Page 7 of His Dark Vendetta

Gio Agosti emerged from the passenger seat, short, stout, and dressed like it was 1965. His driver leaned against the hood, lit a cigarette, and pulled out his phone.

“Ciao, Luca,” Gio said and held out a hand. “Come va?”

“Ciao, Gio. Bene, bene.” I grabbed his hand, and he slapped my shoulder and kissed my cheeks.

The Valenzano family consigliere was old school like Marco and Vinnie and had been around for almost as long. Big Frankie brought him over from Italy after Marco split ways with the Valenzanos and took Vito with him. If Gio had his way, I didn’t think he’d ever speak English.

“You settling in over at The Dollhouse?” He started for the entrance, and I followed. “Tieni gli occhi aperti,” he tossed over his shoulder. His driver nodded and went back to scrolling his phone.

“So far so good.”

Vinnie’d put me in charge of The Dollhouse—his largest strip club and a front for his Source racket—as soon as I was well enough to work. The Dollhouse and its seedy older sister The Playground were Vinnie’s big money makers. Profits were down across the board, and I had experience running two multi-million-dollar properties for Marco. Vinnie was too shrewd a businessman to pass up an opportunity to turn things around.

“Bene. You spent too much time holed up in Italy doing hotel management,” he said derisively. “Time for you to start earning.”

Didn’t I know it. I’d been ready to start earning since I was eighteen. Now that I was out from under Marco’s thumb, I finally had a chance. And what better way than the Source racket.

Richie Amato was the capo in charge of Vinnie’s blood demon outfit. He’d done an okay job, but the Source racket had grown too big for one person, especially when that person had the financial acumen of a toothpick. Vinnie split the work between us, a good thing considering he wanted to expand. I managed the fronts—the books, the day-to-day operations at the clubs—and Richie managed the Sources themselves—recruiting, oversight, and payments.

“You’re a Moretti,” Gio continued and leveled me with a weighted look. “It’s in your blood.”

I chuffed out a snort and pulled open the door.

The hotel lobby reeked of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener. The generic dust-covered prints on the walls and the worn stain-marked carpet were as unappealing as the smell. I understood the need for a neutral location; a sit-down of this magnitude couldn’t take place on anyone’s territory. I also understood the need for obscurity and a low-key front, but this was ridiculous.

Vinnie waited for us on a stiff pleather couch. Richie and Johnny “Lam” Lamendola—the other two Valenzano captains joining the sit-down—hovered over the complimentary coffee.

There were rules for sit-downs, especially ones this big. Each family was allowed the same number and rank—the dons of course, their consiglieri, and three capi. Five crew members. Had to keep up the appearance of equality.

“Luca. Gio.” Vinnie pushed his ample frame off the plastic couch, and it creaked.

Gio joined Richie and Johnny at the coffee. He poured a cup for himself, then ushered the two men down the hall to a set of double doors.

“You ready?” Vinnie asked.

“Yeah.” I passed a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

He patted my cheek and raised an eyebrow. “Now you’ll see what happens when you play by the rules.”

Like I needed the reminder. I gave him a tight nod.

If you asked any of the dons, there wasn’t a power imbalance among the New England families. But anyone walking into the shoddy conference room at the Sleep and Stay Foxborough would have been hard-pressed to believe that bullshit.

Roman Patrizi sat at the head of three tables organized in aUacross from the entrance like a king waiting for his audience. The Don of Providence’s silver-streaked hair was slicked back like a crown, and the three-piece suit told everyone he meant business.

The men seated on either side of him eyed us as we filed into the room. Vinnie took the center seat on the right side of theU. I sat next to Gio closest to the door.

The families who ran the Boston territories had always taken a backseat to Providence. The rivalry between the Italians and Irish dated back earlier than even Big Frankie Valenzano’s arrival in the States, and the constant struggle for territory in a city a tenth the size of NYC had forced a handful of the big players south. To make matters worse, the FBI’s crackdown on Italian organized crime in the ’80s had done more damage in Boston than any other major city. They’d attacked the Valenzanos from both ends by using Irish mob—Pádraig Shaughnessy in particular—to weaken Italian control.

The Patrizis, on the other hand, had grown in strength and influence over the decades. Uncontested in their control of Providence, their reach extended south into Connecticut and bordered the Five Families of New York. Providence had a lot of clout, and Roman Patrizi knew it. But Vinnie was no slouch, and over the past twenty-five years he’d rebuilt the Italian power base in Boston, creating a crew that rivaled even Don Patrizi’s.

There was a long pause after everyone sat, long enough to let the Patrizi and Valenzano crews know they were waiting.

The double doors swung open, and the DeVitas filed in, a not-so-subtle reminder that there had always been a silent third party, a dethroned king who’d returned to take his rightful place. Never outdone, least of all by Vinnie, my foster father strode into the conference room wearing importance and indifference like a suit of armor. As if we should have expected to wait for him. As if nothing could commence without his presence. As if the DeVitas were the family in charge.

Carmine and Angelo led the way with Vito and Matteo bringing up the rear. They stood behind their chairs until Marco removed his hat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and took his seat opposite Vinnie. Only then did the rest of the crew sit.

I masked a snort with a cough and looked down so no one would see my smirk. Marco knew what he was doing. So did Vinnie and Roman Patrizi.

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