by Bethany-Kris
Maybe that was it.
Maybe once this was finally done with, he could get that rush of excitement and relief that he had been missing for so long. Maybe once all of the things that had been standing in his way were finally gone for good, he could celebrate.
John would just have to wait and see.
An enforcer stepped up to his door as John pulled his car to a stop at the curb. The man opened the driver’s door, and waited for John to exit the vehicle. He handed the keys over, but gave the enforcer a severe look.
“Only move it a block,” John said. “No more.”
“You sure?”
“Just keep it out of the immediate zone. I need to drive home, but I don’t want to walk a damn mile to get my car after this is over.”
“All right.”
John turned to find his cousin was also getting out of his car. Two Marcello Capos had also been invited to the meeting of the bosses. Andino allowed Darren Calabrese to pick the venue of the meeting because really, it wouldn’t make a difference.
It was all going to end the same way.
“No one else is coming?” John asked as Andino approached.
“We don’t need anyone else.”
John nodded. “Your call.”
“Soon to be yours, too.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Andino clapped John hard on the shoulder, and turned them both to face a rundown restaurant that looked as though it had been out of business for a while. “John, I already told you. There’s a boss’s seat waiting for you, and that’s right where you’re headed. There’s no argument. It’s already been done.”
Well …
Almost.
“Hey,” Andino snapped. “Be careful with that fucking thing, you foolish fucker.”
The enforcer carrying a blue crystal vase full of colorful tiger lilies damn near missed a step at his boss’s shout. The man straightened up, and held the vase a little more carefully, and took his steps a bit slower as he crossed the road.
Across the street, another enforcer stood waiting. He was the one who took the flowers from the first man, albeit with a hell of a lot more care. John watched the exchange with an amused fascination.
“Fucking idiots,” Andino grumbled. “They’re going to end this before I can even begin it.”
“Give him some credit. I still can’t believe you went with flowers.”
Andino shrugged. “Haven thought it was a nice touch.”
John smirked. “There’s something cold about your wife.”
“I know. It’s what I love best about her. You ready?”
“Are they inside?”
“According to our men, yes,” Andino said.
John nodded. “Then yes, I am ready.”
The two cousins crossed the street without as much as a look around them. They didn’t have a reason to be concerned until they got inside the restaurant, and even then, it was only because they needed to get out alive afterward. Neither of the two were very concerned about an ambush of sorts from the Calabrese for several reasons.
For one, the Calabrese needed this meeting to go well. Darren was out to get something from the Marcellos—be it more control, power, or influence in New York—but he needed an actual agreement to get it. And he needed to be alive, too. Earning himself a grave would do absolutely nothing for his end goal.
For two, killing John and Andino wouldn’t achieve very much for Darren, anyway. In the grand scheme of the Marcello family, John was only a simple Capo. Two other Capos had come along, too, although they would remain outside in waiting vehicles until the others left. Killing a Capo would mean nothing except more bloodshed.
As for Andino?
He was just one of three high-ranking men in the Marcello family. Killing the underboss—as no one outside the family was aware that Andino had taken control of the Marcello organization—was not going to cause the family to crumble. There were still two other men with heavy influence and control.
Darren was greedy.
He made rash decisions.
He was violent.
Stupid, though?
No, he wasn’t stupid.
The one enforcer stayed back a step, and kept hold of the flowers as Andino and John stepped up to the entrance of the rundown business. The other enforcer—the one Andino had snapped at—came to open the door of the place, and let John and Andino inside.
John let Andino go first, as a boss should, and then followed right behind. He was entirely unsurprised by the ripped up floors, overturned tables, and wires hanging from an exposed ceiling. Who knew who owned this place, but John was grateful for the venue. It didn’t look like the place had been used in a while, or that anyone had worked in it for God knew how long.
It meant less clean up.
Less lives lost.
Small blessings.
Darren Calabrese stood in the middle of the floor flanked by three men. He kept his hands folded at his back as he stared expressionless at John and Andino. None of them moved until the other two Marcello enforcers had also entered the restaurant, and stood waiting behind their respective boss.
It was all about the respect in Cosa Nostra.
John doubted that would ever change.
“I’m happy to see you can follow direction,” Andino said dryly. “Three men to you, and three to us.”
“Inside,” Darren agreed.
John smiled. “We’re aware of your men outside, and how many there are. We had a three block radius scouted before we ever even came within five miles of this place today, Darren. We’re not stupid.”
Darren’s cheek twitched, but otherwise, he gave nothing away. “I can assume the two of you brought a small army of your own, then.”
“You can,” Andino said.
“Where is Dante?” Darren let his arms fall open to his sides, as though he were asking for some kind of gift to be handed to him. “I thought I would be dealing with the boss today, and not his underboss, and a useless Capo, too. What good does that do me?”
John let the insult roll off his shoulders. It wasn’t meant to do anything but be fucking offensive, anyway. “It wasn’t very fucking long ago that you too were nothing more than a Capo, Darren. It would do you well to remember that.”
Darren altogether ignored John, not that it was surprising. After all, the asshole had spent a whole week sending John package after package detailing how much of a shame he thought the Marcello man was.
“The boss?” Darren asked Andino again. “Where is he?”
“You are looking at the boss of the Marcello family,” Andino said, smirking just enough to look self-serving and smug as fuck at the same time. It was a look to be respected and appreciated, really. “I can’t help it if you’re unable to keep up with the politics of families outside of yours, Darren.”
The enforcers flanking Darren passed looks between one another. Darren, to his credit, barely blinked a lash at Andino’s admission. It didn’t matter—John knew the truth. The damage was done for Darren with his men in that moment. He had likely assured them that this would all go exactly according to his plans because he knew all there was to know about the Marcellos.
The truth was clear now.
He knew nothing.
It was simple, but effective.
A man needed all the faith and trust from his men that he could get in this business. It was the one thing that might save his life, or end it at one point or another. It was a good lesson to learn, and one of the first John had ever been taught when it came to being a made man navigating this very dangerous life.
“Then you misrepresented to me what this meeting would be,” Darren said, taking a step forward. “This is a farce, and I can’t say that I want to continue—”
“Are you interested in settling this feud once and for all, or continuing on with the bloodshed?” Andino interrupted with a cocked brow. “Because I know which category the Marcellos fall under, and as I told you when I asked for this meet
ing, we are willing to do whatever necessary to finish this appropriately.”
Darren hesitated in his next step. “Anything? You’re absolutely sure about that?”
“I said what I said.”
“And we don’t repeat ourselves,” John added for his cousin.
Darren passed John a look that lingered for a beat too long before he said, “I want him to leave, then.”
“John stays.”
“You’re making this very difficult for me to want to work with you, Andino.”
At that, John scoffed.
All eyes turned in his direction.
“Work with us?” John asked.
“Him, not you. I have little interest in working with a dishonored made man, regardless of which asshole is his father, or which bitch pushed him out into the world.”
John’s lips curved into a wicked smile. “Too far, Darren. You went a little too far with that one.”
“Deny any of it is true.”
“I don’t have to do anything for you, and frankly, if you thought I would ever work with you after the things you’ve done, you’re the one who was mistaken.”
Andino looked to John, and nodded.
John looked back to Darren. “You were right—this was a farce. A fake meeting. Nothing could ever come from it. Much like you being the boss in your organization. A little prince playing pretend in a king’s throne, Darren. That’s all you are.”
He turned his back to Darren, adding, “And I will greatly enjoy taking that throne, and your crown from you.”
“I’ll kill you, Marcello!”
Darren’s worlds stabbed uselessly into John’s back.
They meant nothing.
One of the enforcer’s followed John out, while Andino stayed a bit behind in the doorway with the other one.
“Shame,” Andino said behind John, “as this could have gone down far differently. Or … not. Here, a gift, Darren. We thought you might appreciate a kind gesture from us.”
John didn’t look back to see what happened, but he knew what the plan was. The flowers would be set directly in front of the door—carefully, of course, as to shake them or move them too much would set off the chemical mixture inside the vase. The door would be closed, and Darren would need to move the vase before he could exit the place.
A seemingly innocent vase.
Innocuous flowers.
All harmless, really.
Until they weren’t …
“Move your ass,” Andino barked at the enforcer.
John finally looked over his shoulder.
Through the front window of the rundown restaurant’s door, he saw Darren kick the vase of flowers. The explosion was beautiful.
Not as big as they had hoped, but enough to blow the windows out.
Enough to knock them to the ground.
John wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that—prone on his back and staring up at a clear early October sky—but the sound of laughter brought him back down to reality.
It took him a minute to realize it was his own laughter.
He was the one laughing.
He finally felt that relief.
It was glorious.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“PASS ME THE bowl of flour, and I’ll show you what to do if it seems like the dough gets a little too sticky,” Siena said.
Greta pushed the bowl across to Siena, while Giulia hoisted herself up on the edge of the counter. The two girls watched silently as Siena added just a tablespoon of flour at a time to the bread dough before she rolled it and kneaded it again and again.
“You have to make sure it mixes all the way through—you don’t want one part of the bread to have too much flour while the other parts don’t have enough. Always make sure you knead it really well after you add any extra in.”
“What would happen if the dough was too wet when it cooked?” Giulia asked.
“Depends, really. It might be too dense—it might not rise high enough. It could still be doughy in spots, and it’ll have that dough-ish taste.”
“You can’t just … cook it for longer?” Greta asked. “Make up for the difference, or something?”
“No, it doesn’t work that way, unfortunately. Bread has to be made just so—even the dough has to be the right consistency every time to make it perfect. If you add something, or take something away, you have to account for it somewhere else. If your kitchen is hotter than normal, you need to account for that, too.”
“Ugh,” Greta groaned.
Giulia echoed her sister’s sentiment. “This seems like a lot of work for just bread.”
“Sure, but if you master bread, then the rest is kind of easy at the end of the day. And we Italians do love us some bread.”
“Truth,” Greta said.
“It’s really that particular, though?” Giulia asked. “I feel like I should have been taking notes from the start, or something.”
Siena laughed a little, and gave her half-sister a smile. “The only thing more fickle than a man on this earth, is bread.”
Greta and Giulia passed a grin between one another. Their girlish laughter filled up Siena’s apartment. She took the moment to slow her kneading of the dough, and soak in their happiness. So much had been taken from these two young girls, and she wondered how much they would have to sacrifice before they could finally get their own happily ever after.
She was the one left caring for them a lot of the time. Sure, their useless aunt gave them a home to live in, and beds to sleep in. The woman fed them, and kept them clothed—mostly. That was the extent of their aunt’s involvement in their lives.
She didn’t care for them on a deeper level. They had no woman to go to when they needed a private chat. They had no voice to be their reason, or to give them direction when they needed that, too. They were, essentially, alone.
“Ma tried to teach me how to make bread once,” Greta said.
Siena passed the older of the two girls a look. “How did that turn out?”
“I wasn’t paying attention the way she wanted me to. She got mad. I got mad. We yelled a lot, and she kicked me out of the kitchen. I guess …”
“What?”
Giulia picked at her nails, avoiding everyone’s gaze and looking all kinds of awkward for the moment. It wasn’t very often the girls talked about their mother. They buried all their feelings, and memories of their mother somewhere deep, and kept them locked up tight where no one could reach. Siena didn’t think that was very healthy to do, honestly. Someday, they were going to have to deal with the murder of their mother, and the things that preceded it.
Right now, though, they couldn’t do any of that. It wasn’t a topic that Kev or Darren had wanted them to chat about, really. It might upset Coraline, after all.
Not that Siena’s mother made very much of an effort to be around the girls. Because she absolutely didn’t if she could help it.
“I guess,” Greta continued after a long stretch of silence, “I wish I had listened now. Been better that day—on a lot of other days, too.”
Without even thinking about it, Siena pulled her hands away from the bread, and reached out to her half-sister. She touched the girl’s cheek with a dough- and flour-covered hand to give Greta a gentle pat. It left fingerprints of flour behind, but Greta didn’t seem to mind.
“Your ma loved you, Greta. Regardless if you were terrible, or wonderful. She’s your ma, so you know what that means, right?”
“What?”
“That she loved you just as much on your best days as she did on your worst days. That’s what good mothers do. And I know you have a whole bunch of good memories to think about, but sometimes the bad ones slip through, too, right?”
Greta shrugged. “It makes me feel guilty sometimes.”
“Don’t. Okay? Just don’t. Focus on all the good because you are going to have more than enough bad moments in your life to focus on at a later date. Right now, just focus on all the good you remember.”
He
r sister nodded. “Okay.”
“Back to bread?”
Both girls agreed.
Siena made quick work of breaking the dough into three chunks. She passed a piece to Greta and Giulia before pushing the bowl of flour over, too.
“Put a little on your hands, but not too much,” she said. “Keeps it from sticking. We’ll knead it a bit more, and then put them in bowls to rise for thirty minutes to an hour.”
“Okay,” the girls echoed.
Siena continued chatting with her half-sisters while they worked just to keep them occupied in a verbal way. At least then, she hoped their attention would not go back to darker places in their thoughts.
Or … that was her hope.
In the background of their work, the television played through breaking news on the major news network Siena liked to keep on daily. The news was always depressing, but in some ways, it also reminded her that her life could be a hell of a lot worse in ways.
Unfortunately, she also kept it on for another reason. Her family—and John’s, at times—seemed to be the focus of New York related news a lot lately. Organized crime was making a comeback; not that it ever went away, the idiots. The streets were bloodier than ever between the crime families, and rivaled the Chicago War from two decades earlier.
Attention was never good in their life.
It hindered business.
Siena slowed in her work as a shot of a street came into view on the television.
“Some sort of explosive device was detonated on …”
Siena blinked at the reporter’s words. Not because of what the woman said, but because of what she saw on the television. She recognized the street they were showing—a Brooklyn street full of small businesses. Mostly restaurants, but a few other vendors, too.
And then the shot changed to a building. Windows blown out, and a door ripped off the hinges. The front charred from fire, and smoke still billowing out from the broken, gaping holes of the business.
Explosive device.
“A restaurant that was undergoing renovations and owned by—”
“Darren,” Siena said quietly.
