Page 16 of Confession
He doesn’t like that either. God, these old men. My uncle was the same. I was sick of him even before I knew what a rat he was, and I’m sick of Gavino. Stuffy and plodding, drawing shit out forever. Gavino must be pushing eighty, and he looks tired as hell. Pale, thin. Done.
I wish he’d step back and let one of his kids take over. I’d rather deal with Alesso or his sister. But these greedy old men can never give up power. When I’m his age, I want to be out of this business, lying on a beach along the Aegean.
But there are a few people who need to die for me to win that future.
“Negroni?” I suggest, thinking how perfectly the red color will complement the garnish that I have in mind.
At Gavino’s gesture of acquiescence, I snag the gin. “So Alesso was a bad boy and you’re sorry? Is that really what you’re here to say?” We both know it’s not.
Gavino watches me pour the gin into a mixing glass. I grab the sweet vermouth and add it before he deigns to speak.
“You should yield,” he advises. “I’m in the stronger position.”
At the moment he is, but shit can change. And what he wants isn’t something I could ever accept. He wants me under his protection racket, paying him to keep my territory secure. Secure from him, obviously, and he would eventually use the leverage to finish me off.
I add Campari to the glass. The drink turns ruby red.
“Your uncle was going to,” Gavino prods when I don’t reply.
I add ice and stir. “Anton would’ve betrayed you in the end.”
“Like he did you? He may have been a traitor, but he played you for a fool. He made you break the truce that your father and I had negotiated.”
On a certain level, he’s correct. There was a shaky truce between our families. When Roman vanished, my uncle pointed a finger at the DiMaggios. I went after them, shattering the truce. I’ll admit, I lost my mind a bit. I did some ugly things.
When I learned of my uncle’s part in Roman’s disappearance, I did some more ugly things. My uncle was already dead, killed by Roman, but I extracted a good deal of information from my uncle’s bodyguard before I let the man die. The DiMaggioswereinvolved in Roman’s disappearance. Gavino colluded with my uncle. The two of them were playing a complicated game, using each other, using me. I don’t know what their endgame was and I don’t care. It’s no longer relevant.
All that matters now is destroying the DiMaggios, both for my family’s security and for revenge.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the manpower at the moment, and I have to be very careful because of Agent Cohen’s involvement. I can’t end this fight if I’m in prison, and I don’t want to imagine what Roman might do if that happened.
Sasha arrives with what I asked her to retrieve from my office freezer. She sets the tin by my hand then starts washing glasses, busying herself to stay nearby just in case.
I add ice to a new glass then pour the cocktail through a strainer into it. Working behind the bar, I open the tin and pluck the finger from inside, dropping it into the cocktail glass. Orange is the traditional garnish, but I must say the effect of the tattooed finger with its gold ring is perfect in the ruby red drink.
I slide the cocktail to Gavino. “One of your men dropped that in my warehouse.”
His eyes lift from the glass to me. “You could’ve made a deal with me, Vitali. This war serves no one.”
“I’d have to trust you to make a deal with you.”
“Your father and I didn’t trust each other. But we still managed to settle things.”
“And then you helped my uncle sell Roman into slavery.”
“That was just—”
“If you fucking say it was just business, I’ll kill you here and now. Get the fuck out of my club.”
***
By one a.m., my mood has deteriorated enough that when Sasha suggests we go home, I don’t argue about the early hour. I’m not sure why I’m in such a bad mood. At the time, I didn’t feel like Gavino was getting under my skin that much, but now … I don’t know. I’m just pissed off. About him having the upper hand. About my uncle. About what happened to Roman. About Quinn.
When we part ways in the garage, Sasha looks like she wants to say something to me but decides against it.
I make my way through the dark house to the kitchen. I’m not ready to shut myself in my room.
I’m so deeply in my head that the soft glow of the kitchen’s above-sink light doesn’t register as significant until I walk through the wide doorway. I halt.
