Page 8 of His Dark Vendetta

Cocky prick.

Marco placed his palms flat on the table. “Don Patrizi. Don Valenzano.” His smooth, commanding voice dominated the room as easily as his presence. He met their eyes, securing a nod from each, then landed his penetrating gaze on me.

He raised me to play life like a game of poker, a mantra he’d drilled into me since I was a kid. So I held his eyes without moving a muscle—no tells—until he released me from his ironclad grip. I exhaled and allowed myself to blink again before examining the rest of the playing field.

Angelo and Carmine stared me down. Their expressions revealed nothing, but the intensity of their focus spoke volumes. The only people who knew that I’d skimmed the profits of DeVita Enterprises International’s European branch and orchestrated the raid on Vesuvio occupied the inner circle of the Boston dons. Marco and Vinnie, of course. Angelo, Carmine, and Vito. Gio, Vinnie’s blood-demon enforcer, and the single soldato demone del sangue who’d helped him torture me. That was it. Marco and Vinnie were determined to keep the affair under wraps. Knowing their don had been swindled would undermine the crew’s confidence just as he ascended to his throne. Even if my punishment had been more brutal than death. Better to use the expanding Source racket to cover up my fall from Marco’s grace.

Don Patrizi cleared his throat. “We’re here to discuss Don DeVita’s formal reentry into Cosa Nostra and the New England families. To acknowledge, among our ranks, a second family in control of Boston and to reestablish the division of territory in New England.” He gave Marco a knowing smirk. “Bentornato, Marco.”

Roman Patrizi was human but in the know. In his late fifties, he’d been in the game long enough to see that Marco and Vinnie hadn’t aged. But like them, he was old school. Omertà meant something. He’d never divulge our secret. He’d take knowledge of blood demons to the grave. He also made it clear he’d never get involved in our affairs; too much risk for a people that weren’t his.

Marco tipped his head. “Roman.”

“In terms of territory, not much will change,” Vinnie said. “Don DeVita has always maintained a presence in the city, however unofficial. His fronts in the North End and the Commons remain undisputed. I also have fronts in the North End, but for different businesses, and our families have shared that territory for over fifty years without dispute. I’ll maintain control of the northern suburbs starting with Revere.”

Vinnie turned to Marco; Marco nodded his agreement.

“I recently expanded my holdings to include a property in the financial district,” Marco added. “Untouched territory within the city. I’ll be running the same businesses there that I run in the North End.”

Don Patrizi cocked an eyebrow.

“A strategic move that benefits both families. The financial district is key to maintaining a power balance with the Irish. They can’t move in without creating a turf war, and they know it.”

Marco caught Vinnie’s eye, and Vinnie held up both hands. “No contest.”

Don Patrizi looked between the two men. “It’s settled—the financial district is under DeVita control. What about points west and the suburbs?”

For the next two hours, the New England dons cycled through a litany of territories, rackets, and concessions, their consiglieri furiously taking notes. If there was ever a dispute between the DeVitas and the Valenzanos, Don Patrizi would arbitrate, and no one wanted the details of this agreement left open to interpretation.

The only thing we couldn’t talk about was the Source racket. Ironic given that the growing demand for Sources and Vinnie’s plans to expand the racket had driven Marco to finally take his rightful place. But Roman was the only member of the Patrizi contingent who knew blood demons existed, and even Johnny Lam—Vinnie’s top human capo—wasn’t in the know. Given the urgency, Vinnie and Marco along with Gio and Vito worked out the details of the arrangement before Marco left for Italy.

Marco made Matteo a captain and gave him responsibility for the portion of the Source racket that ran through Terme di Boston. He’d been a trusted soldier for years and more suited to desk work than bouncing. Now he managed long-term stays for high-end Sources at Terme, appointments and payouts, and coordinating with me and Richie on availability and taxes. We’d only run a couple trial appointments, but the preliminary profits proved just how lucrative the joint venture could be. It also took pressure off containment; the more venues for booking Sources, the less likely our secret would get exposed.

“Before we break,” Vinnie announced, “we have one more matter that needs to be settled. Luca?”

I stood, buttoned my suit jacket, and scanned the room. I made eye contact with every man there, making sure they knew I meant business. Angelo and Carmine resumed their knife-edged regard, and when I reached Marco, his lips twisted as if restraining the parental urge to tell me to sit down. Fuck that.

The DeVita family made me, but the Valenzanos appointed me captain of an active crew. Under Vinnie, I had every right to make my case. My time had arrived.

“November 12, 1988. Antonio Michael Moretti was murdered without cause by Pádraig Shaughnessy in the Charlestown shipyard. The Irish mob took my father’s life. They spilled Moretti family blood. A made man’s life was cut short, and thirty-five years later, the crime is left unanswered.” I stared at Marco in silent condemnation. “Thirty-five years later, the Shaughnessys still haven’t paid the price.”

I refused to break eye contact even as his jaw ticked in pain or frustration or anger—I didn’t care. He needed a reminder that it had been his responsibility to make the Irish pay, that as his best friend, as his brother in everything but blood, Marco had failed my father. He had failed me.

I clenched my fists and drove my knuckles into the table. “As Antonio Moretti’s son and the last member of the Moretti family, it is my right to seek vengeance for this crime. I want restitution.”

“I knew your father,” Don Patrizi said, respect thick in his words and the severity of his expression. “He was a good man, one of the best in the Northeast.” He turned his attention to Vinnie. “Why was this crime left unanswered? A made guy. A capo.” He reclined in his chair, steepled his fingers, and raised a judgmental brow. “Thirty-five years?”

“It was 1988,” Vinnie snapped as if the year was all the explanation he needed. “Maybe you don’t remember what it was like back then in Boston, but I sure as hell do. The feds were up our asses, taking down businesses left and right. The Shaughnessys were on the take, and we couldn’t afford the heat.”

I ground my teeth on his excuses; I’d heard them for decades.

Don Patrizi’s accusatory gaze shifted to Marco, and a deathly quiet descended over the sit-down. My blood ran hot with rage, but the temperature of the room seemed to drop. The chill of Marco’s icy glare slid across every man in attendance, freezing them in place.

“Antonio was my brother.” Marco’s dark declaration filled the room. His eyes locked with mine and tunneled into me as deeply and harshly as they had the night he’d disowned me. “Had I thought for one moment that seeking revenge for Tony’s death wouldn’t have put my family at risk, that seeking revenge wouldn’t have putallour families at risk”—Marco’s words were glacial, and flecks of red dotted his irises—“I would have burned the entire fucking city until every last Shaughnessy was dead.”

I swallowed, my mouth dry from the steel in his voice and the stunned silence of its aftermath.

Vinnie cleared his throat, turning his wary gaze away from Marco and back to Don Patrizi. “Any move against the Irish would have started a war,” he continued in a conversational tone. “Which was what the feds wanted. They stretched us thin, arresting our soldati and capi left and right. We took out a small crew in Charlestown. Two, three men tops, but we didn’t go after Paddy. He was baiting us, and we couldn’t afford to take the bait. But now?” Vinnie turned to me.

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