Page 23 of The Almost One

CHAPTEREIGHT

MARCO

My father always said, “Your gut is your barometer. That constant low-pressure you feel means rain is coming, but instead of getting you wet, it gets you dead.”

It’s here right now—that pressure—sitting low in my gut, telling me to prepare myself. Telling me that my father’s death is bigger than my grief. His death is the open door to big egos and narrow world views, and I’m the only thing standing between them and their ambitions.

“Sir, everyone has arrived. They’re in the conference room, as requested.” André steps inside and places eight folders on my desk; one for each of the people sitting around that table down the hall. I’ve met them all, have known them for years, but it doesn’t stop me from picking up the files and nodding to my assistant.

“Thank you, I’ll be right there.” Four capos and four of their best soldiers are waiting to know who will be their next underboss as I take over my father’s kingdom. Like them, I went up the ranks. I learned the business my father and his best friend, Stefano, built, one real-estate purchase at a time. This business keeps order in the city, all the while perpetuating chaos, because balance is the only way to keep the peace.

Today, I’m no longer a capo, nor the underboss. Today, I am my father. Even though my father had stepped back on the business side, he was still the proverbial boss. Now I am, officially, the don of the Mancini family. Groomed since the day I was born to be in this position, yet nothing, not a fucking thing, prepared me to step into my father’s shoes. The business? Sure. The grief? Not a chance.

But this is no longer about me. This is about my people needing someone to guide them, and it’s my responsibility to, in this time of pain for all of us, ensure equilibrium is maintained.

Scanning the folders doesn’t teach me more than I already know, but it does refresh my memory about certain qualities and downfalls of each of my employees. Thankfully, my choice for the next underboss hasn’t budged.

As soon as I walk in, everyone stands—including Enzo—to show their respect, but I wave them back down as I let the folders in my hands slap onto the cherry oak table built to seat more than twenty people.

“Buongiorno a tutti. The coffee and biscotti are for you.” My father always had the same spread on the table when meeting with the capos, I figured I’d follow the tradition.

It’s late morning, and tonight I’m heading out to Staten Island to meet River, to spend an evening on her turf and enjoy her genuine smiles and ridiculous jokes I love so much. In fact, I love them to the point I’d suffer an evening with her loser ex and his psychotic wife.

Match made in Hell.

There are four capos at the table, paired with their number one soldiers, here at my request. It’s tradition in our family to announce the next underboss to all four heads, their second-in-command officially becoming a capo him or herself. Contrary to past families, we’re not sexist assholes.

I watch them all intently as they talk, some laughing and making big hand gestures, others sitting back and nodding at the right times with guarded eyes.

Each capo heads a specialty, leading thirty to fifty soldiers depending on the need. We own New York City, no other family dares come for us, but we have strict rules about the kind of business we do. If you don’t follow those rules to the letter, you don’t see another day. It’s just the way it goes.

“I know you are all very impatient to hear about my decision, so I’m not going to make you wait much longer.”

Enzo—whose only thought is always about my safety—refused to take the underboss seat when I proposed he step up. I figured he’d want the freedom, but he requested to stay exactly where he is. And by ‘requested,’ I mean he flat out laughed in my face and told me to find someone else. As much as I’d love to think it’s because he can’t get enough of the drama in my life, I’m pretty sure it has to do with Lina.

“Ray.” I pin my current capo who deals with extortion, keeping shops safe from any big city dangers, and watch as he quickly understands what I’m about to tell him. “You’ve been with us for a long time, your loyalty over the last thirty years has earned you a seat at the head of the table. My father would be happy with this decision.”

“Grazie.” Ray “The Stinger” Martino’s jaw is tense and his hands are clenched, but I’m not worried. He’s happy and trying really fucking hard not to show any emotions. “George will be taking my place as capo.” He then pins me with his own gaze and adds, “He’s proven very valuable, I put my hand to the knife for him.”

I look at George, making sure he knows I will end him if he ever thinks of betraying any of us. The silence around the table is uncomfortable for some, I’m sure, but I drink from the cup of ease, knowing it’s the exact ingredient that keeps this entire organization alive.

My approval comes in the form of a grunt, giving the members around the table permission to congratulate and shake hands. All, of course, except J “The Shadow,” who is the capo of The Reapers.

Few people know who she is, choosing to keep her identity on the down-low since—according to her—it’s easier to kill someone when they have no idea you’re behind them, let alone capable of slashing their throat with a flick of your wrist.

André steps inside the room and serves a celebratory glass of rich, amber cognac to each of us, and as the last of us is served, we all stand and extend our hand to the middle of the table.

“Salute.” The single word echoes around the room as we all bring the glasses to our lips and savor the honeyed splash of exotic fruit across our tongues. On days like these, we don’t congratulate with cheap liquor, we show respect with the best this world has to offer.

As we sit back down, I let the silence descend before I begin speaking again.

“Order and control…” I give a little dramatic pause to make sure everyone’s attention is solely on me. “It’s the only way to keep the business and our families safe.” I turn to Tommy, who is aptly nicknamed “Baby Face” and point my index finger at him. “I don’t want drugs anywhere near schools in our neighborhoods. If the adult one percent of this city wants to paint their noses in white powder, that’s their problem. Children are innocent and we keep them that way. Are we clear?” Tommy nods, determination in his eyes. My attention turns now to George and his new responsibilities. “We don’t take money from shops for nothing and we don’t force them either. We do business. We offer, not force, protection. If I hear a mom-and-pop store getting a beat down for not accepting our help, I will fucking end you.” George, whose receding hairline is far enough back to be considered bald, keeps eye contact with me as he agrees to my terms.

“Sure thing, Boss.”

I don’t address J because she doesn’t need reminding of her job. Not a single member of her team has even veered in the wrong direction. She’s been with us for about six years, started out a soldier at the tender age of sixteen when her entire family was murdered in front of her. Instead of going into the system, she headed straight for a made man—just like her father—and told him she was joining the ranks. Six months later, she avenged her parents with her first kill. Few people know her name, which is the only reason she’s still alive.

I turn to Eddy “Snake Eyes” Borelli, his mouth set in a permanent sneer due to a beat down from the Bronx police. They had nothing on him and he never spoke a single word.

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