Page 9 of Desperate Desires

But there were worse ways to go, I mused as the blackness took me.

Chapter 3-Ono

Earlier that night.

Tony’s Social Club was an old timer’s place.

They served booze and coffee, and old men, some of them retired wise guys, hung out, talked shit, smoked cigars, and played poker.

It was a place my father used to frequent back when he was a boss. Years ago when the Bottarelli family had a little bit of power and ran the kind of schemes and games old crime movies were based on.

Old man Tony was still manning the bar, and I’d come bearing gifts like I always did during the holidays.

He’d been kind to me when I was a kid, and I never forgot where I came from.

A few of the regulars were inside, sitting together and bullshitting about the holidays and the feasts their wives made. A couple of low-level bookies and some connected soldiers were in the corner, making bets and scamming like they always did.

“Ono! Buon Anno! So nice to see you,” Tony said, his Italian wishes for a happy new year were welcome to my ears.

I took his offered handshake, like old guys usually did with both hands, and we exchanged season’s greetings.

“Tony, how’s the family?”

“Good, thank you.”

“Here, this is for you,” I said, handing him a gift basket with some good liquor and imported goods, the kind my company specialized in.

That was my thing now.

The days of old mobsters were done, and I’d turned the family business to imports and exports.

Sure, not all of it was legit. There were still things that had to be done beyond the scope of what was legal. Palms to be greased. Certain laws and taxes to be avoided.

Still, I was a damn sight better than most. I dealt with goods, not arms and not human fucking trafficking.

See, greed was something you could always count on to make money. And the people in my world were fucking greedy.

So, yeah, when I took over what was left of my father’s family as boss, I pivoted.

Bottarelli World Imports was a fucking gold mine.

I’d managed to recoup the money my father had lost while trying to hold on to the gambling racket in just a couple of years.

Gambling was a tricky fucking thing, especially with legal gambling sites and sports betting nowadays.

Of course, there were some old family members, or friends of ours, who didn’t like what I was doing. And some not so old wannabes who were too caught up in playing gangster to embrace the new reality.

Young or old, they were too fucking nearsighted to see the future.

Unfortunately, I’d lost track of them. In my rush to see the Bottarelli name go down as one of the biggest importers of European food products on the east coast, I’d forgotten about the dangers associated with my family name.

I was careless. Shooting the breeze with old Tony and laughing without care as I sipped the Sambuca laced espresso he set before me.

Maybe it was because of the holidays.

Or maybe I’d just let my guard drop for a moment.

Either way, it cost me.

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