Page 42 of The Bonventi Hitman

"Gabe?"

"Yes."

There's a long sigh. "Too many moving parts. All this betraying shit hurts more than a squeeze from the damn FBI."

He was right about that. The families are all in open communication normally and working together at various times throughout the year, so when something like this happens—it feels more personal, like a betrayal from an actual family member.

However, it's too late to get into all that, so I focus on the reason I called.

"The last guy is taken care of," I say.

"Yeah, I spoke with Luca. All finished then?"

"Yes, except for the head."

He knew I was talking about the leader of the Russians, Ivan Morozkin.

"Yeah, fucking idiot. Him and all this shit," Enzo says, frustration and tiredness enveloping his words.

"It is all crazy," I say, because it is, and I don't know what else to add.

There's a moment of silence. It's as if he knows what I'm about to bring up.

"They will come now, with this last man in a box. It was Ivan's nephew, and?—"

"Don't fucking say it, Gabe. You know the pain it's caused me. This is not how families conduct business. Why can't that damnfool just take what he had and run with it? He had a good thing. We were fair."

"I agree."

He lets out another audible sigh. "Retaliation is imminent. 10 am today, I'm having a sit-down with the Greeks and Polish. I want you to be there."

"Anything for the family."

"I've always been able to count on you, Gabe. Ever since you were a kid. You've done right by my grandfather and me. You know how much I love you."

It wasn't often Enzo would express these feelings. It was only during times of high stress as he'd call on me more. But the fact was that I owed the Bonventis my life.

I was raised in foster care with my sister, and when I turned 18, the state cut me loose. Enzo wasn't a don when I first met him, but everyone knew he was a made man and, more importantly, everyone knew who his grandfather was. Son of a bitch could kill a man in the middle of Wrigley Field and walk away without seeing a cell—that was the power Enzo's grandfather built into the Bonventi family.

Four months after my foster care halfway house exit, Enzo took me in, gave me jobs to provide for myself and my sister, allowed me to move up the ranks from low-level criminal to enforcer to what I am today.

When his grandfather died unexpectedly, followed by his father, Enzo was thrust into becoming don. On his first day, he came to me and asked me to help steer the ship and remove externalthreats preventing the family from growing. I delivered and became the most feared hitman around.

Of course, I don't think of that too much. I think of the progress. My rise from the ashes. I remember when 18-year-old me had five dollars to his name, but now my elbows rest on a custom $150,000 handmade desk imported from Florence. Money, cars, houses—the life every starving man dreams of.

Enzo gave me this life. The Bonventi family secured it. Anything he needs, I'm there, whether he shows love to me or not.

"I owe you everything, Enzo. You know?—"

"Now don't go all sentimental on me," Enzo says as he interrupts me with a slight laugh. "I'd feel better if you drove me. Be here at 9:30, and we'll go to the meeting together."

"Sounds good. See you at 9:30."

Enzo ends the call and I lean back in my chair.

Too wound up to sleep.

I get up and sit in the chair next to my fireplace. With a button press, the fire erupts, and I instantly feel its heat.