Page 3 of Blood Money

Not until we were much older.

“IOU”—FiveFingerDeathPunch

Present Day….

Gabriel was pissed as hell at our mother for insisting on going to this MMM—Motorcycles, Mobsters and Mayhem—book signing thing. I can’t make this shit up. That’s what it was called, and the irony wasn’t lost on me. Not that the rest of us were overly happy either. Except, after catching one of the assistant chicks totally eye-fucking my older brother, I knew he would end up being okay with it if he got laid. Lord knew he was so uptight, he could use a good, sweaty, wall-banging fuck.

As I followed my mother around the signing, I couldn’t help but check out a few of the authors and several of the readers. In a way, it was a single man’s dream. Women as far as the eye could see. Women who loved reading dirty books.

Truthfully, I’d been a bit shocked when I’d picked up one author’s book and flipped through it. Of course, I had the worst luck and opened to a part that was straight sex. I’m talking well-worded porn. No shit, I’d started to get a stiffy from it—until I realized that was the stuff my mother was reading. I’d instantly slammed the book shut and put it back on the display.

Then I had metaphorically bleached my brain.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out to see a text message from Catalano, one of my most trusted capos.

Catalano: Answer is still no

I sighed. I’d been trying to buy the bakery down the road from our childhood home for months. Mrs. Romano was getting up in years, and her health had taken a hit a few months ago. My reasons for wanting it were complex. For La Cosa Nostra, I wanted it for cleaning our money. The sentimental sliver within my dark soul wanted it because it held memories of laughter and some degree of innocence.

I dialed the number to Sinnamon Sweets, and it was answered by a familiar voice.

“Mrs. Romano,” I began in my most appealing and persuasive tone. “It’s Vittorio. How are you?”

At first there was silence, and I had to pull my phone from my ear to see if we were still connected.

“Mrs. Romano?”

“I’m here,” the woman replied in a crotchety voice. “Why are you calling me? They sending in the big dogs now?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. Even as a grown man, I remembered sneaking down to her bakery with Gabriel. We weren’t supposed to go out unaccompanied, but that didn’t stop us from pushing boundaries and being reckless. We’d gotten our asses tanned for it too. Despite the woman’s tough exterior, she’d always had a soft spot for us—until we grew up and started working within the ranks of La Cosa Nostra.

“I was calling to see if you’d had time to consider my offer.”

She snorted. “I got it, but hell no, I’m not considering it. I told you I’m not selling my bakery.”

“I understand how much the bakery means to you, but I also know you’ve been struggling with your health. I figured you might like to retire and move—closer to your daughter and granddaughter,” I sweetly appealed. I could pour on the charm when I wanted to, but she wasn’t having it.

“Was that a threat? You leave my family out of this,” she snapped.

I startled a bit, because despite my darker side, I hadn’t been making any implications.

“Mrs. Romano, that wasn’t my intent. I’m truly trying to look out for you,” I tried again.

“Humph! Your organization doesn’t look out for anyone but themselves,” she replied, and I could practically see her sneer in her tone. I’d known the woman for enough years to be aware of her behaviors.

“That’s not true. You know we keep you protected,” I reminded her. The bakery had been one of our “customers” since Mrs. Romano’s parents owned the bakery. The general public believed the protection was actually from us, which in the past and maybe in a lot of circumstances was true. My personal nostalgic attachment to her business changed those rules a bit—I was emotionally vested in the bakery and its owner. Something I’d never admit to a living soul because that would be dangerous.

“Look, Mr. De Luca, I understand the agreement my parents made with yourorganization, and I’ve upheld it as agreed. But that’s as far as I go. My business is not for sale to you.”

“But does that mean itisfor sale?” I kept any excitement or concern out of my voice, because I couldn’t let her know I was worried someone else would buy it. It would kill me to have someone buy it and either run it into the ground or close it and open something else in its place. I needed that last bit of my too-short childhood to remain untouched. Not that I could admit that to anyone.

“No,” she snapped and ended the call.

I breathed a sigh of relief despite my irritation at not being able to acquire the bakery. Little did she know, I was a patient man. As long as she wasn’t selling it to anyone else, I could wait her out. However, my brother, the don, might not agree.

“No luck?” Gabriel asked, and I cast a glance his way. He watched me with a cocked brow. Pietro, his bodyguard and friend, stood at his side. Pietro had grown up with us, but his family was smaller and had never shown interest in leading the Chicago Family.

“Not yet, but I’ll find a way,” I assured him. As the underboss, I dealt with a lot of the day-to-day shit. Mario had initially been the one trying to get Mrs. Romano to sell, and I think he pissed her off. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed him to do it, but Gabriel told me to give him more responsibilities because he wanted to see how he handled them. But Gabriel didn’t understand the emotional connection I had to that stupid bakery.

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