Page 18 of Remy

It’s closing in on a year since we moved from Denver to become part of our uncle’s family business on the East Coast. The biggest and most loyal family business of all—the Italian fucking mafia.

At the time, we’d had little choice. We didn’t have a penny to our names much less any prospects for the future after our parents royally screwed us. And in hindsight, it may have been better to become destitute. But the authority and god-like complex that comes with the threatening role is addictive.

At lease Salvatore seems to think so.

“Grow a set,” my brother mutters. “We need to move fast on this.”

I stare at him with tired disinterest, not giving him the enthusiasm he craves.

Was I not the one who pulled the trigger on the son last night? The one who watched Miguel Rodriguez’s brains explode over the dark alley wall? The very same extremely talented motherfucker who got the job done without witnesses or bullets flying in my direction?

Yes, yes I was.

Fucker.

“You should feel flattered.” Lorenzo’s Italian accent is thick as he rests back in his chair, relaxed and distinguished as always. “The cartel wouldn’t have attempted to make a move on our territory unless they felt threatened. Obviously, they heard about your upcoming promotion into my role and wanted to get on the front foot.”

My brother’s promotion is definitely an issue.

And not just for the cartel.

The world is on notice now that Salvo has had a sniff of power. The guy has turned into a fucking junkie, wanting to do lines with that shit.

“I don’t feel flattered in the least.” Salvatore’s tone borders on a snarl. “And I disagree with your assessment. These cartel pricks don’t feel threatened and you know it. Instead, they assumed your retirement means the organization has been weakened enough that they can diversify into our line of work. They don’t see me as a threat and I need them to realize their mistake.”

“Well, you proved your point by ordering the hit on their boss’s son.” I reclaim my cutlery and continue sawing into my steak. “Taking the head of the snake is overkill.”

“I agree.” Lorenzo reaches for his tumbler and takes a sip. “They’ve been punished for their recklessness. Now we let them scurry away to lick their wounds.”

For months we’ve worked like this, with Salvatore acting as our tyrannical leader behind the scenes while our uncle steps down into more of a consigliere—advisor—role.

It’s like an apprenticeship of sorts.

The thing is, Salvo never appreciated training wheels.

The egotistical bastard has rarely walked into a situation where he didn’t think he knew best, and that whole god-like confidence boost he’s gained by being part of one of the most notorious fractions of the underworld has only heightened that delightfully psychotic attribute.

“Trust that your men on the streets will handle any retaliation,” I add. “That’s their job.”

“I don’t give a shit about trust.” Salvo snatches his cloth napkin from our uncle’s ostentatious dining table and dabs his mouth. “This is about me showing everyone I’m not to be fucked with.” He slaps the material back down to the polished wood. “I want to send a message. To let every single piece of shit on the East Coast know I’m more than just some pencil-pusher from a fashion label.”

“This is about ego,” Lorenzo corrects.

Exactly. One hundred percent. Give the man a prize.

“No.” Salvo screws up his face. “It’s about strength. About safety for the organization. Word on the street is that you’re handing over the reins to your ‘nephew in fashion.’” He uses a derisive tone while making air quotes. “They think I’m weak, defenseless, and fucking gay.”

“Well,” I drawl, “it’s been a minute since you had a woman in your?—”

“Shut the fuck up, Remy.” His glare skewers me before he returns his attention to our uncle. “What do you think will happen to everything you’ve built if I take over while our enemies think I’m a joke?”

I roll my eyes.

Lorenzo seems to ponder the question, regal authority ebbing off him. “I understand, and I can agree to a point. But this move is substantially larger than those you’ve previously made. There will be ramifications. Instability. Unrest.”

“I can handle it,” Salvo vows.

“We will lose men.”

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