Page 4 of City of Wind and Lies

"She said to leave her alone."

2

"It's settled then, the wedding will take place a week from Saturday. Tomorrow, we’ll announce it to the families and celebrate,” my father says, shaking the hand of Aldo Ricci.

My cousin Rocco motions for Aldo and his men to follow him out the door of my office, nestled in the backroom of our family’s club in Cicero. This place was practically a Chicago landmark in its heyday, but it has been shuttered for two decades now. We never formally re-opened the 708 Club after the FBI raids tore through the city and the remaining mafia families went dark. Now, it serves as my command post for the outfit and the main site of our exclusive poker nights.

The moment the door clicks shut, I lean back against the leather of my chair with a sigh, popping open the button of my suit jacket before shifting forward to grab my lowball glass off the table. The whiskey has barely touched my tongue when my father dredges up the same discussion we've been having for five years now.

"Your number has long been called, Bowie,” he murmurs, giving me a pointed look. “You need to take a wife, have a son- leave a legacy. Rocco made a deal with the Ricci’s, it shows initiative."

I swallow the two fingers of top-shelf whiskey, relishing in the burn as I slam the glass down against the mahogany-lacquered tabletop. "Have I not proven my worth to you with the handling of business for the last ten years?"

My father kicks his foot up, his ankle resting on the opposite knee as he takes another drag from his cigar. "You've done right by the outfit so far. But there is chatter amongst the smaller families..."

I raise an eyebrow as I steeple my fingers and parrot him, "Chatter?"

He sets his cigar in the crystal ashtray beside him before slinging his arm to rest on the back of the leather-tufted sofa. "They question your… ability to have children,” he says with a wince. “You've been with plenty of women, no? If you refuse to settle down or produce an heir, why should they put their faith in you? Why should they hedge their loyalties with the Sorrentinos over the Bellucis?"

I grit my teeth, wanting to avoid the subject of my sex life with my father altogether. "Gabriel doesn't have children or a wife," I mutter.

"Gabriel Belluci isn't thirty-seven," My father admonishes. "Fraccasi was thirty-five with no children and a wife he never let leave the compound. You see where that left his name- morto."

Pushing back from the table, I stride across the dark wood floors to the corner bar, grabbing the bottle of whiskey by the neck and re-filling my glass. "Cut the shit," I say, swirling the amber liquid around the glass before taking a drink. "You've never minced words before, say what you’re thinking."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. His platinum rings match the silver that has overtaken his dark hair. "Bowie, you've got until the New Year or you'll pass your title to Rocco."

Heat pricks at the back of my neck, my fingers constricting around the glass as I meet his gaze. His expression is relaxed, like he hasn't just threatened to take away everything I’ve worked for, everything I was born for. I swallow down the rest of the whiskey in my glass, the door swinging open before I can respond.

"We've got a problem," Rocco states, sliding his phone into his pants pocket as he hovers in the doorway. "Another shipment's come up short at the hangar."

Three weeks ago, someone broke in and stole two crates of cocaine from a warehouse out at our private airstrip. They'd managed to cut the power on the security feed, knocking out one of the guards before slipping in and out undetected. Since then, I've taken all the power there off-grid, using generators and cloud-based servers to help mitigate the chances of something like that reoccurring. The fact that it's just happened again doesn't sit right with me.

My father clears his throat as he stands. "I’ll leave you boys to handle business," he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, then turning to shake Rocco's hand. "I'm taking Corinne to the cabin tonight, call if you need me. If not, I'll see you at the engagement party tomorrow."

Even though he's long passed the title of Don on to me and I loathe his comments regarding my relationship status, having Salvatore Sorrentino stick around as our consigliere gives us a generation of knowledge that the Belluci's no longer have. I give him a respectful nod, Rocco doing the same as he holds open the office door for my old man to exit.

"Did Dallas check the manifest when he unloaded?" I ask tersely as soon as my father leaves the room.

"Yes. He and Rhodes are reviewing the security footage now." Rocco fishes his gold Cuban chain from below his collar, fingers running deftly up and down the links; a tell he's had since he was a teenager. He's hiding something. Well, maybe not hiding, but there's something more that he doesn't want to tell me. It's unusual behavior for my second in command- a position he's held since his father passed almost a decade ago.

"But?" I question, folding my arms across my chest.

"Someone’s pushing stepped-on product. Fentanyl OD's are up in the city. Police are getting involved," Rocco says, reaching for the whiskey and pouring himself a glass.

I pull my cell phone from my jacket pocket, open up the messaging app, and fire off a text to the sergeant on our payroll. "I'll meet with O'Ryan, and see what the police have so far,” I mumble.

Rocco nods, and we slip into a conversation about his newly-brokered arrangement with Isabella Ricci. My father was right; it's a good move for la famiglia. The Riccis run a commercial laundry and cleaning service with contracts all across the city- fleets of vans moving freely through the streets that no one would bat an eye at. Uniting with them will give us access to those vans, experienced cleaners for messier jobs… hell, even the access to their warehouses and offices open up new potential locations for our exclusive poker nights.

It seems my baby cousin is coming into his role well. So well that my own father would give him my title. It isn't that I'm against the whole idea of settling down and starting a family, per se, it's more so that I can’t imagine doing so with any woman I currently know.

The principessas are just so fucking docile. Don’t get me wrong, I like a woman’s will to bend for me in the bedroom, but outside of that, when they just sit idly by waiting for instructions… that kind of passive bullshit just makes my dick soft. I've dated outside of the families connected to the outfit from time to time, but when things get more serious and I have to explain the nature of my business dealings outside of my investment firm, that’s when I usually cut and run. It just seems far too messy to bring an outsider into this lifestyle.

My phone vibrates against the lacquered top, and I tilt the screen to read the message of confirmation from Doyle O’Ryan. Looks like I’m about to get some answers about what’s going on at our warehouse.

The night air is void of any sounds but the gravel crunching underfoot. I peel open the door of my Cadillac Escalade, climb in, and sit back to wait for Sergeant O'Ryan to pull away from the silos first. In the meantime, I retrieve my phone from the center console and switch it back on- the courtesy of no phones we extend to each other during our meetings- and wait for it to power up.

O'Ryan is around my age, and while we walk two different paths, there are a few parallels that we share common ground on: trust, control, and family. As the taillights of his silver sedan disappear onto West 29th, I switch on my headlights and slowly navigate through the dilapidated buildings. My fingers tighten and flex around the leather of the steering wheel as I digest the new information he provided on my way home.

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