nearly a decade.”
Roman rubbed his mouth. “I believe Elena,” he repeated.
“I fear your confidence is misplaced.”
“How do you know that?”
I cut my eyes to Roman. He looked down at the ground in submission. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
For once, my byki stayed quiet, just bowing his head in respect.
Two other mob bosses had arrived before me. Thomas Sr Ó Fiaich and Chen Qiang. They spoke softly in a pair, looking over the East River.
Their soldiers loitered around the space, lifting their heads up as I joined the party. My own men sent back glares and warnings, before taking up their own positions. Almost two dozen mobsters scattered themselves around the edge of Governor’s Island, their numbers catching more attention than the meeting of the bosses.
“Konstantin,” Qiang greeted first.
We shook hands, exchanging empty but polite greetings. Thomas Sr and I greeted each other the same way, discussing the weather and the journey and their wives’ health. The topic up for discussion was hinted at but never explicitly said. It would have to wait until all five bosses were here.
Soon after, Mitsuzo Ishida arrived.
“Awaiting Vitale, are we?” he inquired as we greeted each other. “He is always the last one, no?”
Noises of agreement floated over the group.
“Konstantin, you have made it to your second meeting,” Mitsuzo said.
I nodded. “I’m sure I’ll make it to many more.”
His dark eyes glimmered, and he nodded.
A rumble spread across the bodyguards, a shudder of fury. They darted to their feet, guns in hand. Personal bodyguards fled to their bosses; Roman coming to my side.
“What is going on?” I asked.
“An intruder has arrived.”
Past the road, an unfamiliar flock of men moved towards us. The black of their uniforms turned away the sunlight.
Energy and guards rose. Thomas Sr and Mitsuzo went to leave, their bodyguards numbering around them protectively.
“At ease,” I called. Hesitant eyes flickered towards me. “We know this intruder.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, the guards shifted, revealing the king of Maine.
“Giovanni Vigliano,” Mitsuzo said, rolling the name over his tongue like the man finally deserved to be known by name. “Lorenzo’s bastard.”
Giovanni reached our group and slipped off his fedora. His eyes roamed over the collected bosses. “Vitale is dead,” he said. “I am now the Don of Manhattan and Queens.”
Most of us monsters chose another face to wear. Whether it be a face of charisma or violence, one of an idiot or one of a politician. It was important to moving throughout society without resistance, to interacting with those who were not monsters. If we did not cover our rotten souls, I feared the rest of our world would come with pitchforks and torches.
We even wore these faces in front of our men, who were almost as terrible and vicious as ourselves.
I had worn mine since birth. It had been imperative to my survival.
If my family had known for even a second, when I was small and vulnerable, that I had the mind of a leader, the soul of an emperor, I never would’ve made it to my eighth birthday.
I had protected my niece from the same problem.
There were only a few mob bosses I could recall as men who often showed the beast. Alessandro Rocchetti, the Don of Chicago was one of them. His temper and violent nature had never been anything he had hidden under the guise of civility.
But Giovanni Vigliano was a different manner of mob boss. He had not chosen to be brash or bloodthirsty. No, Giovanni wore no mask at all. He showed the emotionless monster that tempered in his blood with little remorse or bother.
His coldness was different to Dmitri’s. Whereas Dmitri was sharp and icy—his attitude more akin to a frozen black lake with a monstrous serpent beneath—Giovanni’s coldness came from a place of apathy.
He was considered cold simply because there was no emotion for him to show.
“Is that so?” Qiang inquired.
His eyes shifted to the Shan Chu of the Chen Triad. “Indeed, it is.”
We assessed him; he assessed us.
“We are here to discuss the threat Titus poses,” I said. “Do you have anything to add that your predecessor did not?”
Giovanni’s blue eyes sparked. “I do.” He turned, gesturing a hand to his men. Their numbers shifted, and two stepped forward, carrying a duct-taped man between them. “This man tried to kill my daughter in the name of Titus.”
The torture this man had endured must have been brutal. There was a lack of vitality to his face, and his eyes looked like mirrors—empty and reflective.