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Four

Chapter 4

Dominic

“Mr. Costello, please.”

Five Years Later

The little old lady sitting on the other side of Lorenzo’s desk—my desk— is as frail as a quivering leaf on a bare branch. A strong breeze could easily knock her over. She dabs at her pale blue eyes, hands shaking and nose running as she worries her bottom lip with her teeth.

“There’s nothing I can do, Mrs. Jones,” I say firmly. “Your payments are three weeks past due. As per the contract you signed, your collateral is now forfeit.”

“My collateral is my home, Mr. Costello. You’d be forcing me out onto the street.”

“It brings me no pleasure to do this—”

“I just need a bit more time to find a job,” she whimpers, her voice cracking. “I have an interview for a grocery clerk position tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure I can land the job.”

I clench my teeth. If Lorenzo were here, he’d already have a yellow eviction notice plastered to the woman’s front door. She’s somewhere near my own mother’s age, though frailer and smaller with even poorer eyesight. If it were my mother being forced out of retirement to find a job to help make ends meet, I’d be livid.

But this job requires my indifference. In my line of work, it’s the only way to survive. There are only two things you can be when you’re a part of the Mob: an earner or a killer. Since I’ve never had the stomach for killing, I have to put my foot down and see that Mrs. Jones pays up.

“Please,” she says, a whisper. “My husband hasn’t even been gone two weeks and the cost of his funeral ate into what little savings we had. Not to mention all the medical bills I’m trying to pay off since he suffered his

stroke.”

Desperation has a smell. It’s sweaty and musty, something Lorenzo has spent years learning how to sniff out and use to his advantage. There’s a reason he’s one of the Family’s best performing capos. He has a knack for finding people’s pressure points and a black enough heart to stab them clean through.

I personally don’t have a taste for it, yet here I am, manning my boss’ desk while he’s off having a wild week in Atlantic City. There’s order to the madness, an unshakeable hierarchy that must be followed and respected at all times. If Lorenzo tells me to jump, I ask how high. That’s what it means to be a capo’s right-hand man.

But just because Lorenzo is a heartless son of a bitch doesn’t mean I have to be.

“I’ll give you two more weeks,” I tell her. “But it’s the only extension I can give you. Anymore and the boss will have my head.”

Mrs. Jones sucks in a sharp breath, tears streaming down her face. I can’t tell if she’s grateful or fearful or a healthy combination of both.

“Oh, Mr. Costello! Thank you so much! I swear I’ll get the money this time, just you wait and see!”

I reach into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and pull out a business card. Flipping it over, I quickly jot down a phone number. “I also want you to call this woman. Tell her I sent you for a job. She needs a housekeeper, someone to help her with menial tasks and maybe prepare a meal every now and then.”

Mrs. Jones examines the card and the name I wrote along with the number. “Isabella Costello—”

“My mother,” I grumble under my breath. “I’ll see to it that she pays you fairly. It beats a grocery clerk job at minimum wage.”

A fragile smile graces Mrs. Jones’ dreary face. “Thank you,” she says earnestly. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. In fact, this conversation never happened, got it?”

Mrs. Jones nods quickly, getting up from her chair in a hurry. She mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like oh, what a sweet boy, though I don’t think the term is very becoming of a forty-one-year-old man.

Elio steps in a few minutes later, looking pleased as punch. He leans against the door frame to Lorenzo’s office, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

“What?” I snap, leaning back in my chair. “Your ever-bleeding heart.”

I grab the heavy metal stapler off the desk and chuck it at him. Elio dodges out of the way, and the stapler smacks against the hallway wall behind him. Elio simply laughs. He knows if I really wanted to hurt him, I would.

“You look like shit,” he says gently, his smile slipping into something a tad more sympathetic. “Why don’t you close up shop for today?”

“Can’t. Someone’s got to run Lorenzo’s districts while he’s out.” “I could take over for a bit.”

I give him a pointed look. I trust Elio with my life. While I’m Lorenzo’s right-hand man, Elio is mine. When the going gets tough, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he has my back.

Like right now, for instance, even though I want him to piss right off. “Go home, Dom,” he says. “Take it easy.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you still have nightmares about it?”

I clench my jaw and glare at him. “Choose your next words carefully.” “You should be home with your mother,” he continues, ignoring me.

“She’s still shaken up over Tommaso’s death and—”

I shoot out of my chair, take three long strides to close the gap between us, grab Elio by the shirt lapels, and slam him up against the nearest wall. “Keep my brother’s name out of your fucking mouth.”

I haven’t spoken about Tommaso in over a month. I can’t afford to. The moment I even think about him and what happened that day, I’ll unravel— something I simply won’t allow myself to do. I don’t have time to mourn. Too many people are counting on me, too many people relying on my clear orders and unwavering judgment. Why Elio insists on needling me, I’ll never know. Probably watching too much Dr. Phil or something.

Elio doesn’t fight back. “That’s okay, boss. Take it out on me if you have to. That’s what I’m here for.”

I huff, releasing him with a hard shove. “Who’s the asshole with a bleeding heart now?”

He calmly smooths the wrinkles my grip left on his shirt. “Seriously, Dom. Go home. I got the weekly reports from the other laundering houses. I

can crunch the numbers and report to the higher ups for you.” “Did Milo submit his reports?”

“Yep. Surprised me, too.”

“The fucker’s been slacking lately.”

Elio shrugs. “Probably because he knows the boss man’s too distracted in Atlantic City.” He pats me on the shoulder and nods once, an affirmation. “One night of decent sleep, fratello. That’s all I want for you. Then you can come back tomorrow and be your grumpy, loan sharking self, hm?”

I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. But only because I know you’re going to keep annoying me until I cave.”

Elio beams. “I’m the best, aren’t I?”


My mother’s been spending a lot more time at my apartment ever since… Since.

She putters around while I’m busy at work, tidying despite the fact that I have a maid service come through once a week. She’s probably just looking to keep herself occupied, her mind busy. Anything to keep her thoughts off Tommaso. Or, rather, his glaring absence.

I find her in the kitchen, leaning over to check on the lasagna baking in the oven. Three other fully cooked lasagnas are cooling on the marble surface of the kitchen island. She’s clearly been at it for hours.

“Are we expecting guests?” I ask her.

My mother startles but gives a watery laugh when she realizes it’s only me. “Oh, you’re back! I thought you weren’t going to be home until after seven.”

“Needed to check on you.”

She waves her hand dismissively, but her paper-thin smile tells me all I need to know. She looks as exhausted as I feel. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair is a fraying nest of tangles, and I’m fairly certain she’s worn her shirt four days in a row.

“These are for you,” she gestures, trying to sound like her usual upbeat, chipper self. I don’t buy it for a second.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Nonsense. You don’t eat nearly enough. Look at you, practically skin and bones.”

She’s being overly dramatic. If she thinks my two-hundred and thirty pounds of muscle is skin and bones, I’d hate to imagine how she’d describe herself.

“I really worry about you,” she rambles on. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping?”

“You know I don’t have time to cook.”

“What a terrible excuse! You really should find yourself a wife.” “We’re not having this conversation again.”

“Dom, you’re over forty now. It’s well past time you find yourself a wife to look after you.”

“If I wanted someone to cook for me, I’d hire a personal chef. A wife is capable of being more than a housekeeper, Mother.”

“And what about children? I’ve been asking for grandchildren for ages.” “In case you haven’t noticed, I already take care of dozens.”

“Those man-babies you call associates are not your flesh and blood, my boy. It’s not the same.”

“We’ve sworn allegiance to one another. It feels the same.”

An awkward silence falls over us. Neither of us knows what to say. There’s a gnawing grief in the center of my chest, eating me alive. All I can do is try to not let it consume me whole. I watch my mother carefully, her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes gloss over with the threat of tears. There’s no doubt in my mind that her anguish is ten times worse. I may have lost my little brother, but she lost her son.

“I should get going,” she whispers.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” I tell her. “I have more than one guest room to use.”

My mother shakes her head, picking at her fingernails. “That’s alright, cuore mio. I’ve already been here a week. I don’t want to be in your way.”

“You’re not in the way.”

She licks her lips, eyes cast to the floor. “I have to go home some time.

My poor plants are in desperate need of watering.”

I nod once. “If you’re sure. I’ll have the boys escort you home.”

“Is that really necessary, Dom?”

“Whoever did this…” I grind my teeth, ignoring the tight burn in the back of my throat. “They’re still out there. I’d rather I send a few of my men to protect you in case.”

My mother walks over and stands before me, reaching up to give my cheek a loving stroke. Her bottom lip trembles, but she refuses to cry. “Promise me something, Dom.”

“Anything.”

“When you find the fuckers who gunned down your brother, make sure to kill them slowly.” Her eyes are suddenly cold and dead like a shark. My mother wasn’t always a frail old woman. Sometimes I forget; once upon a time, she was one of the most feared women in all of Little Italy. She gave it all up after she met my father, but every now and then, I get a glimpse of the fierce woman she used to be.

I press a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry. I’ll tear them limb from limb.”

“Promise to let me watch?” “Of course.”

“Good.” Her smile is tight as she pats my shoulder. “Put those lasagnas away. They’ll keep in the freezer for up to three months.”

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