Page 55 of The Enforcer
He was the fucking devil, but Tino couldn’t argue with him.
So he passed out instead.
Chapter Fourteen
Brooklyn, New York
August 2002
“My mother used to call him the dark pope,” Carlo explained as he sat next to Tino, smoking a blunt and getting more talkative by the minute. “That’s how I always saw him, this enormous dark figure, revered like a god, with this all-encompassing respect. Like you can’t help but fall to your knees in front of him. I dunno how he does it to people, but he does.”
“Huh,” Tino mumbled and took the blunt when Carlo handed to him. “Maybe it’s this big-ass palace he lives in that makes people treat him like a king. He sure lives like one.”
“No,” Carlo decided quickly. “Lotsa people have money. I have money. You wanna fall down and kiss my hand for my money?”
Tino coughed and laughed, blowing the smoke into his uncle’s face.
“Yeah, exactly,” Carlo agreed. “I’m just a strunzu with a gun. That’s it. That’s all I’ll ever be, and I’m okay with that.”
“You have respect,” Tino pointed out, because he’d been recovering in Don Moretti’s palace in Bensonhurst for two weeks, and he saw the way men avoided making eye contact with Carlo. They were tense in his presence. Always exceedingly polite, treating him like a man who was bigger, better looking, and more dangerous than they could ever be. “You have more respect than Frankie, and he’s underboss. A fuckload more.”
“That’s not respect, Tino.” Carlo took the blunt back and flicked it against the ashtray on the nightstand. “That’s fear. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, what’s the difference?” Tino asked, because they looked the same from where he was sitting.
Respect was a big fucking deal to these people. Tino nearly died over it, that was how big a deal it was, and the fact that he came out of that basement alive was nothing short of miracle.
Now he was itchy as hell.
He couldn’t scratch his back and fuck up the stitches, so he stole the blunt instead, willing it to numb him. He just got to the point that he could sit back against it and take a shit without hovering, thanks to Frankie taking the belt to his thighs.
Motherfucker.
Fear and respect were theexactsame thing as far as Tino was concerned, and his father made sure he knew it.
“Any asshole can make someone fear them,” Carlo explained. “It takes someone unique to earn respect like the don. Look at me. I should hate him. I have more reason than anyone to hate him. I fall to my knees instead. That’s fucked-up.” Carlo looked ahead to the bedroom door as if considering it. “You just don’t come across men like that very often.”
The door opened, and Nova stepped in. He paused as if something slammed into him. “Whoa.” His eyes grew wide. “You didn’t think to open a friggin’ window? Even I smell it.”
“The don said it was better than eating pills all day,” Tino reminded him. “He says our people don’t eat pills.”
Carlo let out a bark of laughter before choking it back when Nova glared at him. “Right, yeah, absolutely, Tino. Our people don’t eat pills. Italians are above narcotics. Keep believing that. Your father’s anger issues are completely genetic.”
Tino laughed with him and then asked his brother, “How was Romeo?”
“He’s surviving.” Nova used the folders in his hand to waft some of the smoke out of the room but then seemed to give up. He walked in and tossed the folders on the table by the window that overlooked the gardens in back. He unlatched the window and forced it up, letting in a whoosh of hot August air. “So friggin’ hot today. I’m sweating like a motherfucker.”
“Smart guys sweat?” Carlo asked in amusement as he took another hit and blew the smoke in Nova’s direction. “I thought God made accountants without sweat glands. Not like they’re really needed.”
“Maybe I’m only half accountant.”
Nova came over and kissed Carlo’s cheek like a gangster. It was something distinctive in mafia culture, a bold statement that they were a step above society, and they did it everywhere. In public, in private, and it was done without shame. Tino didn’t know if Nova picked it up being in this house for too long, where gangsters flowed in and out all day, or if it was something deliberate.
Nova leaned over and kissed Tino’s forehead like a brother instead of a gangster. Then he stole the blunt from Carlo, taking a long hit and holding his breath until he walked to the window. He leaned down to blow it out like they were back at their apartment in Harlem, reminding Tino of the Nova who’d died in that basement. As if a part of him was still left in there somewhere.
When Nova spoke again, his voice was raspy. “Grazie for sitting with him.”
“I don’t mind.” Carlo shrugged. “Even if he kicks my ass in Mario Kart.”
