The Price of Honor: The Making of a Man
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The Price of Honor
The Making of a Man
Aleatha Romig
Contents
The Price Of Honor
COPYRIGHT AND LICENSE INFORMATION
Disclaimer
THE PRICE OF HONOR
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
What to do now
Books by New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig
About the Author
By:
New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author
COPYRIGHT AND LICENSE INFORMATION
THE PRICE OF HONOR
Copyright © 2017 Romig Works, LLC
Published by Romig Works, LLC
2019 Edition
ISBN e-book: 978-1-947189-03-4
Cover art: Regina Wamba
Editing: Lisa Aurello
Formatting: Romig Works
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the copyright owner.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This book is available in print from most online retailers
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2019 Edition License
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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the appropriate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
THE PRICE OF HONOR was formally published as RESPECT. The story has not changed.
THE PRICE OF HONOR
The making of a man
From New York Times bestselling author Aleatha Romig comes the haunting story of love and honor. An epic tale of devotion and sacrifice spanning thirty years, bidding the characters, as well as readers to ponder the questions...
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What price is too high?
What prize too big?
What sacrifices too many?
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On the day Oren Demetri approaches Carmine Costello, the don of one of the most powerful crime families in New York, to ask for his niece’s hand in marriage, Oren gives his word, his life, and his loyalty.
But is the cost his soul?
Follow this journey set within the dangerous life of New York’s dark and infamous Mafia world as fidelity is tested and the price of honor negotiated.
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Is true love enough when everything that is held dear is on the line?
How much can be gained and how much lost when a man’s honor is at stake?
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Have you been Aleatha’d?
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“A stunning masterpiece!! An epic Mafia tale, full of drama, suspense, intrigue, love, deception, family loyalty, and values—gritty, raw, and violent, it’s one hell of an emotional rollercoaster. Completely enthralling, I loved it with a passion!” ~All Things Dark and Dirty
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Formally titled Respect, this is a stand-alone novel.
Prologue
A glance into the future and the past
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I held tightly to Angelina’s hand as the salty breeze cooled our skin. The gray sky didn’t detract from the stunning view of the New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty. My wife’s red wind-kissed cheeks rose as she looked from the view back to me. Her blue eyes shone as she took in the possibilities I’d explained in some detail—the plans for shops, apartments, and parks.
Like a sharp stab to my chest, I realized the rarity of the sight before me. I stared at her radiant smile, knowing it was no longer a daily sight.
“This,” she said, “Oren Demetri, this is the man I married.”
“It’ll take time.”
“Time to do what’s right. Time to make more from less.”
“And money.” My head once again filled with the figures I’d spent days, weeks, and months crunching. There would be contracts and commitments. I’d make promises and secure debts, but if it made Angelina’s face light up on a dreary day, it would all be worth it.
It wasn’t a new idea. The renovation of the waterfront began when I was still a student at NYU. In 1972, the city approved the urban renewal plan: over two hundred acres for a new port, hundreds of housing units, and even a waterfront park. However, the timing hadn’t been right. The hold on the shipyards and docks at that time was still too strong. It would take more than a document submitted by a community board.
“There was a time,” I began, no longer seeing the view before us but recalling a time when youth was my enemy. “...when this was all I knew.”
Angelina squeezed my hand. “Use that. Keep it in your heart. This is part of you. Make this place great again for Salvatore and Paola. Make it a place where children and parents can make memories.”
My neck stiffened at the sound of my parents’ names. My memories of this shore weren’t of picnics and kayaks. This was where my father worked, where I worked, where my mother died.
Angelina’s tone saved me from the dark turn my thoughts had taken.
“They would be as proud of you as I am,” she went on, “if they were standing here today.”
Is it wrong for a man in his forties with more life lived than others experience in ten decades to feel a twinge of joy at the thought of making his parents proud?
“And your parents too,” I said. “They’d be proud of you. You’re why we’re here.”
My wife’s ambition to pay it forward, to do good with the bounty life had granted us, was why we were standing on a cold shore with the briny air that unsuccessfully masked the reek of fish and the smell of decayed iron and steel. The odor still hung thick in the air just as it had when I was a boy. The only missing elements were the cigarette and cigar smoke and the soundtrack of manual labor: supervisors barking orders over the cranks hoisting shipments in nets in the days before cargo containers and hydraulic lifts. Nevertheless, the stench alone served as a reminder that while things chang
ed, they stayed the same.
Angelina shrugged. “I can hope. My family was different. My parents believed in Cosa Nostra. It’s what killed...” She didn’t finish.
“They believed in family, in honor and respect,” I interrupted, keeping her from her darkness too. “My parents taught me to work hard. Your family’s lessons have been more specific.”
“Oren...”
I shook my head and forced a smile to my lips. “Your family is another reason we’re here.”
“Change takes time. Now, with Uncle Carmine grooming Vincent...”
My wife was usually right. This was no exception. Change took time. It also needed prompting. Vincent’s mindset was the future of the Costello family. Like the shipping industry, times have changed since I was a boy. The wool overcoat draped over my designer suit and my leather loafers that were currently spotted with the dusting of snow and ice, if sold, could have significantly supplemented Salvatore Demetri’s annual salary.
My father taught me the meaning of hard work and earning a paycheck. The Costellos taught me different lessons. I could blame them or thank them. I was the man I was because of both influences together: the Demetris and Costellos. The combined DNA made our son.
The end justifies the means...It has all been worth it. If only I could appreciate the spoils.
This outing on the Brooklyn shore was the exception, not the rule. Angelina approved of this Oren Demetri, the one who made legitimate deals and helped others, the husband who took time to be with her, held her hand, and listened to her thoughts. Yet as in the gray skies and darkened skyline, within me—between us—there were layers, dimensions, and sacrifices.
Time was the greatest loser. Or perhaps it was the victor.
It never stopped.
There was only so much and so many ways it could be divided.
I tugged Angelina’s hand and led her back to the waiting car. “Thank you for coming to see it.”
“You asked.”
“Testa will drive you back to Rye.”
Her steps stuttered. “I thought maybe we could go to the city for dinner or visit...we’re so close.”
Close to Brooklyn. Close to her family and where we used to live.
“Another night. It’s Thursday. Carmine...”
Angelina’s neck stiffened as we both slid into the warm waiting car.
“Franco,” I began. “Drop me off at the office and take Mrs. Demetri back to the house.”
Angelina appeared to concentrate on the outside scenery as we rode in silence, the chill in the heated car icier than the outside wind. Finally, I tried for a thaw. “How about a Broadway show on Saturday?”
She didn’t turn as she spoke, the emotion from before gone. “Don’t make promises you won’t keep.”
I wanted to keep them. I did. I tried. There were only so many balls one person could keep in the air. We hadn’t reached our final destination: a life together with unlimited time. That was my goal. Yet there were miles to travel. Though the journey had already been long, it wasn’t over.
In many ways, it was like the Todd Shipyard where we’d been. It had been the sight of successes and failures, and there would be more. The road that trailed behind us and the same one that stretched before us couldn’t be considered easy or safe. Someday, I prayed we’d look back and see that even though it had taken decades and bloodshed, it was worth the cost.
Success and dreams took time. The images from my childhood resurfaced. Sometimes it was difficult to fathom. A young boy. A small apartment—devoid of amenities and filled with love. My life now was not merely different, but previously unimaginable to that young boy.
In many ways...my justification always went back to one scene that replayed in my mind. Time affects memories. It changes the old reel, making it newer, crisper. The colors become less vibrant. The words morph and their meanings change.
I’m not sure how accurate the version I now see remains. When I close my eyes, I see with the eyes of a little boy, and it still affects me to this day.
The world to a child was epic—huge. Sounds were louder and people were bigger. Yet none of that mattered when your father was at your side: protector, hero, and everything in between.
My father had taken me with him to the pier. And while I understood that we wouldn’t stay long, that I couldn’t be with him when he had to work, to my young mind it didn’t matter. I was special simply because I was walking beside my father. Just the men, he’d said to my mother before we left our home. She smiled and nodded as I hurriedly donned my coat.
The wind was brisk, but I didn’t notice. Instead, I watched how others addressed my father as Mr. Demetri with respect. Each salutation added a degree of warmth to my soul, my pride providing more protection from the cold than the thin layers of clothing I wore.
We approached a man. He was well dressed for the docks. I recalled his shoes—shinier than ones I was used to seeing. They weren’t dusty or covered with mud.
“Salvatore,” the man said as my father handed him a plain envelope.
“Thank you,” my father replied with a nod of his head.
Even as a youth, I found it odd that my father thanked the man. After all, he’d been the one to give whatever he gave. Shouldn’t the man have thanked him? It was then I noticed the giants of my father’s world—the other supervisors, the men who most of the workers addressed with deference—shrank in this well-dressed man’s presence.
After the envelope was given, we quickly moved on. We were beyond the crowd, and yet I continued to peer backward—I couldn’t stop watching.
“Oren, it isn’t your business,” my father chastised.
“Who is he?”
“He’s the boss of the pier.”
“Is he your boss? I thought you were the boss.”
“Every man has someone he answers to.”
I glanced back once more as the well-dressed man continued to accept what others handed him. I recognized the supervisors, the ones like my father. I was used to hearing them bark orders. Their quiet murmuring affected me more than I knew. “What are the others doing?”
“Taxes, boy. That’s enough questions.”
“That boss man, is he with the government?” I’d learned about taxes in school. People paid money to the government so that cities could build roads and schools.
My father stifled a laugh as he tugged my hand, pulling me farther away.
“Papà, did you pay him taxes?” I hadn’t seen money, only an envelope.
“Some things, figlio, are not to be questioned. It is the way it is—the way of my father and his father before him. In Sicily. For generations. It works. We’re here in America with a roof, a job, food on our plates, and shoes on our feet. I don’t have to fight the cattle call. I’m above that.”
“Because you’re a boss, too,” I said with pride.
“Not the same, but I’ve worked hard. You will too. It’s what Demetri men do. We are determined. It’s a good thing.”
As we walked along the street toward our apartment, the vision of the pier boss continued to play in my head. “Papà? Will I pay taxes?”
“We all pay, Oren.”
“What if I want to be the one who people pay? What do I need to do to become a tax man?”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “One doesn’t become a boss, figlio. One earns it. Some things are not for all.”
“Earn it...through hard work?” Though I’d said it as a question, I had confidence in my young mind that I was right.
“Respect,” my father replied. “Give it, appropriately. And earn it. You do not need to be paid if you have that. Respect is what defines a true man.”
There are moments etched forever in our mind that can neither be enhanced nor diminished. To do either would be an injustice. Such as the hieroglyphs carved within ancient stone, these pinnacles remained stationary throughout time. Winds could rage and rains could flood, yet nothing could alter the magnitude of the instant. As I stood in front of t
he congregation with the priest by my side, I experienced that revelation. Nothing in my past or future could reduce the overwhelming emotion within me.
Total and utter admiration radiated from my presence, shimmering in my gaze as I lost sight of the periphery. The pews were no longer occupied. Her family wasn’t murmuring at her beauty. Even the organ music faded away. I saw only her. In that place, at that moment in 1984, with the blessings of men and God, my life’s aspiration was about to come to fruition. It wasn’t riches or fame. It’s true I wanted the first and loathed the latter. Yet my reasoning for the first wasn’t for self-worth. No, it was to provide for her, to be worthy of her. My aspiration since the first time our eyes met was to be the man who could make Angelina Costello mine.