Page 53 of Southie
“I don’t know, man. It’s just a fucking look you get.”
His head shook. “We’ll talk about it some other time,” he said with sorrow in his eyes.”We got more important shit to deal with, like going to a mob meeting.”
Nodding, I pulled into the empty parking lot of a restaurant the GPS deemed as our destination. “We’re here.”
“You ready?” Gerald asked, pulling two Glock pistols from the glove compartment, handing me one.
We loaded the magazines and nodded at one another.
“Bout as ready as I’m going to get.”
We both got out of the rental truck and put our handguns in the back of the waistband of our dress slacks. There wasn’t much we could do on gunpower other than the handguns dealing with Rizzo, but at least we wouldn’t go in there empty-handed.
Walking up to the restaurant entryway, the two sizeable men standing guard at the door stopped us from entering with one placing his hand on my chest.
“Shit!” I heard Gerald mumbled under his breath. “Why the hell did you have to put your hands on him?”
“Restaurant’s closed,” the taller one announced.
My nostrils flared. I pushed his hand away from my chest. “Let the Don know Liam Daugherty’s here and if his fucking man puts his hands on me again, he’ll be one man short,” I said through gritted teeth.
The man took a step forward. Without warning, both me and Gerald pulled our handguns and placed both barrels flush against both guards’ foreheads before they had time to pull their weapons. Their eyes widened, and their hands slowly lifted in the air.
We backed both men through the tinted double doors of the restaurant. Their hands stayed in the air, palms facing outward, while the barrels of our handguns remained flat against their heads.
The sounds of shuffling and guns being pulled and cocked produced a smile that stretched across my face. I didn’t know who Antonio Rizzo thought I was, but I didn’t take disrespect of any kind. I couldn’t stand a motherfucka putting their hands on me.
“Daugherty, is all this necessary?” Antonio Rizzo’s accented voice echoed through the empty restaurant.
“Hell yes, it’s necessary. You should train your men not to put their hands on someone unless they’re ready to face the consequences. He’s lucky he doesn’t have a fucking bullet planted in the middle of his forehead.” I pushed the barrel of the gun into the man’s forehead, harder. He winced. “Tell your men to put their guns down, Don Rizzo, or I might just change my mind.”
The sight of the man’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped caused me to shake my head.
Pussy.
“Crazy-ass Irishmen,” Antonio Rizzo mumbled and raised his hands for his men to lower their guns.
Once they’d lowered their guns, Gerald and I lowered ours. The two men we’d held at gunpoint moved when he told them to step aside and let us through. We glared at the men as we walked past them, making our way to Don Antonio Rizzo, Boss of the Rizzo Crime Family of Chicago and Sicily.
Antonio Rizzo was the man who ran the La Cosa Nostra in Chicago and Cosa Nostra in Italy. The Rizzo Crime Family wasn’t the typical mafia family. Rizzo was from the old country. He stuck to the original traditions of the first Sicilian crime families, unlike like the American Italian mafia families or even like Paddy.
Paddy had more of a gang mentality in the organization of the Irish Mob in New England. Rizzo was by the book. His word was bond, and he spoke nothing but the truth. While I was in the Irish Mob and held a grudge towards the Italians because of my Aunt Samantha, I understood Rizzo was a man of honor, even with her death. If there was such a thing as honor in the criminal world. If he needed to have a meeting with me, it was important.
We reached a round table covered in a white linen tablecloth in the center of the restaurant’s small dining room. The men at the table stood—Antonio Rizzo Sr., his two sons, Tony Jr and Alessandro, the Underboss and Caporegime, and Don Rizzo’s younger brother and Consigliere, Agostino.
I greeted each man with a handshake and Gerald followed. We gripped our pistols in the other hand. We all sat down, and waiters hurried out, bringing plates of food and wine, sitting them in front of us. I wasn’t hungry, and I wanted to get straight to why the Italians had summoned me to Chicago.
“What’s all this about, Don Rizzo?” I asked.
He sat back in his chair and looked around the room. “Everyone, leave! I was hoping we’d eat before we dove into this shit, but I guess there’s been a change of plans.”
With his command, the waitstaff and his men scurried from the room. The only people that remained after his dismissal were me, Gerald, and the Rizzo men.
Don Rizzo took a sip of his red wine and sat the glass back on the table. “It surprised me when I heard you joined Paddy’s ranks, and I was even more surprised when you became his Enforcer. Last I heard, you were making waves in the underground fight circuit. Some say you’re good enough to go pro. If that’s the case, why the hell are you working for Paddy O’Connor?”
“Things change,” I said. “Why the hell are the Italians keeping fucking tabs on my life?”
“Samantha said you were bullheaded as a child. I see some things never change.”
