Under Antonio DeMarco’s reign, the cities maintained open communication, but that had since fallen apart. They had taken to calling on each other for favors whenever one needed something, strained allies in a bigger war, but the last time someone in New York called, Salvatore ignored their pleas.

  And if you aren’t friends, you may as well be enemies.

  Bitter blood simmered and deals were kept off the record, money passing between the cities under the bosses’ noses. No one knew if they were fully aware of what went on, if they got a taste when all was said and done, but one thing was undeniable: the respect was dead.

  Because of that, everyone was fair game, and they wouldn’t hesitate to turn against each other. They found themselves in tumultuous times . . . another source of contention Corrado didn’t want to have to deal with.

  “Where are we with this casino deal?” Sal asked, swirling scotch around in his glass as he casually lounged in a chair in his den. Men sat around quietly, some steadily drinking while others, like Corrado, were just biding time until they could go.

  Silence strangled the room. Nobody answered.

  “It’s like that?” Sal asked, bitterness lacing his voice. “None of you have anything to say? You’re supposed to be the best, but none of you can talk? None of you can make this happen?”

  “It’s impossible,” a Capo muttered from the other side of the room. “It can’t be done, Boss.”

  “Nonsense,” Sal said. “Nothing’s impossible.”

  With so much heat on the organization, the Fed’s attention focused on their dealings close to home, Sal was shifting business elsewhere. But while they had been busy maintaining control of a chaotic Chicago, clashing with the Russians while dealing with a long-standing Irish feud, their New York counterparts had spread throughout the country. The problem with that, however, was those factions held a grudge, so all Sal faced were roadblocks and swift denials when trying to expand.

  Nobody wanted to do business with the Salamander.

  “The guy who owns the casino grew up in Manhattan,” the Capo explained. “He’s under protection. We can’t funnel money through there without approval, and they ain’t giving it. Not to you.”

  “Make them,” Sal said. “Don’t let them say no.”

  “Start another war? Over a casino?”

  Sal shook his head, taking a small swig from his glass. “It’s principle.”

  “It’s suicide.”

  A dry, unmistakable laugh cut through the room. Corrado turned his head to where Carlo stood, casually leaning against the wall. “Since when are we cowards? We don’t back down or ask for permission. We take what we want.”

  Sal nodded. “I’m glad someone here gets it.”

  “Of course,” Carlo said. “And don’t worry about it, Boss. You need their cooperation? I’ll get it. I have ways. You know these kind of deals are my specialty.”

  A sinister smile twisted Sal’s mouth. “I know I can count on you.”

  Murmurs filtered through the room in waves, but Corrado remained silent, waiting until Sal dismissed them with a flippant wave of the hand. He stood up, nodding to the boss before heading out of the mansion.

  Corrado drove straight home, finding his house dark and quiet. There was no sign of Celia anywhere, and for once, Corrado was grateful to return to an empty home. He packed a bag, not even bothering to turn on a light, and scribbled a quick note to his wife.

  Don’t wait up for me.

  Celia wouldn’t. She didn’t anymore. She knew if he hadn’t arrived by a certain hour, he likely wouldn’t make it home that night, so she would go to bed with nothing but hope in her heart that she would see him the next day—alive and well and about as whole as a man like him could possibly be.

  * * *

  Corrado headed to the airport that night, buying a ticket on a red-eye flight to Washington, D.C. His plane landed close to dawn and he rented a car, driving to a small diner on the other side of Arlington, Virginia. He had been there twice before, years ago, in the company of the man he was looking for that morning.

  The quaint diner was fairly empty at that early hour, all of the booths vacant, with a few customers scattered along the stools around the bar. A bell above the door chimed when Corrado walked inside, everyone casually turning to look at him except for the one he was there to see. Corrado slid onto the stool beside him, their elbows ever so slightly brushing. The man tensed, a cup of coffee halfway to his lips, as his eyes slid toward Corrado.

  Corrado tipped his head slightly in greeting. “Senator Brolin.”

  “Uh, Mr. Moretti.” He set his cup down before glancing behind him, cautiously surveying their surroundings. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to speak to you,” Corrado said.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  Corrado shook his head as he peered at the man. “You come here every morning for coffee, two creams but no sugar, and a wheat bagel with a bit of strawberry cream cheese before heading into the city for work.”

  Shock registered on the man’s face. “How . . . ?”

  “Oh, give me some credit, Senator. You think I don’t do my homework?”

  Senator Cain Brolin hailed straight from New York City, born and raised near Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan. He hung with the wrong crowd growing up, had befriended some unlikely men before running for office, and it was through those men that he had crossed Corrado’s path. He, along with another senator from Illinois, had been involved in a labor scheme years before with the New York and Chicago families, rigging bids on government construction sites so Mafia-controlled companies got the jobs for a hefty profit.

  They still did it, as far as Corrado knew, but Salvatore had been cut out of the scheme long before, deemed too much of a risk.

  A waitress walked up before Senator Brolin had a chance to respond, interrupting their conversation. “What can I get you, dear? Coffee?”

  Corrado shook his head. “Just water. I—”

  “He doesn’t drink coffee,” Senator Brolin said. “It upsets his stomach.”

  Corrado stared at the man as the waitress walked away. “I see I’m not the only one who pays attention.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Moretti.”

  They were quiet until the waitress returned with Corrado’s water. The two men moved to a booth in the back, away from nosy ears and prying eyes.

  “So what do you want?” Senator Brolin asked, picking at his bagel but eating none. “You aren’t a man who makes social visits.”

  “True,” Corrado said. “And I don’t want something . . . I need something.”

  “Look, if it’s about your pending case, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Dr. DeMarco. I can’t really—”

  “It’s not about that,” Corrado cut him off, his eyes narrowing. “DeMarco? You spoke to Vincent about the RICO case?”

  “Yes, a few weeks ago. He contacted me.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Uh, I don’t know, really. We didn’t get that far. He asked what kind of influence I had within the justice department, if any. I told him my hands were tied there and the conversation ended.”

  That made absolutely no sense to Corrado but he shook it off, making a mental note to come back to it later. He didn’t have time to be concerned about what his brother-in-law was up to. There were more immediate things needing to be dealt with. “Well, like I said, this isn’t about that.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “There’s a new place in Connecticut Salvatore wants to do business with—Graves Resort & Casino. Guy named Samuel Graves owns it.”

  “I know of it,” Senator Brolin said. “Graves grew up with the underboss of the Calabrese family. He’s a friend of mine. They both are, actually.”

  “I figured that much. And the Calabrese family isn’t our biggest fan these days. The Amaro family, the Geneva family, sure . . . I still have connections. But the Calabrese family?” Corrado shook his head. Sal had offended them one too many times. “Without their approval, no deal.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I need you to get this partnership to go through.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why?” Corrado scoffed, leaning back against the booth. “Because they’re going to push for this to happen one way or another, whether it is done amicably or otherwise. They’re already making plans to escalate the matter. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Senator, what might happen if a war breaks out between New York and Chicago.”

  Senator Brolin continued to pick at his bagel, his eyes downcast as he quietly sat deep in thought. “Why this casino?” he asked finally. “You have men down in Vegas already. Why not focus there?”

  “Too much attention in Vegas,” Corrado replied. “The gaming commission is all over us. Half of us can’t legally step foot inside a casino there, myself included. We have to look elsewhere.”

  “Fine.” He shoved his plate aside, glancing at his watch before meeting Corrado’s eyes. “I’ll talk to some friends and see what I can do.”

  “Good.”

  “You’ll owe me,” Senator Brolin said, tossing some cash on the table before standing. “You know how it goes.”

  “Absolutely,” Corrado said. He would expect no less. “A favor for a favor.”

  “Precisely.” Senator Brolin put on his coat, shaking his head. “Although, to be honest, keeping the peace is a favor to all of us . . . and it seems to be getting harder and harder as the years go by. I don’t know what’s gotten into that boss of yours.”

  “Yeah,” Corrado said to himself as the man walked away. “Me neither.”

  * * *

  Corrado was back home by dusk that night. He walked into his house to find his wife fast asleep in their bed, her cell phone clutched tightly in her hand. He pried it out, setting it on the small wooden stand beside the bed, and kissed her warm forehead before leaving for his club to do some work. It was a Thursday—the busiest night of the week for his business. The weekends were usually reserved for family dealings for Mafiosi, celebrations and obligatory dates with wives, whereas Thursday night was when the men let loose.

  He stepped into Luna Rossa, waving off the security guard when he jumped to attention, and strolled toward his office in the back. His footsteps faltered about halfway there when the Boss’s high-pitched voice called his name.

  “Corrado!” Sal gestured for him to join them at the booth. “Come, have a drink. Celebrate with us!”

  “What are we celebrating?” Corrado asked, pulling a chair up as he motioned for his favorite waitress. “Bring me my usual.”

  “We’re celebrating the casino deal,” Sal said. “It’s finally gone through.”

  Corrado raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  The waitress walked over, holding out a small glass full of clear liquid to Corrado. “Here you go, sir. Top shelf. Chilled, just as you like it.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” Corrado reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash, holding it out to her as a tip. She took it and scampered away as Corrado took a sip from his glass. The cold liquid soothed his throat, going down smooth.

  FIJI Natural Artesian Water. No one ever asked him what he drank. They all preferred dark liquor—scotch, brandy, sometimes even bourbon—so they didn’t bother inquiring about what was in his glass.

  “Carlo didn’t even have to do, uh . . . whatever it is he does.” Sal motioned toward Carlo sitting off to the side, his arm around a young blonde woman. “Seems they came to their senses on their own. Called about an hour ago and said the deal was on.”

  “That’s great,” Corrado said, taking another drink. “It’s good to know who we can count on these days.”

  12

  The black dress shoes, half a size too small, made it difficult for Carmine to wiggle his toes. The suit, crisp and brand new, was stifling, the material scratching his skin as he rode in the passenger seat of Corrado’s Mercedes.

  Uncomfortable, he tugged at his blue silk tie. It suffocated him, like a noose tied around his neck. He wanted nothing more than to loosen his collar and take off the coat, maybe even kick off the damn shoes, but he was pretty sure that would only irritate his uncle.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Corrado asked as if on cue, cutting his eyes to him from the driver’s seat. “Stop fidgeting.”

  “I’m trying.” Carmine shifted in the seat and pushed the small switch to lower the automatic window, but nothing happened. Corrado had them locked. “It’s a furnace in this car. I’m sweating like I’m in a fucking sweat box here.”

  “Such a way with words,” Corrado deadpanned. “I advise you to keep your day job.”

  Carmine rolled his eyes. Like he had a choice. “Do you have the heat on or something?”

  Corrado shrugged him off. “It’s just your nerves.”

  He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. They were heading to a party at Sal’s house and Carmine was on edge. He hadn’t wanted to go, making excuses to get out of it, but even the social gatherings were mandatory.

  “Stay away from the alcohol tonight,” Corrado warned him.

  Carmine looked at him incredulously. Not drink?

  “You’ll be in a room with some of the most dangerous men in the country,” Corrado said, noticing the question in his expression. “You’ll want to be coherent.”

  “Why?” Carmine asked bitterly. “I thought we were all family.”

  “We are family,” Corrado replied. “And you saw what I did to my only sister.”

  Carmine’s stomach lurched at the memory.

  * * *

  By the time they reached Sal’s mansion, Carmine was pouring sweat. He took a deep breath, trying to relax as he followed his uncle to the door. A young girl swiftly opened it for them. She didn’t speak, nor did her eyes move from the floor.

  Once they were inside, she closed the door and positioned herself against the wall out of the way. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen, a skinny girl with blonde hair and pale skin.

  Carmine eyed her cautiously, knowing what she was right away. Her body language, the way she slinked into the background like a chameleon blending in with its surroundings, told him a story no words would ever say.

  The pressure in his chest nearly bucked his knees as he thought of Haven.

  “Carmine! Corrado!”

  Sal’s voice drew Carmine’s attention away from the girl. His godfather approached, his arm around his wife’s waist. She scowled, sipping a glass of champagne, refusing to lower herself by speaking to any of them.

  “I’m glad you gentlemen could make it,” Sal said, pulling away from her to hold his hand out. Carmine fought a grimace as he pressed his lips to the back of it, near the man’s massive gold ring.

  “Of course,” Corrado said. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Sal raised his eyebrows, dramatically looking over Corrado’s shoulder. “And your wife? Where is Celia this evening?”

  “She’s feeling under the weather tonight,” Corrado replied.

  “Ah, such a pity. Send her my well wishes, will you?”

  Corrado nodded, and it took everything in Carmine not to roll his eyes. There was nothing wrong with Celia. She had just refused to spend her evening with them.

  They delved into conversation and Carmine lingered there, knowing it was expected of him. People sought out Sal all evening long as they arrived, and he always made a point to introduce them to Carmine. He plastered a smile to his lips as he played along with the game—pretend to like them, pretend to have fun, pretend there’s nowhere in the world he would rather be.

  Pretend he didn’t want to fucking punch somebody in the face.

  Each minute felt like forever, the two hours that passed an entire lifetime in his mind. Sal constantly chattered, boasting and bragging as he showed off for Carmine. He was being groomed, he realized. Sal was already trying to mold him into one of them, a puppet, a soldier, by poisoning his mind with thoughts of money, power, and respect.

  He waited until Sal was drunk before slipping away from the group, hoping he would be forgotten. The smile fizzled from his face as he strolled through the house, heading straight for the drink table. He grabbed a small glass and filled it from an open liquor bottle, disregarding Corrado’s warning. The burn lessened the pressure in his chest, unwinding the knots and loosening his taut muscles.

  He leaned against the table as he drank, his attention shifting to the front door. Hours had passed, yet the girl still stood there, as silent and still as ever. He studied her, wondering where she had come from and how long she had been trapped in Sal’s home. He couldn’t recall her ever being there before.

  She snuck a peek after a moment, tipping her head up slightly so her blue eyes met his. Her brow furrowed when she saw him watching her, and she dropped her gaze again quickly.

  “What’s your name?” Carmine asked curiously.

  She peeked up once more but didn’t have a chance to respond before laughter sounded out behind him. Carmine turned at the noise of a clinking liquor bottle and froze, the glass nearly slipping from his hand as he stared at the badly scarred face. The familiarity took his breath away.

  “Her name’s Annie, I think,” Carlo said, casually pouring a glass of scotch.

  “Abby,” the girl whispered, her voice shaking as she corrected him.

  “Not that it matters,” Carlo continued, shrugging. “You can call her anything you want.”

  Carmine couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. Everything about the man screamed vile, from his callous words to his horrid face. “I prefer to call her by her name.”

  Carlo looked over at him, studying him carefully. “DeMarco’s kid.”