Page 10 of King of Omen
‘Hey, he only wanted to pay his respects,’ Vitto growled at my six.
I flicked my eyes over him. ‘Brother, they’re feeling their way around us. The sharks are circling now that Bianca is gone.’
Unknown to most of the outside world, our diminutive aunt, who’d once worked as a nurse practitioner at her clinic, had been, in fact, the Queen of our family.
The unwanted crown had been bestowed after my father, Stephano, my mother, Selina and Bianca’s husband, Costa, had been killed in one fell swoop.
My brothers and I were in our late teens when she’d flown from Sydney to Italy to take over the funeral arrangements. With no one else suitable, she became the boss of our clan, taking over as head of the Omertà Alliance.
Back then, the death of the Calibrese brethren had caused some disruption in the local underworld.
We’d weathered several bloody attempts to seize control, and with sheer grit, Bianca had kept the lineage and legacy stable.
She’d brought together a fragile informal coalition of twenty families to expand dominance of the city’s most lucrative rackets, from drugs and cigarette smuggling to protection.
Keeping to my father’s wishes, she’d nurtured the family away from organised crime. Her efforts to reduce the family’s footprint in the drug trade had meant entering into the more profitable commerce of hiding assets. We moved money and guarded the valuables and secrets of our fellow clans and kindred members.
Under her leadership, The Omertà Alliance became more structured, strategic, secretive, sophisticated and influential.
My brothers and I assumed the role of its enforcers, keepers, and holders of the confidence of many, with the will and capabilities to protect them with ruthless efficiency.
All because Bianca had kept our family shit together.
As I matured, she and I strategised and guided our ship to safe shores while my siblings executed and enforced it. It’d been a partnership made in heaven.
Until now.
We owed her everything.
I was riled by those who thought we were now poised to make a play on the illicit trades we’d long left behind.
‘We’ve not even buried Bianca, and fuckers already wanted to know about our expansion plans and business affairs. Can’t they hold off till after the wake?’
‘They’re nervous,’ Vitto murmured. ‘They want reassurance. Some have even travelled from Napoli to pay their respects and have a moment with you.’
‘They can freakin’ wait,’ I ground out. ‘I have no wish to fake it as Don Corleone and have them genuflect and kiss my hand. I’m an introvert, Vitto; I can’t do the benevolent boss charade. Tell them to return some other time, and that’s my final.’
Vitto sighed. ‘Whatever you say, brother.’
He turned to murmur to the waiting and growing line of well-wishers.
Fuck that shit.
This was not the 70s, and I was no freakin’ godfather.
Plus, I had no designs to go back into company work. I was done, and so were my brothers.
The problem was, no one else in the freakin’ world had a clue.
Some families, sensing our pullback, were gunning for us, scared witless by the power we still wielded, the knowledge we held and the secrets we kept hidden.
We’d no plans to dissuade them of their misplaced ideas about us, for we’d yet to finalise our blueprint. Until then, we still needed to exude a lethal menace, the one aspect for which we were most notorious.
‘What can I get you?’ a young pimple-faced barman asked from behind the counter.
‘A whisky sour,’ I growled, eyes swivelling, searching for some colour in the sea of mourners, some light in the freakin’ dark.
None was to be found, and I fumed, downing my drink, losing myself in its heated escape until my name was called out.
