Page 8 of Stolen Mafia Vows
Coincidence?
It isn’t a currency the Irish mobs generally trade in, unless it gets them in front of someone who owes them money just as they receive a big fat paycheck. But something about this whole situation isn’t sitting right with me.
I pick up the brandy glass and take a large slug, tracking the heat of the liquid as it goes down. “Why?”
“Why not?” Ruairi’s smile is smug.
“Why New York?” I focus on our father. “Why now?”
“A proposition came my way.” He shrugs, down the remains of his drink, and places the empty glass on the desk with a dull thud. “It was too good to turn down.”
We’re one of the largest and oldest mafia families in Ireland. We can trace our lineage back to the late nineteenth century when my dad’s great-grandfather emigrated to America, got involved in organized crime, and then encouraged his sons to spread their empire back across the ocean to Ireland. We don’t need to plant fresh roots in New York. We don’t need to spread ourselves so thinly that we lose sight of what works for us.
“What kind of proposition?”
It occurs to me that this conversation is balancing between me and my father, with Ruairi the audience. From his casualstance, one ankle resting on his other knee, the glow in his cheeks from the brandy, I’m guessing this is a done deal. They don’t need my input.
“Casinos.”
“What’s in it for us?”
My dad doesn’t flinch. “Money. Power. New allies.”
None of which we need more of in our current position. At least, not from where I’m sitting. Still, I get the distinct impression that they’re not waiting for my approval.
“New allies have to earn trust.” I swallow another mouthful of brandy; one-sided meetings have this effect on me.
Dad inclines his head. “Works both ways.”
“It takes time,” I press on. “I would be wary of jumping in feet-first until they’ve proved themselves worthy.”
“Spoken like a true second son.” Ruairi helps himself to a second shot of brandy and refills our father’s glass while he’s on his feet. His next statement is aimed solely at me from behind our father’s back. “New allies are the way forward. They’ll drag us into the twenty-first century and out of the rut we’re in.”
It’s my turn to finish my drink. “What’s wrong with the ‘rut’ we’re in?”
Maybe Ruairi is right. Maybe I was born with the second son mentality, maybe I was never cut out to be the heir to the Mob, because I don’t see this as forward thinking. I see it as greed. The first steps towards starting a war against the organizations who already control the casinos in New York. Because this is not new ground. This is not a new way ofthinking, a ground-breaking enterprise, technological advancement to make life easier.
This is stepping on someone else’s toes. Toes that we agreed to leave intact and comfortable.
“There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Ruairi resumes his seat next to me, smug, because he already knows that he and Dad are on the same page. This was probably his idea. While I’ve been hands-on with the family business on the ground level, he has no doubt spent his time convincing our father that this is exactly what the family needs to expand. To grow.
To eliminate the competition.
“I won’t be running this show forever,” our father says. “Once we’ve cemented this new alliance, I can think about retiring and handing the business over to you and your brother.”
Handing it over to my brother is what he means.
“Sounds as if it’s already a done deal.”
I stand up, and our father snarls, “Sit down!”
I do. Respect and loyalty are key in our line of business; without it, we’d just be a bunch of thugs throwing our weight around to get the job done.
Still, I stare him down. For once, he can explain why he wants me to take part in a meeting that doesn’t require my input. “Why am I here, Pa?”
My brother sucks in a deep breath. I don’t need to look at him to picture the smug, I-would-never-question-our-father’s-orders expression on his face.
