Page 7 of Filthy Little Games

“Great. And don’t worry, Lor. You know most threats are all talk anyway. Plenty of people want me dead, but most are too stupid to try.”

“I don’t think we should underestimate the stupidity of others, especially the other four bosses,” Lorenzo remarks before he walks out the door.

“None of the Council members have been at each other’s throats in years. Business is good. Everyone is getting rich. So, I doubt any of them would want to start a war and ruin a good thing. Do you think someone is suicidal enough to try to take my place?” I ask Carmine, Tristan, and Dre, as I lead the way to the walk-in safe in my bedroom, filled with money and firearms.

“Who the fuck knows with thosestronzos,” Dre mutters. “They would probably be the only ones who actually have the balls to try to take you out. But I doubt any of them are stupid enough to talk about coming after you in front of some girl they don’t trust.”

I’m too damn paranoid about being betrayed or getting caught in a bust by the feds to talk business with most of my own loyal men. It’s why there’s a particular chain of command. I give the orders to the few I know well — Dre, Tristan, or Carmine.

These are the guys I grew up with and have known my whole life. They then pass my instructions on to our captains, who give the orders to our soldiers who are carefully vetted and have to be known associates for at least eight years before they take our oath.

I’ve been the capo dei capi, boss of all mob bosses for ten years without anyone challenging me. There’s a reason people call meAccabadore, the angel of death, behind my back. In the first year after my father died, the Irish tried to move into lower Manhattan, testing me. And that was the last time those sixty-four members were ever seen.

I may be cautious, but I don’t take anyone’s shit. Disrespecting me or my men may cost you your tongue, getting caught stealing from me will result in no less than the loss of a limb.

And even thinking about coming after me is an absolute death sentence if it proves to be true.

3

Creed

The Vault is packed, which means there are plenty of fish in the sea for Tristan to pick tonight’s lucky — or unlucky — lady from the dance floor. While Dre may be the smartest and most ruthless, Tristan is definitely the most depraved.

“What’s the plan?” Carmine shouts over the thumping music.

“Let’s find somewhere we can all meet down here,” I tell the guys. “Jasper’s office is too quiet for this conversation.” I don’t take any chances with people recording meetings.

“Agreed. I’ll clear an area,” Lorenzo says before he leaves us.

“I’ll go find Jasper and bring him down,” Dre says to us before he disappears into the crowd and up the spiral stairs to Jasper’s office.

“I’ll go find out who’s down to scream for me tonight,” Tristan tells us with a smirk before he stalks onto the dance floor in search of his next victim.

Tristan breaks bones and knocks teeth out of men for a living. He enjoys inflicting pain not just to keep assholes in line but to get off on the sense of well-deserved justice. I’m not entirely sure why he thinks women deserve his wrath.

While Dre can be just as heartless, he doesn’t do things to intentionally hurt people. My oldest cousin, a shrewd attorney, is logical nearly to a fault. If someone needs to be put down to protect the family, he’ll be the first one to pull out his gun.

“Let’s get a drink while we wait,” I tell Carmine. When we approach the bar, men and women alike take one look at us, at me, and scatter like mice fleeing a hungry lion.

Accabadore.

I swear I can vaguely hear the word being whispered repeatedly, even over the pounding music.

“Don’t pout,” Carmine says with a chuckle. “At least now there’s no line.”

“Right.” My brother can always find the silver-lining in anything.

Danny, the bartender sees us and asks, “Good to see you, Mr. Ferraro. Would you like your usual bottle of Dalmore tonight?”

“That would be great, thanks. Six glasses,” I tell him.

“Coming right up,” he agrees.

Glancing around at the ten feet buffer zone everyone is giving us, despite the fact that the place is slam packed.

“They’re trying to be respectful of you in your bar,” he remarks.

“Yeah, well, I’m sick of being treated like a walking STD.”