Page 21 of Enforcer's Obsession

I wondered if everyone else had figured out it was a facade.

I’d learned that lesson decades ago, and had been waiting for everyone to catch up.

Waiting for the boss to catch up too.

It hadn’t happened yet, but what could I say? I was an optimistic guy.

“You’ve come with good news, Nico?” the boss said. He had a comically large cigar in his hands and hadn’t looked up at me yet.

I didn’t take it personally. “Good news doesn’t come this time of night, Don Carlo,” I said.

He laughed, the sound almost bitter. “Don’t I know it.”

To look at him, you’d would think he was every bit the formidable boss that his reputation portrayed.

There were a few flecks of gray in his dark hair and his jaw had a touch of softness, but otherwise, he was hale and hearty, and there was nothing in his appearance that would give away his seven decades.

Except for his eyes, for anyone smart enough to look.

His eyes gave away the whole story.

I’d first glimpsed it when I was little more than a kid, one who the boss had personally taken under his wing.

His way of paying me back for my loss.

He hadn’t said that, of course. Instead, he’d tried to fool me with bluster, fill me up with lies about the potential he saw in me.

But I’d seen through all that. Had seen his weakness, his uncertainty.

His fear.

It should have made me hate him, and one some level, maybe it had.

But even more, seeing the truth of my boss had made me determined to protect the people that he couldn’t.

It had become my job to save people the pain that I had experienced because of his weakness.

For years, my life had been dedicated entirely to that, despite the boss’s efforts to stop me.

“Did I interrupt your time with your lady friend, boss?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he cocked his head toward the door, “all three of them are counting the seconds until I get back,” he said. Then he let out a big belly laugh, as did I and Enzo.

It was one of the boss’s favorite jokes, and complete and total bullshit, and we all knew it.

But we performed as expected, like good little soldiers, all for the boss’s benefit.

His wife and son had died in a car accident thirteen years ago.

He’d never recovered.

Sure, he kept up appearances, went to the clubs, kept a stream of beautiful women on his arm. Performed all the trappings required by the role of “boss.”

But I knew the truth.

He’d always been a weak man, more suited to the life of the quiet businessman that his office portrayed instead of the dark and violent life of a mafioso. But after his wife and son died, a weak man had become a broken one.

And it had become my job to make sure no one else saw it.

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