Page 4 of City Of Thieves
But the real answer?I ran into a Russian bastard’s fist three or twelve times.
I lick my lips, the metallic taste of dried blood hitting my tongue, and that’s just the prelude. Last time I looked, there were a couple deep cuts on my cheek and forehead, and I suspect more than a few black and blues by now.
The truth?I was late to my brother’s funeral because I spent the morning at an underground fighting ring firing fists and bullets like some Wild West outlaw.
I thought drawing blood would expel some of this anger, but it didn’t come close.
“Get out of my way, Dario,” I warn.
“Do you know how bad it looked when they opened the doors without you?”
Folding his arms across his chest, he widens his stance in an attempt to block my path. It’s a pointless endeavor. Then again, Dario has always been a stupid motherfucker who can’t read a clear message between two straight lines. “For fuck’s sake, Renzo, not only are you Nero’s brother; you’re a goddamn captain!”
I step forward, fire blazing in my chest. “You’regoddamnright I am, which means I outrank you,soldier.” I shove my finger in his face. “I repeat, get the hell out of my way.”
Dario glares at me, but slides backward, opening a wide breadth between us.
Leaving him standing there with his dick in his hands, I move further into the church, only to be assaulted by an overpowering scent. There are flowers everywhere. Hundreds of arrangements and wreaths line every inch of the sanctuary. All from extended family, soldiers, associates, politicians, hell—even rivals.
Excess, not equality.
I keep walking because I’m on autopilot. I’m exhausted, drunk, pissed, and numb. But most of all, I’m furious I’m in this church, and that my brother is lying in a casket because of me. Because of a deal that went bad on my watch. Because two warring brothers finally stood on the same side of the battlefield, only for one to fall at the hands of the other.
It should’ve been me in that hotel room.
It should be me lying on that fucking altar.
Two more steps... Three. That’s as far as my feet take me. I don’t walk down the aisle and sit in the front pew beside my family. Hell, I don’t even sit in the last pew next to people I don’t know. I do what I do best. I watch with my back pressed against the wall. I take inventory of every face in attendance, committing them all to memory. They say killers get a kick out of observing the carnage of their crimes firsthand…and I should know.
“Look at you, hiding in the back of the Lord’s House like some drunkenputtana,” a gruff voice says beside me. “Go to the front and support your family, Renzo.”
“Exerting your authority already, Uncle Sal?” I say, not bothering to turn my head. “Nero isn’t even in the ground yet.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he sputters.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” I warn, finally indulging him with my full attention. As suspected, he’s bright red and about to blow a fuse. The man has zero poker face. Tripping his wires is almost too easy. “You’ve had your eyes on the underboss position since the moment my brother took his last breath.”
“Vaffanculo!” he curses in Italian. “I loved my nephew.” His tone is low and controlled, but not inflated. I believe him. For all his faults,and he has a fuck ton, he and Nero had a bond we’ve never had. “But our business comes with certain risks,” he adds, smoothing one side of his more-salt-than-pepper hair. “We all know this. We accept it. Sometimes we pay the highest price, but that doesn’t mean the business shuts down, Lorenzo. Life goes on.” He shrugs. “Wheels keep turning.”
“You’re just making sure they turnyour way.”
He stiffens, his composure slipping. “There are only three captains in this family. Tradition states one of us will be named Nero’s successor.” Cocking his square chin, he slides an accusing glare toward me. “The past few years, your actions have made it clear you don’t want the job.”
He’s right. Nero was the firstborn son, so he automatically became my father’s underboss, poised to take over the empire one day. It’s no surprise, he was the family favorite. Eventually, I made peace with it and embraced my role as the family fuckup.
That was before someone pumped three rounds into the back of my brother’s head.
“And Paulie?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “Like you said, there arethreecaptains.”
Uncle Sal offers a disinterested shrug. “Paulie and your dad grew up together, but he’s not family.” He pats his chest proudly. “Iam family.”
“You’re his sister’s husband,” I correct.
Salvatore Barone’s claim to fame is a little skewed. He’s not a captain in the Marchesi family because he has blood ties; he’s a captain because he fucks my aunt.
“Watch it, kid.” His nostrils flare before his expression flips on a dime, calming as he circles a manicured finger around my battered face. “What’s up with the busted look? If your mother asks about that shit, what are you going to tell her?”
Changing the subject, as usual.
