“Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot, Esme. That man always gets what he wants, and a bunch of girls won’t stand in his way.”
“Then how about this.” Esme stuffs her lip gloss down the front of her dress and walks over to me. “Let’s go for an hour, and then we’ll leave. He has only just gone into a meeting, and I doubt it will be over before then. That way, we get to say we partied at the VIP room in Flame and you get to avoid he who shall not be named.”
The others are looking at me with anticipation, excitement transparent on their faces, and I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer. “Ugh.” I shove my hands through my hair. My gut is telling me to run, but my heart wants to make my friends happy.
“Babe.” Esme eyeballs me earnestly. “Do you honestly think me or Pen are going to let anything happen to you?” Excitement lights up her eyes. “Getting into the VIP room in a club like this is virtually impossible. I bet even your dad couldn’t have organized it for you. You can’t turn it down. Think of all the hot rich dudes and the free champagne. Your birthday weekend will live on in infamy. We’ll still be talking about it when we’re old and gray and have long given up our dancing shoes.” She rests her hands on my shoulders. “It’s just one hour. Please, Sierra. Please say yes.”
I sigh, already knowing I’m going to agree. I glance at Pen, and I see the resignation on her face too. We are outvoted, and we both know it. “You’re incorrigible. But you’re going to be the best lawyer because it’s impossible to say no to you.”
“Whoop!” She yanks me into a hug, squealing with glee. The others pile around, and we engage in a group hug. “We’re going to have so much fun,” Tammy says. “You won’t regret it!”
“I hope not,” I murmur, nodding at the manager as I blatantly ignore the little voice in my ear screaming at me not to do it.
3
BEN
I sip my bourbon slowly, wanting to keep my wits about me tonight. This is the first time my father is trusting me to represent him at an important meeting, and I can’t fuck it up. It’s taken long enough to get to this point, and I have no intention of regressing.
Salerno kept us waiting forty minutes, which pissed me off. Relations have been tentative between New York and Las Vegas for some time, but I intend to address that tonight. So, I force my aggravation aside, focusing on what I came here to do.
We are in the private basement in his club. It’s an odd place for a business meeting, yet business and women seem to go hand in hand in Sin City. Leaning back against the plush velvet couch, I survey the room as Salerno and his men get comfortable.
A rotating mirrored bar is situated near the back wall on my left. On my right is a square dance floor, equipped with a small stage and a couple of poles. The rest of the space is made up of seated areas. Stylish low couches and comfortable high-backed armchairs surround small black glossy tables. The décor down here is similar to the main club upstairs—a mix of black, gold, red, and orange. Lighting is dim, and music is a steady hum in the background.
My eyes lift to the stairs on the far right of the bar, which lead to an upper level, housing a few bedrooms. Tales of Salerno’s drug-fueled orgies are widespread. At least this time, I know what to expect, having attended one a few years ago when I was last here with my father.
“I’m surprised Angelo or the other New York bosses aren’t here,” Salerno says when he finally opens the conversation. He leans back in his chair as he stares at me. He likes to intimidate everyone he comes into contact with, and his dark glare is legendary. But it will take a lot more than that to put the fear of God in me.
He brought his underboss, Greg Gambini—a brute of a man with a reputation to match—his consigliere Fabrizio Russo, a few of his senior capos, and a handful of loyal soldati. There are eleven of them to our five, but I expected a show of strength on his home ground. With the exception of his soldiers, I’ve met the others before.
Salerno runs a small but tight ship in Vegas. He has his own set of rules, his own way of doing things, which is not always aligned to our thinking. On a personal level, I hate how they treat women, but in every other regard, they are moving forward with the times. Unlike a lot of the families in the US.
“They are attending similar meetings in Philly, Florida, L.A., and Boston,” I confirm.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he straightens up in his chair. His men stiffen, their guarded expressions zeroing in on me. Behind me, I sense Leo reaching for the gun clipped to his hip.
“So, we’re deemed not worthy enough of a meeting with one of the five?” Salerno says, his voice lethally calm, his face devoid of any emotion.
The atmosphere in the room takes a distinct nosedive.
“Bennett is the Mazzone heir and he will one day be the most powerful boss in New York,” Leo coolly replies.
I’m glad he doesn’t mention my plans to become the most powerful boss in all the US, because there’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance. And a smart man never divulges his plan until the timing is opportune and the success inevitable.
“The fact Ben chose to come here should tell you all you need to know about your presumed value.”
I hold up one hand, silencing my hotheaded underboss. Leo has many talents I’m grateful for. Diplomacy isn’t normally one of them. “I am here because we share a lot of the same values and ambitions for the future.” I sip my drink as I cross my ankle over one knee, betraying no hint of emotion on my face.
“I thought you were here on Commission business,” Russo says, eyeing me like I’m a bug he’d love to squash.
“I am, but the purposes align.”
“I’m listening,” Salerno says, his eyes drilling into my face.
“As you know, The Commission has been defunct for many years.”
“Disbanded when Chicago broke away,” Salerno supplies, as if I need a history lesson.
When I was dragged into this world, one of the first things I did was study the past, consuming everything I could about the families and our enemies.
“It’s interesting you didn’t mention them before,” he adds.
“Relations between New York and Chicago are still fractured.”
He barks out a laugh. “You speak like a politician, boy. The rumors I’ve heard are true.”
Ignoring his outburst, I continue, swirling the bourbon in my glass as I eyeball the Vegas boss. “For now, Chicago is outside this process.”
Salerno whistles under his breath. “You’d risk the wrath of The Outfit? You risk pissing off the Sicilians?”
“I said for now.” I’m working hard to keep my temper in check. If the asshole would just let me speak without interruption, this might not take all night.
“Relax, boy.” He waggles his brows, and I’m tempted to put a bullet in his skull. If he calls me boy one more fucking time, I just might do it. “I have my own beef with The Outfit.”
That’s news to me.
La Cosa Nostra originated in Sicily in the nineteenth century, but the organization in the US was only established during the prohibition era, and it operated completely independent of Sicily. Until Giuseppe DeLuca took power in Chicago almost thirty years ago and everything changed because the new leader of The Outfit refused to accept the ruling of The Commission, determined to do things his way.
The Commission was formed by Lucky Luciano in the nineteen thirties and served as a board of directors, so to speak, for the entire Italian American mafia organization. New York, as the only state with five families, had the controlling votes. Something The Outfit always resented. When DeLuca took control in Chicago, he did so from his permanent residence in Sicily, commanding his underboss, Gifoli, to run the show here in his stead. It was unheard of before, and The Commission wouldn’t accept his authority when he refused to show his face.
A divide occurred, The Commission eventually broke up, and the families have operated independently since. To this day, DeLuca continues to rule through his underboss and none of the othe
r bosses have ever met the man. It’s perplexing, but everyone stopped trying to understand it years ago. Truth is, Chicago prospers, and it remains the second-largest organization behind New York.
After that, alliances grew between certain families, mostly to facilitate business. We have an arrangement with Salerno that enables the shipment of some of our drug supply into Las Vegas, and he organizes safe transport to New York. A lot of the families have similar arrangements, but this is the first time a more formal structure has been attempted. It’s a bold move but one I feel we need to do. Finally, the five bosses agreed, and we are putting things in motion.
I arch a brow in silent question, wondering exactly what beef Salerno has with Chicago, but he dismisses my interest with a wave of his hand, further enraging me. Blood boils in my veins, but outwardly, I’m Switzerland. “The fact the Sicilians are outside of this plan only adds to the appeal.”
He’s already forgotten the “for now” part. If things with the Bratva escalate, as I suspect they will, we will need every family back in the fold. Including Chicago.
“New York wants to restart The Commission, initially through informal alliances that we will expand on in time.”
“Why?” Saverio shrugs. “Things work so why try to fix something that isn’t broken?”
“The Russians are an ever-increasing concern, and we need to unite all Italian American families if we are to contain the threat they pose.” There are others to contend with too. The Irish, the Albanians, and the Triad could become a problem in New York. However, none of those factions warrant immediate action, because their numbers are small and their control is weak. But they are on my radar, and I’m keeping a close eye on things.
I take another sip of my drink, meeting Gambini’s hard stare with cool indifference. He’s got some Russian blood flowing through his veins. Distant, on his mother’s side. His father comes from a distinguished Italian American family, but his Russian DNA leaves him open for target practice. He’s eyeing me now, like he’s just waiting for me to throw some slur his way so he has an excuse to stomp all over my existence.
The man is known for crushing opponents with his bare hands and his complete disdain for life. Sneeze on him and he’s likely to kill you while barely breaking a sweat. What most don’t know is he is sharp as a tack. A shrewd man like Saverio Salerno doesn’t make a violent killer his underboss unless he has other considerable skills he’s bringing to the table.
“The Russians are no threat,” Salerno says, pouring more scotch into his glass.
Grabbing the twenty-thousand-dollar bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle, I top up my own drink before setting the bourbon back down on the table. “Their numbers match ours.”
“They are unorganized, disloyal, and they aren’t men of honor.”
“That is all true, but for how long? I’ve received intel that concerns me. If the Russians mobilized, they could hurt us. We don’t intend to give them the opportunity.”
“I can defend my own territory. Why would I agree to resurrecting The Commission? To engaging in a bigger battle?” Salerno drains his drink, pouring another.
“You can defend your territory now, but for how long? This is going to happen, and those who choose to stay independent will be obvious targets. If the Russians unite and they attack you with the strength of their numbers, there is no way you won’t fall. Strengthening ties makes sense.”
“If the Russians land on my doorstep, I will kill every one of those motherfuckers myself,” Salerno says, and I wonder if he really buys into that bullshit.
“And you’ll either be dead or in a jail cell.” I put my foot down on the ground and lean forward a little. “We can’t continue to do things the traditional way, Saverio. Even with judges, lawyers, and law enforcement in our pockets, these RICO laws are restrictive. We can’t go around killing anyone who breathes on us funny anymore.” I side-eye Gambini, and the fucker growls. “La Cosa Nostra is no different from any other enterprise. We have to adapt, evolve, and grow, or we won’t survive.”
“I’ve heard about some of your endeavors,” Salerno says, clicking his fingers at one of the men standing at the door. The man slips away by unspoken agreement. “I’ve heard what you’re trying to do.”
“Times are changing, gentlemen.” I lock eyes with his capos, a curious Russo, and a reluctant Gambini. “It’s adapt or die.”
4
BEN
“I agree, and strengthening ties is smart.” Salerno nods his agreement, and I want to smash my fist in his face.
The motherfucker was just testing me.
I clasp my glass tighter in my grip, talking myself off a ledge. For eight years, I’ve been on a prolonged test, and I’m sick of it. I thought as long as I paid my dues as a soldier, and worked my way up the ranks, I would earn my place at my father’s side without question, without any further test, but it’s obvious I am far from in the clear, and no one is finished testing me.
“Which leads me to our last piece of business before we move to the entertainment part of our night.” He smirks, and I shift uneasily in my chair, knowing what’s coming and wishing I could make my excuses and leave. To do so would dishonor our host, so I’m resigned to spending the night in the company of whores and sex slaves. Bile churns in my gut, and I gulp back a large dose of bourbon, welcoming the tart apple and caramel notes, and the comforting warm heat sliding down my throat. Getting drunk might be the only way I’ll get through this night. “Does your father have a response to my proposal?”
Again, with this bullshit. I grind my teeth to the molars, counting to ten in my head before I reply. “I’m not marrying a child bride,” I tell him bluntly. “And it’s unnecessary. Forging stronger business alliances and uniting under the auspices of a new Commission is all that is needed to bind our families.”
If I have my way, when I’m the boss, I will be petitioning to amend some of the old traditions, like the practice of arranged marriages. I’m not naïve. I know part of who we are is embedded in the old ways, and there are some things I won’t get agreement to change, but the barbaric practices when it comes to women and their roles in our society is something I am passionate about.
I wasn’t able to do anything for my mom, but maybe I can alleviate some guilt by ensuring other women are spared what she endured.
“I’m not sure I like your tone,” Saverio says, a fresh layer of hostility filtering through the air.
“I mean you or Anais no disrespect, but I have already told my father I have no intention of getting married. I take my duties to la famiglia seriously and marrying anyone will weaken my position.”
I’m expected to marry a beautiful well-behaved woman who will give me heirs to carry on the Mazzone legacy. Yet wives are little more than accessories. Caged birds who need to be kept in place, and I have zero desire to subject myself or any woman to that fate.
The reason why many men in our world agree to arranged marriages is so they can avoid caring too much. Lavishing affection on your wife is seen as a weakness, so our men rarely marry for love. And keeping a whore or two on the side ensures their wives are kept in check—should they harbor any romantic notions about their husbands.
Wives and children are obvious targets in our world, and I want no part of that. It’s ironic our code of conduct supposedly reveres women, yet it’s okay to disrespect them by kidnapping and killing them to make a point or to bed whores, as long as it’s not flaunted openly.
Other families have even less regard for women, and Vegas is at the top of that list. Rumor has it, Salerno murdered his wife—eleven-year-old Anais’s mother—because she objected when he moved three of his whores into their home. He’s also amassed a large fortune from the sex trafficking trade, something we have stayed clear of in New York, out of principle and to avoid excessive heat. While I hate doing business with a man like him, we need his shipping and distribution routes, and he has other forward-thinking ideas I like.
“Be careful, boy. Change may be
inevitable, but don’t force change where it’s not needed or wanted. I’m sure your father has told you to choose your battles wisely.”
“Touché,” I say, lifting my glass, returning his intense stare with one of my own.
His lips tug up at the corners, in the merest smile, as he raises his glass to me.
The sound of approaching footfalls in the corridor outside draws all our attention, and Salerno stands as the doors open and a group of scantily clad women are ushered into the room. Someone raises the volume on the music as the waiter deposits another bottle of scotch on the table alongside a bucket of beers.
“Relax, Messina.” Salerno gestures at Leo. “Take a seat. Enjoy my hospitality.”
Leo drops onto the couch alongside me, flashing me a grin. Unlike me, my best friend has no issue screwing whores. Removing my black suit jacket, I roll the sleeves of my white shirt to the elbows, forcing myself to relax on the couch.
Salerno greets the women as if they are long-lost friends, not prostitutes he’s kidnapped and trained so he can pimp them out. He kisses and touches them while they pretend to enjoy his attention.
I don’t care how rich and powerful he is; there is no way any woman can enjoy kissing that ugly motherfucker’s face.
A couple of the women move over to the stage, gripping the poles as they start to shimmy up and down in time to the music. The rest descend on us like cocksucking vultures. Leo is the same age as me, and we are the youngest, and the hottest, by a mile, and it’s almost comical how obviously the girls vie to reach us first.
I don’t protest when a blonde with massive fake tits plops down on my lap, even though my instinct is to tell her to fuck off. Her arms snake around my shoulders as she purposely squirms on top of my cock. A thin brunette with boyish curves slinks onto Leo’s lap, and his arms automatically encircle her waist. A slew of pouting girls drapes themselves over Gambini, Russo, and Salerno’s capos, while the rest of our men, our soldati, stand around the room, keeping guard.
Condemned to Love:  Page 4
