Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,2

my neck and on my hand. He was a traditional man, stuck in traditional ways, and he always dressed the part. He didn’t like the tattoos on my body.

“You will go to Sicily,” he had said, his eyes hard on mine. “Until the situation can be taken care of.”

The situation. The bum that Bugsy had killed was connected, and he was making some men some serious cash. There were rules to consider, as well. A made man never touched another made man unless it was approved. The guy I’d killed, Garlic Breath, was an associate, but also an informant. The picture he’d taken was sent to all parties involved. I had a feeling my grandfather was going to argue that I didn’t actually kill the made man, Bugsy did. I killed the associate, who was not protected like a made man. Besides, he was a rat. I did them all a favor. Unless it brought some heat down on the family.

“With all due respect,” I’d said, sitting forward, fixing my suit and tie, “a man who runs is a coward. I refuse to run.”

We watched each other until he nodded once. “We will see how this goes.” Then he looked at his other underboss, Silvio, and nodded.

There would be men around me twenty-four/seven because of who the bum was and what he had meant to them. There was no use in arguing. My grandfather and I had conversations, but only if the lines of communication were open. He’d closed it with that nod.

Besides, arguing wasn’t allowed. Punishment was to be taken like a man. And to have men surround me constantly was the equivalent of serving time for a man like me.

It had been a week since that conversation, and my grandfather hadn’t said anything about it since. That could mean he was taking care of the situation, or it could mean something else—he was dealing with another situation that took his attention.

All five families were getting hit lately. One family blamed another, because there were things that tipped us off on each. The Scarpones were at the center of the distrust, even though they claimed to have nothing to do with what was going on. They were getting hit hard, too.

Silvio thought they were staging the hits on their own shit, just to make it look a certain way, but my grandfather didn’t believe they were that smart. He said only one man was smart enough to pull this off: Vittorio Scarpone.

Vittorio was the son of Arturo, the head of the Scarpones. Vittorio had had his throat slit years ago. His own father had ordered the hit. Vittorio didn’t kill a man named Corrado Palermo and his family when Arturo gave the order, after Palermo tried to slit Arturo’s throat.

There was just one issue with the theory that Vittorio Scarpone had arranged the mayhem that ensued: He was supposed to be dead.

I sat back in my seat, checking my rearview mirror. Silvio was coming toward my car, a cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth. Silvio had been around since before I was born and had about thirty years on me. He had started out like everyone else and worked his way up. He wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been. My grandfather considered him family.

Silvio stopped at the window, leaning in some, smoke blowing in the car. The sweet smell paired perfectly with the scent of the old leather seats. “Afraid you gonna catch the garter?” He grinned at me.

“I’m quick,” I said, returning the grin. “If I can dodge a bullet, I can dodge that fucking luck.”

“Don Emilio has taught you everything but the most important thing.” He laughed. “That a woman is quicker than a bullet.”

“None have hit me yet. A woman or a bullet.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He used the car to lift himself straight, blowing out another ring of smoke. “You just jinxed yourself.”

“Bullshit,” I said, shutting the car off. I stepped out and shut the door, pocketing my keys. “I’m stating facts. Even fate can’t argue with those.”

“You willin’ to bet your balls on it?”

We both turned to look at his son, a mini version of him, Silvio Junior, or as everyone called him, Junior. His nickname was “The Bull,” though behind his back, most of the guys called him “No Nuts.”

No Nuts had been sent to Sicily after he’d killed the wrong guy and caused some issue between our family and another. It was a