He strolled over and sat down, while Alfie helped himself to the food before sitting to Victor's right. Not wanting to be rude, Dante grabbed a pastry, setting it on a plate.
"Something to drink?" a woman in a black uniform asked, approaching them. Hired help.
"Bring me a Mimosa," Alfie said.
"A Mimosa?" someone called out. Vince Genova, head of another of the five families, the one that stuck to Staten Island, away from the madness. "You got a cunt between your legs, Russo?"
"Oh, fuck off," Alfie said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. "I got a cock you can suck, Genova."
"You'd probably like it too much, you little Mimosa drinking bitch."
The men around them laughed. Even Alfie snickered, not offended by the insult.
"And you, sir?" the woman asked, looking at Dante. "Something to drink?"
"Uh, orange juice," he mumbled. "Vodka."
The woman offered a smile before scurrying from the room.
"What, nobody's going to say shit?" Alfie asked. "He practically ordered a Mimosa, too!"
"Don't even try it," someone else said. "The kid asked for a fucking Screwdriver, not that bubbly ass pussy shit you suck on."
"Says the schmuck over there drinking homemade Sangria."
"Your wife's homemade Sangria," someone chimed in.
A resounding chorus of "ohhhh" echoed around the room, guys drumming their hands against the table, creating a ruckus and laughing.
"Alright, alright," Victor said, fighting off a grin. "You guys rib Russo all you want, but leave my daughter out of it."
A few more joking jabs were traded as their drinks were delivered. Dante downed his, swallowing every drop, grimacing as the burn lit up his chest. It was damn near instantaneous, his nerves easing and muscles relaxing. He ordered another drink and took a few bites of the pastry, listening to their conversations.
Dante's eyes eventually fell upon Gavin, sitting at the end of the table, standing in for his father. The head of the Amaro family. He sat beside another man, one Dante recognized: Corrado Moretti out of Chicago. They were deep in quiet conversation, there at the table but not entirely present. After a moment, Gavin's gaze flickered Dante's direction. Nervous.
"You look confused," Victor said from beside him. "I know this isn't your first family meeting."
"No," Dante said, "but the others weren't this, uh…"
"Casual?" he guessed.
"Yeah." Dante watched in disbelief as Alfie used his fork to fling a strawberry down the table, hitting the boss out of Buffalo with it, interrupting the man's conversation. These guys... they weren't the type to tolerate insolence from others. They demanded respect; they prided themselves on strength. Dante had no idea half of them even had personalities. "They're acting like they're friends."
"That's because they are," Victor said. "We've all known each other a long time. Hell, I remember when some of these guys were born. We've worked together, and sometimes, we fight… we don't always agree, or get along, but that doesn't mean we're not friends. You don't have to like people to love them."
"Love them."
"Look, when I die, these are the guys who will show up at my funeral, the ones who will make sure I'm sent off with the respect I deserve… the respect I've earned. One of them will probably put me there, you know, but the rest will carry my casket, and I trust them to do their part, whatever it might be."
"Trust them."
"Yeah, trust them. That's how family is. No one will ever understand you better. Appreciate that. This life is in our blood. We all have that in common. We all want the same thing here. So you know, maybe we'll wake up enemies tomorrow because of it, but today, it's what makes us friends."
Dante shook his head. "I don't know what to say."
"Not surprised, considering your father." Victor motioned around the table. "He has a way of pissing on everyone's parade, if you know what I'm saying. Guy has no idea how to make friends, and on the off chance he does make one, he doesn't know how to keep them."
A voice cut through the room then, edgy but somehow still cordial. "Am I late to the party or something? You started without me."
Roberto Barsanti strolled into the room.
"You're always late, Bobby," Alfie said, still eating, "but is it ever a party without you?"
"I like to think not," Barsanti said, plopping down into the first seat he came to. The woman approached him, not needing to ask for him to answer her question. "Scotch, straight up. You know what? Just bring me the damn bottle."