29

ROCELLO

I hated leaving Margo the next day. I’d already left my son, and that had been hard enough. It killed me all over again to leave Margo, but Jumaine would take care of her.

And there were other things I needed to take care of.

We were in a tough spot. Any fool could tell you that.

Roscano had turned against us.

A mob boss with powerful connections was determined to put us in the ground. Our years in the family didn’t mean jack shit to him. We had to be removed.

But he had made a mistake. It wasn’t surprising, really. Unlike the other Dons I knew, Roscano had never bothered to adhere to tradition, and tradition was everything in our world.

No matter how much they loved the dollar, no matter how much they loved to fuck around with prostitutes and snort cocaine, mob bosses did have to obey certain rules. And those applied to everyone—no exceptions.

The rule Roscano had broken?

Don’t try and take out your own blood.

Family ties were considered sacred. A blood tie was the strongest of all. Friendships, marriages, and everything else were not as important as this one. You hunt down your brother? Your sister? One or both your folks? You’re dead in the water. There was no forgiving that. You could have ranted on about your motives and how strong they were, but that wouldn’t do you any good. In the end, you would get a bullet between the eyes. A disgraceful death you brought upon yourself for disrespecting your flesh and blood.

Unfortunately, men like me and my buddies couldn’t make a made man like Roscano obey the rules. Made men were considered untouchable. To go after a Don, one of his fellow bosses had to give you the green light. Without it, you couldn’t lay a hand on them. Doing that equaled a death sentence—and even more certain than the one we were under now.

Even talking to another Don about it was a risk. There was also a good chance you’d get whacked yourself, in case the reason you provided didn’t sound good to the Don you requested permission from. Simply put, unless a made man had done something despicable, you’d wind up dead in his stead.

But I couldn’t leave this alone.

Not with four lives hanging in the balance.

Slade, Jumaine and I were used to this shit. This had been part of our lives for a long time. Rival crews had gone after us in the past and we had come out on top. Even if we had ended up with a bullet in our heads, some would have called it “fair.” We weren’t angels—everybody on the street knew that.

Margo on the other hand? No. She couldn’t have that threat looming over her. She couldn’t have wise guys chasing after her, because a mob boss was too greedy to follow his father’s last will and testament.

I had to reach out to a Don. Amid this insanity, discussing Roscano’s antics was perhaps the sanest call.

So, the day after Margo and I had shared that incredible moment in bed, I reached out to Don Michael Gambini. I respected the man. Unlike my boss, he rewarded loyalty. He knew the rules, and for the most part, he played by them.

“DeLuca. Someone said you were dead.” He sounded as if he hadn’t believed it, and his next words proved it. “I had a feeling you’d call.”

“Hello, Don Gambini. May I ask why?”

“Call it a hunch. What do you want?”

“Could I meet with you, sir? Someplace public. Today if possible.”

“A meeting? What for? So you can walk me through what you did to Baxter? It was you, DeLuca. Either you or one of your guys. I know that now.”

“This is much bigger than me and my guys. Believe me, Don Gambini. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

“Elaborate.”

“It’s about my boss. That’s all I can say on the phone.”

Gambini sighed. “Enrique’s. Times Square, tonight, eight-thirty.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”

After the call ended, I couldn’t quite identify the Don’s tone. Angry? Except he was one of the most level-headed men I knew. Maybe… resigned? That seemed more like it. Dons didn’t usually speak ill of each other, but he had to know what kind of man Nick was. And knowing what kind of man Gambini was, I doubted he approved.

That didn’t take away the risk of going to speak to him about my boss, but it had to be done. For all our sakes.

Later that evening, Slade and I crossed Times Square. For once, he was calm and collected. I wasn’t. I kept checking my watch as the noise of traffic grew and dropped. The two of us arrived at Enrique’s about ten minutes early, but Gambini was already there. To me, that revealed concern on his part.

The older man was sitting at the best table in the back—no surprise there. Four of his men were at tables all around him, while one more was sitting next to him. This was a classic example of a Don's behavior. He had plenty of men watching over him, hiding in plain sight.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the two seats in front of him.

“Don Gambini.” I tipped my head down to show my respect to him, Slade following suit afterwards.

“Screw the niceties.” He leaned forward. “I know one of you offed Baxter. The question is ‘who.’”

“No.” I shook my head in refusal, maintaining eye contact with him. “With all due respect, the real question is ‘why.’ We’ve known each other a long time, Don Gambini. You know Winslow and Knight, too. You really think we’d take out someone just for kicks?”

“DeLuca, I’ve been a player since before you were born,” he remarked, his voice stiff. “I’ve seen shit you wouldn’t even dream was possible. Try again. And you’d better impress me.”

“Your man was freelancing the night he was killed,” Slade interjected, his voice steady as a rock. “Don Roscano had hired him to blow up The Rusty Bucket as punishment for us casing a bank without telling him. That’s what Baxter said anyway. He’d been lied to, though.”

“That’s right,” I confirmed with a firm nod. “Recently, we found out that Emilio Roscano had an illegitimate daughter, named Margo Owens. Guess what? She's a barmaid at The Rusty Bucket. She was the real target, because as it turns out, Emilio Roscano wanted the bulk of his money to go to her. Not his son.”

“Hmm…” Gambini mused, lowering his gaze. “I’d be well within my rights to have my men shoot you dead just for saying all this bullshit. I’m sure you know that.”

“Of course we do, sir,” Slade spoke, his voice low but intense. “But it gets worse. Just days ago, Don Roscano ordered us to kill that same woman—his half-sister. And when we didn’t do that immediately, he sent two gunmen to take us out in Napolitana.”

“That’s what that was about?” Gambini arched an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a bad little restaurant.”

“Sir, I don’t think you—”

“I understand the implications, young man. You’re saying Roscano is way out of line.”

“Yeah.” I gave a swift nod. “He put out a hit on his own sister. Don’t you think he should be punished for that?”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“No,” Slade agreed, looking the older man in the eye. “But it is for you to decide. This isn’t the way we do things.”

“I’ll admit, killing a young woman isn’t ideal.”

“Not just a young woman, Don Gambini,” I said. “His kin. His sister. I thought the organization had some principles.”

“Let me ask you something,” Gambini said, his eyes sharp. “You’ve been in Roscano’s family for what? Fifteen years? When was the last time you heard a Don got whacked for breaking the rules?”

His question had me thinking for several seconds. Slade and I looked at each other, an ugly truth setting in. Judging by my friend’s demeanor, he couldn’t think of an example any more than I could.

“Never,” I murmured, pursing my lips.

“So, you realize the position you’re putting me in,” Gambini went on, bringing his gaze to Slade first, and then, to me.

“He’s dangerous,” Slade said. “When he doesn’t follow the rules, he puts us all at risk.”

“Quit blowing smoke up my ass,” Gambini said.

“Are you saying it’s not true?” I asked.

“Remember who you’re talking to,” Gambini warned.

“I don’t mean it like that,” I said. “I’ve just always heard that protecting your blood relatives comes before anything else. But you’re right, we haven’t been involved as long as you have. So I’m asking you.”

The Don sidestepped my question. “Think of what you’re asking of me,” he said instead. “You come here with some crazy story about Roscano’s bastard daughter without a shred of proof, you admit you took out Baxter, and you want my approval to go after your boss? You boys are either insane or have balls of steel.”

“Or both,” Slade joked, and I elbowed him hard. Now wasn’t the time.

“I realize it’s far-fetched, but…”

“Far-fetched?! That’s an understatement. But if you get me proof—scientific proof—that she’s Roscano’s half-sister, I’ll consider it. But even if I sanction the hit, have you given any thought to how you’d do it? Because he’ll have about two dozen pricks like you guarding him at all times, now that you’ve gone rogue.”

“Gone rogue?” Slade repeated.

Gambini arched an eyebrow. “Well, you’re not at Roscano’s beck and call, and you’re clearly not dead, so what else is he to think?”

“We’ll worry about how to do it when the time comes,” I answered. “If I get you the evidence you need, will you give us the go-ahead?”

“Just run that DNA test, DeLuca,” Gambini said, his voice low and firm. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you for your time, Don Gambini,” I said as we rose. The meeting hadn’t gone exactly how I’d expected, but we were walking away unharmed. That was something.

Once we were on the street, I turned to Slade. “Call Jumaine, catch him up, and have him get a hair from Margo. Then we’ll get something from Roscano so we can do the DNA test.”

“How?” Slade asked skeptically.

“Probably another visit to Connors. He can get it. And I want a copy of the will, too.”

“He’s not going to be very happy to see us,” Slade warned. He’d heard all about Jumainea and my visit last time.

“I’ll make it nice. Besides, he’s already told us about Margo. That’s the big one—the rest is small potatoes compared to that.”

I kept thinking about the Don’s words as I navigated through the Manhattan traffic. Gambini had made very good points. We had screwed with him, we had brought him an insane scenario, just so he could authorize a hit on Don Roscano. Although I could understand his frustration, his wealth, power, and status prevented him from comprehending the position we were in.

An untouchable man like him didn’t have to worry about hits. He could target others but couldn’t become a target himself. But us? We were desperate men. And desperate men sometimes did desperate things.