Page 19 of Dance of Ruin

The Barone house—if we’re calling twenty-thousand-square-foot gothic French Renaissance mansions on 5thAvenue across the street from Central Parkhousesthese days—looms above us like a villain's lair from a Disney fairytale.

I fuckinglovethis place.

I pull off the helmet and lock it in the back saddle before I turn to look at my brother, then up at the house he now lives in with Lyra.

“I mean, I’m glad you’re Don and everything now—never wanted it anyway, so?—”

“You were never going toget it,” he says dryly. “So don’t play psychology games with me. I know them all. Besides, I think we’re all painfully aware just how far you bent over backward to make damn sure you’d never have to take Pop's throne.”

Guilty, your honor, on all charges.

Honestly, I havewaytoo much fun fucking with Carmine. Mostly because I know pretty much nobody but Lyra and I—okay, Dante and Bianca too—canwithout worrying we'll never wake up again.

I mime mock scandal as I drop my jaw and press a hand to my chest. “Carmy, are you suggesting that I deliberately went out of my way to avoid taking on a job that comes with huge amounts of responsibility, stress, and danger, with pretty much zero perks? I amshocked, dear brother. Shocked and, honestly, a little appalled. Very appalled, actual?—”

“Yeah, because neck tattoos, avibrantdating life, racing motorcycles like you want to die, and getting your dick pierced are all usually hallmarks of the staid, strong and resolute types that sit on the throne of multi-generation mafia families,” Carmine adds dryly.

“Well, since you’ve got this all figured out so well, I think you should go ahead and keep the job.”

Carmine grins. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too. How’s the house that you unceremoniously kicked me out of?”

My brother sighs, rolling his eyes as he shoves his fingers through his hair. “Much quieter now, thanks.”

I grin. None of that is true. Well, the part about the ink, bikes, girls, and dick piercing is.

What? I’m the second-born son of a mafia don. Carmine wasalwaysgoing to be king. And that means I get to ride shotgun and enjoy the trip.

It’s the part after that which is bullshit, though. No one "kicked me out" of the house. Dad moved out to Long Island a couple of months ago, after his heart scare, when he officially retired and Carmine became the new don. Which, yes, meant Carmy moved into this massive seat-of-power joint with Lyra.

But I'd moved out of this place and into my loft in SoHo years ago. I swing by now and again for meetings, or for Sunday family dinners—which, sadly, occur somewhat less frequently with Dad out on Long Island. But business-wise, I do most of mine out of Dad’s old office uptown.

“You coming in, or what?” Carmine grunts.

“Yeah, gimme a sec.”

I start to stick a cigarette between my lips.

“Nico…”

I glance up to see Carmine scowling and shaking his head. “Ditch the smoke, man. You know Pop hates it.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, the generation that smoked onairplanesand during fucking doctor’s visits and ate dinner off lead plates has an issue with this?”

Carmine rolls his eyes yet again.

“You know, I can move back inany time,” I grin at him.

“Cool, yeah, that’s not happening.”

I chuckle, tucking the cigarette back in the pack and bounding up the stairs to hug my brother. He claps me on the back before we turn and head inside, nodding briefly to Vic and Rocco, the two mountainous motherfuckers standing guard today.

“Oh, hey.” I stop Carmine with a hand on his chest before we step around the corner into the living room where I can hear the laughing voices of my family. “When’s the surprise coming?”

Carmine grins.

Today’s visit has nothing to do with the family business. Our dad, Vito, is turning sixty-three. And the “surprise” is a 450 horsepower cherry red 1969 Chevelle that Carmine and I had fully restored for him.

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