its horn. Though it was something he heard frequently, a sound comfortable in its regularity, this time, Nick looked up from his work, turned in his chair and watched the harbor.
For his whole life, he’d taken pride in his blade-sharp focus, but as he aged, and especially since he’d been shot, that kind of focus took more effort and sometimes made him tired. On a day like today, which would end with a war council meeting, his focus wanted to be on something other than the preliminary quarterly numbers for the shipping company. But this was important work, too. The legitimacy of PBS made room for his other work—and gave cover to those who worked with him there.
Meanwhile, though, war was brewing and beginning to bubble. People thought war was loud, and bloody, and chaotic, and of course it was all those things, but it was also slow and cumbersome. Nick had never fought in uniform, but he enjoyed history, and he knew it was the same. Battles were bloody. But between battles was a lot of waiting, posturing. During those periods of seeming lull, the attacks continued, but they were attacks of finances and espionage.
The war council meeting tonight was meant to share intel among the allied families of the New England and New York Councils—something they did only face-to-face. For Nick’s part, the Pagano intel suggested strongly that the Sicilians were set to make some kind of big move.
They’d already crippled the Marconi Family by blockading their European traffic, which was the majority of their portfolio. Only Vio Marconi’s lifelong friendship with and deep loyalty to Nick kept that family on his side. Nick would owe Vio heavily when all this was over. Assuming they were both still standing.
The shrinking of the New England Council helped as well. With the Conti and Abbatontuono Families defunct, the Pagano, Marconi, and Sacco Families were now running virtually the entire region. Vio had been able to replace a significant chunk of his European trade with the drug trade through northern New England.
Drugs was unsavory work that Nick had tried hard to avoid, honoring his uncle’s wishes, which had become his own. But now, in these times, he’d had no choice. Giada Sacco had point on that work, allowing Nick some distance, but he could still feel the grime on his hands.
It was more than unsavory. The drug trade was also unstable. The money was substantial, but so was the risk. Working drugs required association and alliance with the kinds of people who had no code, no integrity, whose loyalties shifted with the wind. Nick had built an empire with cool savvy and caution. What he traded in was power, and that required stability.
He did not like working anywhere near drugs, and he did not want them within his realm.
But for now, he had no choice. To control it was better than to have left a vacuum where the Contis and Abbatontuonos once stood.
A knock on his door drew his attention, and he spun his chair to face his office again. Donnie was leaning in.
“Got a minute?”
“Yeah, come.”
Nick’s underboss came in and closed the door. He headed for his chair before Nick’s desk, but Nick stood and gestured toward the sitting area. They sat in their customary places, Nick in a heavy club chair and Donnie in its twin, facing him.
“Tell me,” Nick said as they settled.
“It’s not about tonight, except to say that’s ready to go. But I’ve got some things pertaining to Lia.”
The mere mention of his daughter caused tension to twang against his spine. “She’s coming home today. Yes?”
“Yeah. No change there. They’re packing her up as we speak. The first thing’s about the frat.”
Nick sat forward. His jaw clenched. Thinking of that fucking ‘Greek’ sewer made him struggle to keep his cool. He wanted to take a flamethrower to that place and every bastard in it. “Tell me.”
“Ned Gwynn called me. Crenville Senior did his part.”
Gwynn was the Providence Chief of Police and had been among Nick’s phone calls after the incident with Jackson Crenville. If those spoiled sfigatos were dosing girls, he wanted them finished. Sometimes, however, it was better to let law handle such things, especially the law he controlled.
“Did his part how, exactly?”
“Just like you wanted. Daddy brought Junior into the station, and Junior gave the lot of them up.” With the side of his face that moved enough to do it, Donnie’s expression twisted in disgust. “It was some kind of initiation thing—they dosed