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B enito

If my eyes were bullets, the back of Savero’s head would be leaking blood like a fucking sieve.

Each step I take along the church aisle chimes with the sound of my teeth gnashing together.

I shouldn’t be here. None of us should be here. This funeral was never meant to happen. Not yet. Not so damn fucking soon.

Gianni DiSanto was young for a don. Exceptionally young for a don who had the whole of New York at his feet. The man wasn’t even sixty. And he was the fittest fifty-something fucker I know. I’m half his age and he could run rings around me, literally. He ran ten miles every morning and lifted weights every day. Had to, he said. Not every war could be won with a gun, he said. Sometimes, good old-fashioned fist fights were not only called for, but good for the soul , he said.

The steel in my waistband presses firmly against my back, reminding me of threats that are never far away in this world. I wonder if I’d feel any better had it been a gun that took Gianni’s life in the end, and not the heart attack that none of us were prepared for.

My heart cracks a little wider the closer my footsteps take me to the final goodbye. Gianni treated me like a son. Way more than my own father did. Not that my own father deserved the title. Gianni recognised something in me when I was in my late teens. Potential, perhaps. Or maybe it was the insatiable hunger I felt to destroy anything that crossed my path with little to no empathy. I guess it was better to have someone like that on side as opposed to against.

My eyes bore into Savero like it’s his fault his father died. I know this is how grief works – I’ve watched enough men die in my line of work. Hell, most of them died at my own hands. Very few I actually cared about, but those I did, the process was the same: get angry, kick a few things, blame the person closest. When I learned of Gianni’s passing, I screamed at the sky. I punched a few walls. And now I’m blaming Savero.

One minute Gianni is here, commanding his capos from the quiet of his office, moving money and assets around the city like pawns on a chess board. The next, he’s gone.

One minute Savero’s a nobody – a capo by name, an incendiary fucker by nature – the next he’s the king of New York. Sure, he was Gianni’s first born, but we all know he isn’t don material. He’s too unpredictable and unhinged to be a mafia kingpin. Locked and loaded soldier, maybe. Don of the biggest crime family this side of Chicago? Fuck no.

Yet, here we are, following the loosest of cannons into a church where we’re to bury the greatest Italian leader that ever lived. Coincidence? I’m not convinced.

The anger tastes bitter as I swallow it, then my eyes catch on something to my left. My chest hardens in recognition. Only capos and their families were given access to the church service – not associates, nor even soldiers, were granted that privilege. So why the hell is Tony Castellano – a mere associate – and his entire fucking family taking up a whole pew?

I watch for any change in Savero’s manner that might suggest a huge mistake has been made. Maybe I can prevent someone from getting their neck snapped in two for this oversight. I breathe a sigh of relief when he walks past Castellano, his sister and four daughters without so much as a pause.

Beppe lowers his voice when I arrive at the capo’s side. “What are they doing here?”

I stroke a hand down the tie I reserve for funerals and only the most fruitful of legal negotiations. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

I glance to my right and my annoyance lifts at the sight of Cristiano, Gianni’s second – and substantially more pleasant – son. He has his head bent, scrolling through his phone while ignoring the mafia charade unfolding around him.

“Must be something to do with the port,” Beppe mutters under his breath.

My eyes narrow. Gianni and Tony Castellano had a good arrangement. Tony let Gianni ship a few illegal consignments through his port and Gianni paid him handsomely for it. Savero had always been vocal about wanting more – a majority share in fact – though none of us really know why. This must be why Castellano is here; it’s the only explanation. And since Savero’s inherited me as his new consigliere, it pisses me off that he hasn’t kept me in the fucking loop.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I concede. Though it doesn’t explain why the entire family is here.

The church begins to quieten and I turn to see the priest walking our way, his head bowed. I’m about to do the same when I feel a hostile pair of eyes burning into the side of my face. It’s not an unusual sensation; most people despise me. But it is one I wasn’t expecting at Gianni’s funeral of all places.

I search for the culprit and have to do a double take. That is not what I was expecting. Not what I was expecting at all .

One of the younger Castellano girls is glaring at me as though she wants to rip me apart with a blunt blade. I indulge the urge to stare back, which seems to incense her even more. Her lips are full but pursed and her arms are folded firmly across her chest, long black-nailed fingers drumming against smooth alabaster skin. I slowly stroke my gaze over her, enjoying her obvious fury. She has one leg crossed over the other and is wearing a floor length black satin dress that falls open midway up her thigh.

My gaze crawls back up her body to her eyes. I can’t confirm the color because they’re narrowed to slits, but I catch a flash of green when she blinks. Her hair is jet black, long, and pinned to one side. It’s the sort of hair I would normally wrap around my fist.

She’s catastrophically beautiful, which is irritating, because the least I can do today is give my full focus to remembering Gianni, a man who practically raised me as his own. Not to a seething beauty who’s sticking metaphorical pins into me for some unknown reason.

I feel a sharp elbow in my ribs signaling the service is about to start. A corner of my mouth ticks up, narrowing the girl’s eyes even further. Then, with an inhuman amount of willpower, I turn back to the priest.

My attention is feigned though. I can’t shake the image of those cat-like eyes burning shards into my skin, making even my tailored suit feel scratchy and uncomfortable. What was her problem?

I piss off a lot of people in my line of work. Very few of them have the guts to show it. But I have a feeling this one might just give me a run for my money…