Page 34 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

I know something’s wrong the minute I step into my father’s office downtown.

When I usually drop by at the end of the day, it’s just Vincent there waiting for me.

The daily meeting is supposed to be your run-of-the-mill check-in, but in reality, it’s my father’s way of gauging where my head’s at.

His way of making sure if it were me all day dealing with business, or if I’d let it take control.

No matter what he’s let others believe in the Outfit, my father isn’t about to hand me the keys to the kingdom unless he’s a hundred percent sure I can handle it. And when I say it, I mean the voice in my head.

He might be fine with me letting the monster out of its cage when I’m dealing with other monsters, but when it comes to the crème de la crème of Chicago’s most influential people—the same people who ensure Outfit business runs right under the authorities’ noses—he wants to be certain I’ve got the finesse and cool-under-pressure smarts to handle that side of the business.

Movies and TV shows portray us mafioso s like we just shoot at each other all day, but they’d be surprised by the amount of bureaucracy we have to wade through just to make sure every hard-earned dollar is squeaky clean.

But alas, today my mental well-being seems to have taken a back seat to more pressing matters. That’s the only thing I can justify for walking into my father’s office and seeing Giovanni and Dominic also there.

“Take a seat, Marcello,” my father says from behind his desk.

Gio leans against its corner in front of me, arms crossed, taking in every inch of me as if trying to read something written on my skin. Dom stands behind my father, ever the loyal soldier and enforcer. I don’t bother asking what’s wrong. They will tell me soon enough.

“I have some unpleasant news,” my father begins, calm and cool as ever. “It’s come to my attention that the FBI is currently building a case against us.”

“Tell him the truth, Vince,” Gio cuts in, his gaze still fixed on me. “It’s not us they’re building a case against. They’ve got nothing on the syndicate and they never will. I make damn sure of that. No. They’re building a case against you, Marcello. Just you, son.”

When I don’t so much as flinch, Vincent leans forward, eyes locked with mine. “But this isn’t news to you, is it?”

When I say nothing to the contrary, Gio fucking loses it.

“Well, fuck, Marcello! How about a little heads-up, huh?” he groans, dragging his fingers through his brown hair in frustration.

“How long?” Dom asks, stepping forward.

“A month,” I reply casually.

“A month?! Jesus fuck! Again, information we should’ve been privy to,” Gio snaps. He starts pacing my father’s office, one hand on his hip, the other pressed to his forehead. “A month is a hell of a long time. Who knows what the Feds have by now?”

“I know what they have. Absolutely nothing.”

“Sorry, kid, if I’m not as zen as you are about having the Feds on your ass,” Gio grumbles. “Fuck. How did you find out about this before us anyway?”

“An undercover agent started sniffing around,” I explain, purposely giving a vague explanation.

“What do they want to pin on you?” Dom interjects, going to the crux of the matter.

“Father McDonagh’s sudden disappearance,” I reply emotionless. “More importantly, his murder.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! They want to pin that asshole’s death on you?! You’ll never see the light of day if they catch you.”

Gio continues to spiral, wearing down the soles of his Italian loafers, while Vincent doesn’t look the least bit rattled. Instead, he leans back in his seat, eyes never leaving mine.

“Easy, Gio. Marcello doesn’t look worried,” he says at last. “So neither should we.” The pride in his voice grips something deep in my chest.

Dom’s shoulders ease at my father’s words, but Gio just stares at him as if he’d gone insane. His eyes bounce between me and my father before he finally throws his hands up in disbelief.

“Well, I’m worried!” he exclaims. “I’m fucking worried. This isn’t a joke, Vince. This is our son’s future we’re talking about. His whole life! And I, for one, am not looking forward to seeing him waste it behind iron bars.”

“That won’t happen,” my father says flatly. “Will it, Marcello?”

“No, sir.”

“Because you’ve got this handled.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And whoever this agent is,” he continues, “you’ll handle him. Permanently. Quietly.”

My spine goes rigid. He doesn’t have to give me any more specifics for me to know what he means by that. He wants me to kill Izzie. Make the problem disappear. Make it look like an unfortunate accident. However, I can’t do that. Not yet, anyway.

Thankfully, Vincent takes my silence for obedience, making Gio the only one unhappy with this exchange.

“Hubris will be the death of you two. I swear to fucking God,” Gio mutters, shaking his head.

My father doesn’t respond, making Gio’s curse roll right off his shoulders.

I, on the other hand, take his warning to heart.

Maybe Gio’s right. Maybe our arrogance will be our undoing.

Will be my undoing.

But not today.

As I arrive at my grandfather’s gym later that night, the heat of her stare finds me instantly.

Her gaze is always on me. That molten gold gaze that has tormented me since the first time I ever set eyes on it.

No matter how hard I try to ignore it, the burn of her stare crawls up my spine until I’m cracking my neck from side to side.

She’s getting bolder. Too bold, maybe. I wonder just how far she’s willing to go to slap those cuffs on me. How deep down the rabbit hole she’ll crawl just to drag me into the light.

‘We should kill her and be done with it.’ Of course, the voice would echo my father’s order from this afternoon. The demon in me wants it too much. Wants to bathe in the heat of her blood as it runs between my fingers like liquid fire.

Still, I don’t want to kill her. Not yet. Not until I know exactly how much she knows. I’ve memorized her board well enough to know there is very little on it to tie me to the priest, but that doesn’t mean that’s all she has.

If I deal with her the way my father wants, what’s to stop the FBI from sending someone else? Someone worse. No. I’ll handle Izzie my own way.

‘Don’t be stupid. She’s dangerous to us. She’s dangerous to all of us.’

I bite the inside of my cheek, ignoring the voice, and head to the locker room. A few rounds in the ring should silence him for the night. I need to think. And with the beast inside me always screaming orders, I won’t be able to unless I drown it in sweat and blood.

Without a minute to spare, I get changed and head straight to the ring. No warm-up. No stretches. My limbs have been aching for a fight all day.

The only place I can unleash the monster without setting the whole world on fire is inside that ring.

If I leave him unchecked for too long, the evil that’s corrupted my soul might decide to take matters into its own hands.

And right now, what he wants is Izzie’s last breath.

I can’t let that happen. If the beast wants blood, then blood it will have.

But from men who can take it. From men who deserve it.

Not Izzie. Never Izzie.

The minute I step into the ring, I don’t have to say a word.

Made men and soldiers alike pause their training, their eyes flicking to each other, waiting to see who’ll step up.

Who’ll be the first to try and take down the heir to the Outfit.

Some of the men here just want to take me down for bragging rights, while others foam at the mouth for the chance to prove I’m not worthy of the crown.

I know what they say behind my back. That I’m too fucked in the head to lead. That my father made the wrong choice when he claimed me as his successor. That the throne should have always gone to Jude, the worthier brother.

And perhaps they’re right. Maybe my father made the wrong choice. Jude would’ve made a better Capo dei Capi than me. Of that, I have no doubt.

‘It’s because you don’t want the crown that you’ll make a better king, ‘ my father once said, when he decided to take Jude’s birthright away from him to hand over to me.

At first, my response was like everyone else’s. I thought he made a mistake. But then I saw the life Jude built for himself in London. I saw how happy he was, how light he walked without the Outfit’s legacy chained to his ankles.

My father didn’t steal anything from my brother. He gave Jude his freedom with one hand while using his other to curse me. He cursed me with the offer of the crown, knowing full well that the crown in question had long been shattered into a thousand splinters, sharp enough to bleed me dry.

But then again, my father has worn it for over thirty years. He knows exactly what it costs. The price of being king.

Perhaps I should feel flattered that my father thinks I can rise to the challenge.

But nothing Vincent Romano does comes from flattery—only meticulous planning.

He’s shrewd like that. Calculated. And I should learn to be the same if I’m ever going to be a boss that his capos can actually look up to one day.

Because where my father is respected and loved by all, I’m still the one they fear.

I see it in their eyes when they look at me.

Fear. Mixed with envy. It’s that fear that drives them to try and prove to my father—while they still can—that I’m unworthy of the title.

Unworthy of the crown. Of becoming Capo dei Capi.

Which only means the vultures are always coming for me, in every way they can.

Vultures who have sworn loyalty to my father.

Vultures with badges, cuffs, and iron bars.