Gian found it was a strange feeling to have so many eyes watching him, waiting on him to speak. Like his words and his direction, was the only thing that mattered. Of course, he’d always been in some sort of position of power, regarding the mafia as an underboss. He always had some sort of control. His direction had always been followed when he had given it.
This didn’t feel entirely the same.
This was different, because his word had become law to these men. To them, there was no one above him, no one for them to look at to ensure the direction he was giving, the demands he was making, were the right ones. It was only his word, and his wants, that now mattered.
Before, Gian had not felt the heavy weight of that kind of responsibility on his shoulders where the men of his Cosa Nostra were concerned. He shared that weight between himself, his grandfather, and Edmond. He’d never fully understood how important it was to say the right thing, to make the right choice, the first time.
Maybe he had been spoiled in that way.
“As we expected, Edmond is not backing down,” Gian said. “But no one is surprised about that, right?”
None of the men answered, not that he expected them to.
It was their time to listen.
It was his time to talk.
“There’s only one thing to do now—push harder, put more pressure on him, on his men, on his territory—where ever the hell we need to, in order to get what we want. None of us should want a street war. As it is, we have too many bodies piling up. We have too much official attention. The police won’t leave us alone. The bigger problem is, neither will Edmond. He’s not going to back down, and we won’t either.”
Gian stopped his spiel long enough to take a drink from the server that approached his table. Two fingers of whiskey burned all the way down his throat as he drank it in one fast gulp. He probably should’ve sipped the drink, as it deserved, but he wasn’t in the mood. What he wanted, were quiet streets, compliant men, and Edmond in a grave.
Gian didn’t think he was asking for much.
However, if their lives were that simple, then everything would be a hell of a lot cleaner. And as the old saying went, nothing worth having would come easy.
It was his own fault for not being better prepared for this.
Gian only blamed himself for that.
He had spent too much time after Corrado’s death, stuck in his own problems, wandering around lost in his own world. Instead of handling the issue that was Edmond from the very beginning, Gian had let it fester. And now what had been a small wound, was a gaping, infected hole, eating away at his la famiglia.
“You could always hire someone to finish Edmond, if that’s what—”
Gian’s gaze cut to the Capo in the corner booth, and the action quieted the man instantly. “Like he did for my grandfather?”
Or, Gian still assumed that had been done by Edmond. He had no reason to believe otherwise, and the fool didn’t offer one.
“Well …”
“Say it. That’s what you mean.”
The Capo gave a single nod. “Fine, sì, that’s what I mean, boss. Consider what we might gain by ending it quicker.”
“In a coward’s way,” Gian said slowly. “A way that makes us the coward.”
“No—”
“Yes.”
“He wouldn’t be the first to die by the hands of a hired gun,” the Capo muttered under his breath.
“You’re right, he certainly wouldn’t be.”
The Capo also had a good point. Killing Edmond by way of a hired man, someone he didn’t know and was not expecting, would end everything. Strangely, Gian did not feel okay with making that call, regardless of the positives that could come out of the situation. He felt—in a way—that it would make him no better than Edmond, killing his rival and not giving the man even a chance to properly defend himself.
Had Corrado been given the chance to see his death coming, might it have ended differently? Would his grandfather have made the choice the Capo was suggesting?
Gian didn’t have the answers for those questions.
And he wasn’t Corrado Guzzi.
He was only himself.
“But the answer is no,” Gian said firmly, “so drop it.”
The Capo’s confirmative reply was enough for Gian to move on, satisfied his point was made.
“This will all be over soon enough,” he assured. “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Clearly, someone wanted a war, and now they’ve got one. Maybe once they realize that they’ve gotten what they wanted, it won’t be as nice, after all.”
Despite wanting to get the hell out of the meeting with the men, and get on with his day, Gian ordered lunch and readied himself for more conversation. As an underboss, he had simply needed to check in on the Capos and their dealings to make sure everything was on the up and up. His responsibilities kept him on the move, going from one man to the next, without stopping for very long. As a boss, he was learning it was not quite the same.
He had to talk.
A lot.
He had to listen, too.
It almost made him miss the years before he was a made man, when all he had to do was slam his fist into someone’s face to get what he wanted.
Life was not that easy, now.
Frankly, it was better he had learned to tamper his temper. Bosses—good ones—didn’t need to use violence as a first resort to get business done. That simply wasn’t how Cosa Nostra men behaved. Gian had been lucky enough to get all of the roughness out of his system before he earned his button, and it made the transition of becoming a made man easier.
To an extent …
His phone buzzed in his pocket as the men droned on around him. He almost didn’t pick up the call, as all the people who would usually be calling him at that time of day were sitting around the restaurant, waiting on their meals. Cara, the only one who might call him, should have been at university.
When the buzzing persisted, Gian pulled the cell out and checked the screen. The sexy image of Cara shooting him the peace sign and winking lit up the phone. Gian answered the call instantly. He put the phone to his ear as he stood from the table, turning his back to the men and walking away so his conversation couldn’t be overheard.
“Ciao, bonjour.”
“I saw it again.”
Gian tensed. “Saw what, mon ange?”
“The car. The car, Gian. I saw it again!”
He didn’t have a damn clue what she was talking about, but the frantic pitch her tone took on was enough to make him turn back and head for his table again. He grabbed the jacket hanging off the back of the chair, waved Constantino off when the man stood with questioning eyes, and headed for the front of the restaurant.
“Okay, you saw a car, Cara. What car?”
She made a desperate noise that cut him deep, her panic searing through the phone like she was standing right in front of him. She was across the city, but damn it, Gian swore he could feel her fucking fear radiating all the way to him.
He was already out of the restaurant and moving toward his car and waiting enforcer by the time she gained enough of a breath to answer him.
“The car! With Chris—that day, Gian. All the noise and the gunfire. The fucking car!”
“Are you sure?”
Gian only asked because Cara insisted she remembered nothing about her drive-by attack, except the pain she felt when she hit the ground. She didn’t have distinct memories of what happened leading up to it, and discussing it was an emotionally taxing event.
“Yes,” Cara hissed. “I saw it and I knew.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“Where are you right now?” he asked.
“At the café I like. I wanted a snack before my next class.”
“Can you stay there?”
“I’m not leaving!”
Her screech almost made his ear bleed.
“I’m twenty minutes away, Cara. Get something to drink, I’ll be there by the time you’re done.”
“Okay.”
Fuck.
He wished she didn’t sound so frightened and panicked. He knew she had a lot of baggage regarding the drive-by simply because it reminded her of Lea, and of that event. Her memories of her attack were clouded with the ones she had of Lea’s, and even trying to talk about it put Cara in a bad place. That—and only that—was the reason why Gian didn’t push.
Gian scrubbed a hand down his face. “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine, bella.”
“Hurry,” she mumbled.
“Already on my way. Try to relax.”
Easier said than done, he knew.
Gian said goodbye, and slipped his phone into his pocket as he took the keys to his car from the enforcer. He did not leave his car unattended after the bomb incident. “Follow me in your own car.”
Chris nodded. “Got it, boss.”
Gian broke at least a dozen traffic laws, but he cut the twenty-minute drive in half. He couldn’t find a place to park, so he simply yanked his car over to the side of the road right in front of the café windows, ignoring the horns honking behind him.
Cara flew out of the café damn near to the second Gian cut the engine, and jumped into the vehicle without even looking over her shoulder once. He pulled the car back onto the road, much to the chagrin of the other drivers he had cut off, and hit the gas hard.
“I thought it was going to happen again,” Cara whispered in the passenger seat.
“It’s not going to happen again. Tell me what you saw.”
“The car.”
“Yeah, I got that. I need a bit more info to go on, though.”
Cara let out a hard breath and ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t even know how I forgot that was the car—it’s so fucking yellow.”
Immediately, Gian hit the brakes and pulled the car into the nearest parking lot. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“The color of the car.”
“Yellow?”
Gian nodded. “You’re sure that’s what it was.”
Cara blinked. “It was yellow. I see cars all the damn time, but not one like that.”
“All right.”
Gian cut the engine and got out of his vehicle, rounding the side to open Cara’s door. She simply stared up at him, unsure of what she was supposed to do. Chris had pulled up behind them, his car still running and waiting.
“Come on, get out,” Gian said, holding his hand for Cara to take.
“Why?”
“I have some business to handle, now.”
“Do you know who owns the car?”
“I know who owns a yellow car,” Gian replied unfazed. It was an odd color to have, especially in their business, when the intention was not to draw attention. “And that’s not for you to worry about.”
Chris had finally exited his own vehicle as Gian managed to convince Cara to get out of his car. He nodded to the man, and urged his lover toward the enforcer with a smile that was entirely forced.
Because inside?
Yeah, there he was pissed.
“Chris will take you to my penthouse for the evening,” Gian said. “I will be home later.”
Cara glanced over her shoulder at him. “Will you?”
“Of course.”
After he hurt somebody.
Louis Portella.
Gian repeated the name as he tugged his driving gloves at the wrists, making sure they were snug against his skin. He watched the twenty-three-year-old solider, Edmond’s grandson, stroll out of a strip joint with a grin on his face and not a fucking care in the world.
He figured he ought to let the guy have his happy moment. Shortly, there would be absolutely nothing for the guy to be happy about.
Quickly, Gian stepped out of his car, keeping the engine running. He hit the button on the fob to unlatch the trunk as he pulled his tie free from around his neck at the same time. Crossing the small parking lot without missing a beat, Gian came up behind Louis before the guy even knew what was happening.
Gian had already checked the place out while Louis was inside, enjoying the entertainment. The only camera was located directly in front of the business. None were set off to the side, where the cars were parked. He chose to strike now, because the lot was empty, and he didn’t know where Louis was heading next.
Time was always of the essence.
Gian used his tie to wrap around Louis’s neck, pulled it tight, and forced the man to the ground. Effectively cutting off the man’s airways and his ability to shout for help, Gian pulled the fool back across the lot toward his waiting trunk.
A single, hard kick to Louis’s face stopped the man’s fighting. Dead weight was a bit harder to pull along, but Gian didn’t mind. It was easier to stuff an unconscious man into the trunk of a car, rather than a conscious, fighting one.
Blood trickled out of Louis’s nose and mouth, staining the gray interior of the trunk. Gian made a disgusted noise at the sight, knowing he’d have to send his car in to have the interior ripped out and changed, before he slammed the trunk closed.
A half hour later, Gian used the barrel of his gun to poke Louis in the forehead to wake the man up. It took a whole minute for the guy to gain enough bearings to realize he was sitting in a junk yard, inside a beat-up Toyota. Louis yelled for a good two minutes, and Gian let him, knowing no one was coming to help.
It benefitted Gian greatly to know people who knew people.
Like a man who owned a junk yard.
“Didn’t your grandfather ever tell you it was a stupid idea to buy a yellow Camaro?” Gian asked.
Louis blinked. “W-what?”
“Your car. The color. It’s fucking ostentatious. You can’t miss it driving by. It might as well be screaming at you to look at it.”
“My c-car.”
Gian poked the guy in the forehead with the barrel of the gun again, harder the second time. “That’s what I said, dipshit. Pay attention.”
Louis tried to move away from Gian, but he didn’t get more than a couple of inches in the shitty, worn-down driver’s seat. After all, Gian had tied the bastard’s hands to the steering wheel, and his legs to the gas and brake pedals.
“What the hell?” Louis asked, yanking on the restraints.
“It’s easier when you can’t run,” Gian explained. “Now, about your car.”
“Fuck you.”
“Stupid boy.”
Gian cocked back the hammer on his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A single shot plugged into Louis’s knee, blood splattering over the car and out the door. Gian didn’t bother to move when the blood flew, simply stayed like he was and let it stain his suit. It would have to go after tonight, anyway.
Louis’s shouts of pain made Gian smile a bit.
“You can keep yelling, but the owner has stepped out for a while to grab some late night snacks,” Gian lied.
The truth was, the owner of the junk and crushing yard was waiting in his office for when Gian drove out of the lot. The man would then pick up his payment, left in the usual spot, and junk the Toyota by crushing it with a hundred other vehicles that night without so much as looking inside.
“Now answer me,” Gian continued. “Didn’t Edmond tell you that color was a bad choice for a car?”
Louis nodded.
“Of course, he did. I remember him bitching about it shortly before Corrado died.” Gian chuckled. “Pretty sure he threatened to junk it, when you weren’t home one weekend.”
Louis cleared his throat, water in his gaze.
For the most part, the man hid his pain well.
“When did Edmond order you to do the drive-by on Cara and my enforcer?”
“He didn’t—”
“Don’t try lying,” Gian interrupted swiftly. “It was pure fucking luck that nobody saw your yellow piece of shit that day, and nothing more. The problem is, somebody did see it. She only happened to remember it today. Lying makes this last longer, man. See how that works?”
“He told me to use another car,” Louis said hoarsely. “I couldn’t get my hands on one.”
“Stupid.”
The man nodded, his silent agreement.
“Why Cara?” Gian asked.
“She was a means to an end.”
“The end being what, exactly?”
“He wanted to get you to fall in line,” Louis said. “You weren’t following the fucking rules, okay? He said taking something away from you might put you back in your place.”
Edmond had a lot to learn about Gian, but he saved that lesson for another day.
“Tell me about the bomb, and Corrado,” Gian urged.
Louis’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“The bomb on my car. The murder of my grandfather. This isn’t fucking rocket science.”
“I didn’t do those things.”
“I didn’t say you did them. I want you to tell me what you know about them.”
“Nothing,” Louis said quickly. “I know nothing.”
“I fucking told you not to lie.” Gian sighed, already readying and aiming his gun for Louis’s other kneecap. “You had to make this hard—”
“I’m not lying! I swear, I swear I’m not fucking lying!”
Gian barely held back from plugging the asshole with another bullet. “Why in the hell should I believe you?”
“I’m going to die, anyway,” Louis mumbled, his gaze never leaving the gun in Gian’s hand. “What good does lying do for me now?”
He had a point.
“So you know nothing about those two events,” Gian said, wanting to clarify.
“Because my grandfather didn’t do them,” Louis replied.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I know Edmond said he would have had Corrado shot from behind, so at least the funeral could have been an open casket.”
Gian clenched his teeth so hard at that admission that his molars ached. “Did he now?”
“He didn’t need to kill Corrado. He was already dying.”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“I didn’t know—my grandfather did. Edmond told me after. Why kill a man that’s already got one foot in the grave, huh?”
Gian didn’t have the answer for that one.
And he was done with this conversation, now.
Standing, Gian brushed off his pants. Louis looked up at him in enough time to see Gian’s gun pointed directly at his head.
Always look at a man when you take his life.
Corrado’s words echoed in Gian’s mind.
He deserves that respect.
Gian pulled the trigger, and didn’t look away.