—if I was spendin' my time dressin' up in faggy little leather outfits an' sneakin' out to spanking clubs, or whatever the fuck you do with your nights?” Mario finished, disgusted. “You think the guys under me would've respected me then, or do you think they'd have laughed their fuckin' asses off behind my back an' undermined me every chance they got until I ended up in three or four different dumpsters?”
“Come on, Papa, that just ain't fair,” Gio protested. “It's just a different kind of fucking, that's all. It ain't like I'm messing around with guys or nothin'!”
Mario sneered. “'Fair?' Fuck fair! I'm tryin' to tell you how it is. You don't drop this shit with the whips an' costumes an' stop actin' like a mezzo finocch', you ain't never gonna make it in this family. An' you're gonna be an embarrassment an' a liability to me personally.”
“I'm sorry, but I just don't see where this bullshit is comin' from,” Gio said, his voice raising. “How the fuck does what I do in my own goddamn bedroom affect you or anyone else, huh? Tell me that.”
“Because your cock's already makin' you disobey direct orders from the boss of your fuckin' family, Gio!” Mario erupted. He jabbed his cigar in Gio's direction angrily, causing chunks of thick grey ash to fall to the desktop between them. “I specifically told you—more than once—to keep it in your pants with what's-her-name, the fuckin' lawyer! An' last night, I gotta hear from Rizzo that you had her over to your place for a couple of hours around midnight. Rizzo says when she left, she was practically walkin' bow-legged an' she looked like she'd been roughed up.”
“You had Rizzo scopin' out my place?” Gio asked, dumbfounded. Rizzo was a low-level bodyguard and errand boy for the Mancinis.
“Yeah, I fuckin' did,” Mario shot back. “Because I wanted to make sure you were doin' as you were told, an' guess what? Big surprise, you fuckin' weren't. You were too busy disappointin' me instead by actin' like a spoiled, selfish little frocio instead.”
Mario sighed and stood up, brushing the ash off the desk. “Look. You want this life? Fine. You don't? Fuck off. But we got no room for fence-sitters in this fuckin' family.” He walked over to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and gestured to its contents. “So make yourself a drink or two, sit here, an' think it over until you're sure. I got some stuff I need to take care of. We can talk about your decision tomorrow. Just make sure it's the right one, 'cause I don't ever wanna have to have this conversation with you again, Gio. An' however this shakes out, I promise I ain't gonna. Understand?”
Gio nodded uneasily as his father left the room. He understood perfectly. After all these years, some part of him was still terrified of his father, convinced that he was only one transgression away from being permanently silenced like so many of Mario's enemies had been.
But that was silly. Gio was Mario's only son, and he'd always been told that there was nothing more important in life than the bond between family. So his fears were unrealistic.
Weren't they?
Gio went to the liquor cabinet, poured some scotch into a tumbler, and took it back to his father's desk. He sat in Mario's chair and sipped the drink. Any thoughts of his future in the Mancinis were drowned out by the anger in his heart.
He knew his father had always had a steady string of extramarital affairs, just like most men in his position. Did Mario honestly expect Gio to believe that he'd put those relationships on hold—that he had, in fact, “kept it in his pants”—when he first became boss? Mario might not have spent many of those evenings or weekends with his wife and son, but Gio was willing to bet that there were plenty of mistresses, strippers, and whores who'd seen quite a bit of him at that time.
Lousy goddamn hypocrite, Gio thought. He doesn't care that I'm doing a lot of fucking in my free time. He's just skeeved out by how I choose to do it because it's not his thing and he can't understand it. But instead of copping to that, he sits here wagging his finger at me, pretending he never got his dick wet when he was my age and acting so fucking superior.
Well, he's a lying prick. And I can prove it.
Ever since Gio was a little kid, he'd known that his father kept diaries filled with meticulous notes about his meetings and dealings each day. Mario proudly insisted that his notes were written in an unbreakable code, and that the diaries themselves were locked in a hidden compartment in his study that the Feds would never be able to find if they ever raided the place.
Gio had found the hidden compartment beneath the liquor cabinet by his tenth birthday. By the time he turned thirteen, he'd already managed to decipher the code Mario used. But he soon grew bored reading about endless meetings, payoffs, trysts, and money laundering activities he didn't understand. The actual crimes Mario was directly involved in were infrequent—a handful of robberies a year, maybe a murder every two or three years—and after a while, the thrill of a secret window into his father wore off and Gio stopped coming to the study to read the diaries.
But this time, he had a specific goal: To find evidence that Mario had been seeing other women during his first two years as boss.
Gio drained the rest of the scotch in his glass, set it down, and went to the cabinet. He knelt down in front of it, feeling around at the base for the panel that slid away and revealed the secret compartment beneath it. He reached in and pulled out several stacks of Mario's journals, searching for the one from when he was four years old and his father had taken over the Mancinis as the capo de tutti capi.
He found the right diary and flipped through the pages. There were entries in blue ink to signify legit business meetings, and ones in green that were tied to his illegal pursuits. Purple entries were personal errands like family weddings, nights with Gio's mother, or Gio's birthdays. The red entries were code for women Mario met for sex. Gio bristled as he saw that there were multiple red-inked appointments in the diary during the dates in question.
Son of a bitch, Gio thought bitterly. So it's fine for you to get your rocks off any way you feel like it, but when I do it, then suddenly it's...
His thought process abruptly derailed when he saw a name reappear several times in purple ink throughout the journal, especially toward the end. The name was “Salvatore,” and even though Gio didn't remember any extended family members who'd had that name, it still brought up strange memories for him.
His mother and father had fought about someone named Salvatore when he was a child, and even though Gio couldn't remember anything specific that was said during these altercations, he recalled at least one time when Mario had retreated to his study and Gio had heard him sobbing to himself quietly when he thought no one was listening.
Gio flipped through the pages. Another meeting with Salvatore, and another, and another.
And finally, in one of the diary's last pages, an entry with Salvatore's name in black—which was Mario's code for a murder he'd carried out personally.
Gio frowned, looking over the entries again. If this Salvatore was someone his father had known personally instead of professionally, why had he been killed? And why had Mario carried out the hit himself?
He closed the diary and put it back with the others under the liquor cabinet, shutting the hidden panel again. Finding these mysterious entries had given him an uneasy feeling, but he didn't know why.
Still, he'd proved what he set out to: That Mario was holding him to a stupid and unreasonable double-standard. One that deserved to be ignored, if not downright flouted.
So the old man wants to bitch at me for my “costumes?” Gio thought. Okay. I'll show him a fucking costume, all right.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Carla's number, smiling.