Page 2 of Filthy Little Games
First, though, I have to survive the airing of grievances and insults.
My position at the head of the Council means that I’m the tie-breaking vote in these meetings — the voice of reason. And sometimes, it feels like I’m a goddamn babysitter for the most childish men alive, most of whom are decades older than I am.
The Ferraros have been ruthlessly controlling the streets of New York City the longest of the current five mafia families, which is why we’ve always worn the metaphorical crown of crowns. The other four families only exist because my grandfather gave them a piece of his city and a place at the table with him.
Constantino Ferraro formed the Council forty years ago. As the oldest son, I took over for my father ten years ago after he died of a heart attack just like his old man before him. Two mob bosses dying of natural causes? That shit is almost unheard of in the underworld.
And the older I get, the more I realize exactly why their hearts gave out before either of them made it to the age of fifty.
The lengths I’d go to keep my men alive and thriving would terrify most people. That’s the job, though, making everyone fear me enough to think twice about fucking with me or my family. And I’m damn good at it.
Most of the time, it’s only petty shit we have to deal with during our quarterly meetings. Meetings that always take place in the Omerta Club, my elite, members only social club on the thirty-sixth floor of the exclusive Park Avenue building. No cell phones are allowed, and every person who steps foot in the door issearched for wires by someone else’s guards. It’s the only way we can all attempt to try to trust each other.
Emilio Rovina’s eventual shrug causes his thick neck to completely disappear before he finally responds to my question. “How the fuck would I know what my man was doing in Queens? Marco isn’t returning my calls, and nobody has seen or heard from him in more than a week!”
“Aiden, is Emilio’s man dead?” I ask the shit-stirrer.
The pompous man straightens the sleeves of his gray suit jacket that brings out the silver in his beard. “I’m sure Marco will make an appearance just as soon as I have Emilio’s word that his dealers will stay off my streets.”
When someone begins to barter a man’s life to get their way it means we’re nearly at the end of our meeting. “Well, Emilio?” I ask to get the ball rolling.
“I’ll warn my guys not to stray into Queens to deal, but you do know you can’t keep all our people out of Queens forever just for spite, right?”
“He makes a good point, Aiden,” I remark with a grin. “How do you know Emilio’s dealer was dealing and not just visiting his girlfriend?”
Aiden slams both of his palms down on the glass conference table. “Because he had ten kilos of coke on him with the Rovinas’ mountain logo on every goddamn brick!”
I stare down Emilio, who doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “Emilio, tell your men not to go to Queens with a shitload of product on them again, or they may not come back out alive.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell them,” Emilio agrees, slouching lower in his seat. “But Marco wasn’t in Queens on my orders! I can’t control every motherfucker who works for me.”
“Try to keep your men in Brooklyn,” I warn him. “I’m sure youwouldn’t want Sanna’s foot soldiers stomping through Coney Island, right, Emilio?”
“I told you I would handle it,” Emilio mutters.
Of the other four Italian mafia families, there are only three that I consider to be my true allies. Emilio Rovina was my father’s best friend. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s one of the biggest real estate moguls in the state and controls all of Brooklyn. Then there’s Gideon Marino, our youngest boss, who handles imports and exports coming into Staten Island. Weston Bertelli, the oldest man at the table in his late sixties, is not someone you want to screw with. He’s an arms dealer who also has an impressive hitman for hire organization all over the world and holds down the Bronx.
Finally, there’s Aiden Sanna who runs a gambling and transportation empire out of Queens and is always starting shit with the other families.
My family’s territory is Manhattan. We’ve made a fortune investing in and protecting hundreds of businesses, anything from simple street vendors to elite nightclubs. Those business connections are how we distribute literally tons of product a year without getting caught.
“Any other business before we adjourn?” I ask the table.
“I’ve got a question,” Weston Bertelli says. The white-haired man’s voice is scratchier than a sheet of sandpaper from a lifetime of smoking. “What the hell are we going to do about this new district attorney?”
“Kirsten Hunt is going to be a problem for all of us,” Emilio remarks. “She beat out our guy by running on an anti-drug, anti-corruption platform.”
“I still can’t believe Edwards lost to her,” I admit with a shake of my head.
“I heard she won’t take any bribes,” Aiden Sanna remarks.
“Weston, if you’re so concerned about her, why don’t you justdo what you do best and have one of your men take her out?” Emilio asks.
The hitman holds up three of his yellowed, wrinkled fingers. “Because one, I don’t work for free. Two, she’s a female, which I don’t know about you, but offing women goes against my personal code. And three, I don’t need that sort of heat up my family’s ass.”
“Fine. We could at least send her a message, try to run her out of town,” Emilio suggests.
“Let’s not get our panties in a twist until she gives us a reason to,” Gideon chimes in. “Sometimes those ‘messages’ get bloodier than intended and could blow back on all of us.”