by Mary Madison
But the Biros family was taking over the Azzarellos' business interests, wasn't it? So it stood to reason that they could present it to Stavros as an incentive to keep the deal going forward.
Or at least, I hoped so.
“The Biros family had been taking initial steps toward procuring Lisle,” I lied glibly. “Those plans were placed on hold indefinitely because the impending merger became a higher priority. But if we were to re-open our talks with them, get them to sign on the dotted line so we could absorb them into our holdings... then would the board be willing to sign on with us?”
“It's possible,” Andrianakis mused. “I can't promise anything, but it might turn enough heads among the shareholders to make a difference. How soon can you deliver?”
I'm still not wholly sure that I can, I thought, but I'll keep that to myself for now.
“Soon,” I assured him. “A week, maybe less if I can turn up the heat under them. If I do, you'll do your best to make sure the board members fall in line?”
“Yes,” he chortled. “In the unlikely event that you can pull off a miracle like that, it would certainly get their attention. I could do something with that.”
“Good. Just don't lose faith in us, Mr. Andrianakis. Hang in there a little bit longer. You won't be sorry you did.”
“I'd better not be.” He hung up.
“Lisle?” Desmond asked, putting his arms around me from behind and kissing the side of my neck. “How do you figure on delivering that?”
“I can't,” I told him. “But I'm betting on the fact that you and your brothers can. Teddy Azzarello owned Lisle. You guys killed Teddy Azzarello.”
“I didn't...” he protested.
I held up a hand. “I know. I know. But as far as everyone else is concerned, you did, and we can use that. You talk to the CEO of Lisle, maybe make him think it would be in his best interests to quietly sign the paperwork, giving the Biros family a controlling interest, unless he wants to join Teddy and Billy.”
Desmond frowned. “I suppose I could try. But it would be tricky. And there's no way I could make a move like that without Junior's approval, which he won't grant.”
I cupped Desmond's face in my hands, looking into his eyes intently. “I know the odds are against us, Des, but you have to try. You have to make him keep his word about not interfering with the Stavros deal. He's still your brother. He has to listen to you.”
“What makes you think he'll even agree to meet with me?” he retorted.
I shrugged. “Nothing. Hell, he probably won't. But this is the only chance we've got.”
His eyes softened, and his lips met mine softly. “Okay, Chels. I'll do my best. I promise.”
At that moment, I wanted so badly to believe in a happy ending for us. Another passage from Milton's classic popped into my head: “Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light.” The line had comforted me many times—during my time on the run with my father when he was fleeing prosecution for fraud and embezzlement, when I was studying for the bar exam, and on nights when I was working late at EEM&M to file a motion before the deadline.
But what if there were no light waiting at the end?
What if the hope of it only condemned believers to the nerve-rending exhaustion of a never-ending trek through misery and hopelessness and pain and hate and horror, until we were too tired to go on and there was nothing left but to collapse face-down in the bloody soil of perdition?
Chapter Two
Chapter Two—Desmond
I meant it when I made that promise to Chelsea. But that didn't make me optimistic that I'd succeed.
Junior wasn't taking my calls, which meant Peter wasn't either—he would always follow Junior's lead in all things. Which meant I had no choice but to go to them in person and hope they'd agree to see me once I got there.
The journey to the family estate was harrowing. I kept thinking there were people following my car. Every time I stopped at a traffic light and another vehicle pulled up next to me, I braced myself for the flash of a machine gun muzzle and the oblivion that would follow. The Azzarellos may not have been particularly smart or subtle, but they'd certainly proven they could carry out swift and brutal killings, especially in recent days.
Mercifully, I managed to make it to the gates of the estate without incident. I expected to be standing outside of them for a long while, talking into the call box and pleading with Junior and Peter to let me in. But when I reached the entrance, the gates swung open automatically, allowing me to pull into the driveway in front of the main house.
It was too easy. If they hadn't been my own brothers, I'd have been worried about walking into a trap.
As I got out of the car, the front door of the house opened, and Junior emerged, smoking a huge cigar. He was wearing our father's favorite pajamas and bathrobe, and the resemblance was uncanny—for a split second, my brain actually tricked me into thinking that I was a kid again and my father was still alive and young.
Junior greeted me with a grin. “Hey, look what we got here! The return of the prodigal son, huh? Come on in, kid!”
I was surprised by the warm greeting but took it in stride as best I could, following him into the kitchen where Peter and some of the other top-tier guys were hanging around.
“Hey, Des,” Peter greeted me. “Good to have you back in the fold.”
“I'm not ‘back in the fold,’” I told him curtly. “I'm just here to talk, that's all.”
“Oh, you want something to talk about?” Junior grabbed a copy of the Chicago Tribune from the kitchen table, pawing the creases out and showing it to me proudly. The lurid headline boasted Biros-Azzarello Gang War Continues! “Talk about that, why don't ya? The rest of the city is!”
“Yeah, that's kind of what I wanted to talk about,” I went on. I sat down at the table next to Whitey, the massive hitman and bodyguard who had served our family loyally for well over a decade.
“Of course, it is!” Junior replied jovially, tousling my hair like he did when we were kids. “You see how we're winning this damn thing, and you want back in. Who could blame you? Well, I'm not gonna hold what happened between us over your head, okay? No need for a lot of apologies and shit. We're brothers, right? We'll just pretend none of that other crap happened, and instead, we'll talk about how to finish this thing with the Azzarellos and what part you're gonna play in the new organization.”
“I don't ‘want back in.’”
Junior stared at me in disbelief. “What are you, fucking stupid? This is our goddamn moment of triumph, we're about to stomp out the people who killed our dad, and you're still gonna be some kind of self-righteous hard-ass about things? What's your problem, huh?”
“Hang on a minute, Junior,” Peter interjected. “He came all this way, even though he knew one of those Azzarello bastards coulda taken a shot at him the second he left his house. Whatever he wants to talk about, he's our brother and it's clearly important. So maybe we should just hear him out, you know?”
Peter may have been a psycho who always did what Junior told him to, but at least he often stepped in to make sure I was heard whenever Junior was acting like a ball-busting prick who couldn't be bothered to listen to anyone but himself. I was grateful to him for that.
Junior sighed, exasperated. “Fuck. Fine. Whatever. Talk fast, kid, I got shit to do.”
Bizarrely, Junior's words reminded me of what I'd overheard earlier when Chelsea was on the phone with that Andrianakis person. He'd tried to rush her, too, but she'd quietly maintained her composure and refused to let him rattle her. I owed it to her to do the same here, even though no one could push my buttons like Junior.
“Lisle Import and Export.”
“Pfft,” Junior exhaled scornfully. “What about it?”
“I need the CEO to sign it over to us. Specifically, to me. With it, there's still a chance for me to make the Stavros deal. Without it, we can kiss it goodbye.”
“Fuck that,” Junior snapped.
“You gave me your word, Junior. You told me that you wouldn't stand in the way of the Stavros merger if I could still make it happen. You're going to break your promise to me? Your own brother? Is that who you are now?”
Junior gave me a nasty smile. “First of all, kid, I'm the same guy I've always been... a stone-cold fucking gangster. Peter, too, in case you ain't noticed. In fact, the only one in the room right now who don't seem to fit that description is you. Second, yeah, I promised I wouldn't stand in the way of the deal, and I won't. Doesn't mean I gotta do a goddamn thing to help you with it, either, including busting into the CEO's office and doing some 'offer he can't refuse' shit on your behalf. No way. You wanna convince those stuffed shirts it's safe to do business with us, hey, good luck, but you're on your own. As far as I'm concerned, those jerks at Lisle can kick up their payments to us without anyone named Biros on the books in any official capacity. And by 'us,' I mean Peter and me, 'cause you're clearly too busy holding your lily-white nose in the air to roll around in the dirt with the likes of us.”
I sighed. It was precisely the answer I'd expected from him, but I was still deeply disappointed. “Don't you care that this isn't what Dad wanted for any of us? Don't you care that he was working all those years so we could have a better life than he did, free of all this pointless violence and bullshit?”
“Kid,” he sneered, “this 'violence and bullshit' is exactly what he brought us up to do. Not you, maybe, but Peter and me. This nonsense you've been trying to sell us on, how he wanted to go legit... maybe he said it, maybe he even thought he meant it, but it was a load of baloney. That's why he had Peter and me do so much work for him, especially toward the end. He was a realist. He knew this would probably be how things shook out for the Biros family, and he made sure his replacements were in place for when he wasn't around no more. And if you think punishing the motherfuckers who killed him is 'pointless,' then you don't deserve to share the same last name as us.”
“Fine!” I blurted, exasperated. “You want to take them out? Go ahead! But how does this get in the way of that, huh? How does giving me Lisle negatively affect your interests? Why the hell can't you just let me have this one thing?”
“Because you had everything!” Junior exploded. “Dad always treated you like you were better than either of us, like you deserved more, like you were too good for the gangster life! The best prep schools, the best tutors, the best opportunities! We could be knee-deep in gore, but no, not his precious little Desmond! And all the while, he was planning to give you the big chair, huh? Well, screw you! Let's see how you feel when you're the one who's shut out, when you're the one who doesn't get his way for a change! You want Lisle so you can make your big merger deal and stay squeaky clean? Over my dead fucking body, kid! No, the way I see it? You got a choice to make, and right now: You can be a real member of this family for a change, and everything that goes along with it, or you can go fend for yourself in this world.”
His words hurt like arrows hitting my chest. Even worse—one look at Peter, and I could tell that he felt the same way Junior did.
I'd never known they were so jealous of the attention Dad had given me, the education and advantages he'd insisted on providing me with. If anything, I'd always felt like all those schools and tutors were Dad's way of distancing himself from me—I'd thought he was closer to Junior and Peter because they were so much more similar to him in temperament because they were genuinely interested in being involved in the “family business.”
The grass was always greener, I supposed.
Still, it was too late to do anything about that now.
“Okay,” I conceded. “You want to withhold this just to spite me? Go ahead; I can't stop you. But Junior, please, for Christ's sake, I'm begging you, pull the throttle back on the mayhem. You can kill all the guys you want without making a fucking public spectacle of this family, man. You don't need to go on the warpath to make your point. Just do what you have to do, but do it quietly.”
Peter smirked. “Kiddo, if you honestly believe we can make our point without being loud, you don't have the first goddamn idea what our 'point' actually is. This ain't just about wiping out the Azzarellos. This ain't even about Dad anymore, really. It's about sending a big-ass message to every organized crime syndicate in the Midwest to let 'em know that just because Dad's dead don't mean we ain't got our shit together. It don't mean we won't lay waste to any cocksuckers who try to come at us. Got it?”
“Even if the message you're sending is so sloppy that it gets both of you life sentences?” I challenged him. “Come on, Peter, I know you're smarter than that.”
He shrugged. “We made our peace with the idea we could end up dead or behind bars a long time ago, Des. It don't mean we ain't gonna do what we gotta do to keep this family intact until then.”
“Besides,” Junior chimed in, “you really expect us to believe you're, what, actually concerned about whether we stay outta the joint or not? Little brother, you are so full of shit that you squeak when going into a turn. No, all you give a damn about is making sure all this gunplay and bad publicity don't ruin your chances at doing the Stavros deal. You're gonna act like the honor of this family means nothing, just so you can play golf and hang out in country clubs with these rich asswipes?”
“Oh, now who's full of shit?!” I countered. “Both of you make me sick; you know that? You toss around words like 'honor' because you saw someone say it in a gangster flick and thought it sounded cool and noble. But you don't care about honor or our family. None of the horrible things you've done have had anything to do with that. The simple fact of it is, you just love to be bad guys. You love all the shooting and stabbing and blowing stuff up because, by God, it makes your balls feel big. You're pathetic. You're losers, that's all you are. You're garbage.”
Thunderclouds gathered behind Junior's eyes, and for a moment, I honestly believed he was going to haul off and smack the hell out of me. But instead, his lips pulled back into a gap-toothed grin that was almost chillingly boyish, a funhouse mirror reflection of the kid I grew up with.
“Pathetic, are we?” he sneered. “Yeah, well, maybe we are, kid. Sure. But let's see how strong you're looking when you're trying to protect that little girlfriend of yours all by yourself, with no gun, no big brothers to fight your battles for you, and no Biros empire to hide behind.”
I still had the gun I'd taken from the dead man at the warehouse—in fact, I was carrying it at that very moment, in the back of my waistband. But I didn't bother correcting him.
“I'm betting you'll be pissing your pants and crying 'uncle' in no time,” he went on. “I'm betting you're gonna be on your knees with a Smith and Wesson pressed to the back of your head while they take their time killing Chelsea and force you to watch the whole show. Wish I could be there to see it, but the truth is, I'd just as soon never see your whiny ass again. So get out of my sight.”
I looked at Peter to see if he'd step in and plead my case like he usually did, if he'd protest and tell Junior to be reasonable.
But no.
Peter just stared at me blankly, all the brotherly love gone from his eyes. They were black and unfeeling now, like a crab's eyes, regarding me with cold, insectile indifference.
I turned my back on them and walked out, barely registering the world around me as I got behind the wheel of my car and drove off. Instead of paying attention to my surroundings, all I could think about were all the birthday parties and skinned knees, the pranks and family outings, the games of tag and the movies we'd seen together, the times when I'd been bullied at school and my brothers had protected or avenged me. A lifetime of shared memories with Junior and Peter, many of them happy ones despite all of our differences over the years.
All of that history crumpled up and thrown away now that Junior was on this insane and murderous power trip and Peter was right by his side as always.
I heard a car horn and realized I'd been stopped at a light long past the time it had turned green.
I gave an apologetic wave and tried to focus. Now was not the time to get distracted and stop paying attention to what was going on around me. Not when the Azzarellos were out for their pound of flesh... not when they wouldn't care whether I was on the outs with my brothers or not, as long as I paid dearly for being involved in their patriarch's death.
Goddamn you, Junior, I thought bitterly. You were always so fucking stubborn. There were times when I even admired that about you—how fearless and hard-headed you could be. Now look at you: Just another wild-eyed, blood-gargling monster in a fancy suit. And fuck you, too, Peter. If Junior told you to jump off a bridge, your only question would be, “Which one, and do you want me to drive or walk to get there?”
I caught myself hitting the gas pedal a bit too hard, steadily edging up over the speed limit. I took a deep breath and eased off. I was anxious to get back to Chelsea—the thought of leaving her alone for any prolonged length of time made me nauseous with worry—but the last thing I needed was to get pulled over by a cop.
Especially since, for all I knew, that cop might be working for whoever put out the hit on our father and Chelsea. He could lean down to the driver's side window like he was about to ask for my license and registration, then put two bullets in my head before I had a chance to do anything about it.
I hated this whole mess. I hated feeling so trapped and powerless—like I was stuck in a trash compactor and everything was closing in around me. It was so intense that I was having trouble breathing normally, and I tried to concentrate on inhaling and exhaling so I could get a grip on myself.
But it didn't change the fact that as I drove back to my place, my brain presented me with a hundred thousand colorful images of walking in to discover her dead body on my floor... a message from whoever our true enemy was.
I still couldn't get behind the idea that the Azzarellos were the real threat here. I tried to make the pieces fit together, but they refused to snap into place.
