Page 103 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
He and Mom shared an arranged marriage of sorts. A total farce, if I’d ever seen one. Back when none of the five American families had gotten along, both of my great-grandfathers thought it would be a good idea to start the first alliance between syndicates, beginning with an arranged marriage between my parents.
It didn’t really work. The Rossi and Romano syndicates weren’t any closer than they had been before the marriage. Not until I came along, bonding the families with something thicker than half-assed marital vows.
Still, it wasn’t like a Rossi would come up here for a few drinks and a Knicks game, but say one did. He’d no longer find himself floating face down in the Hudson River for it. Progress, I’d say.
“She’s my wife. I love her.”
It would have been a convincing statement had Gio not downed two fingers of whiskey after saying it. And that sex scent in the air. Someone with anosmia could smell the pussy clinging to his skin.
I muttered a curse, finally turning to face my dad. “Stop sending mafia bunnies my way, Gio. I’d rather fuck a spiked Fleshlight.”
Giovanni “Gio” Romano intimidated people. He had to. It came with the territory. No one talked to a Romano caporegime like this. Ever.
Apart from me, that was.
It wasn’t like I didn’t love my dad. We had issues—a past I wanted to forgive yet couldn’t—but I did love him. If he kept trying to rope me into the underworld, that love would dry up. He thought that if, by some stroke of luck, I fell in love with a mafia bunny, I’d follow his footsteps in the family business.
Never going to happen.
Not anymore.
That would take nothing short of a miracle, and I wasn’t exactly the type of man to inspire one of those.
Gio ran a hand along his jaw. “We’re not the plague. We’re your family.”
I grabbed the bottle from his hands, forgoing my glass and drinking straight from the rim. “Family. Not co-workers. Not bosses. Family. Jesus Christ, Gio. It's not the end of the world if I don't work with you. I'm happy here."
Not really.
I didn’t need money. My inheritance exceeded the GDP of some countries, and my MBA from Wharton gifted me with the know-how to multiply my investments. I’d fired Lewis and quit my job at Launder, Inc. eight years ago. Managing Asher’s restaurant was something I did to get Gio off my back. It wasn’t my passion. I wasn’t sure I had any passions, except getting laid, but even that got old.
Working here afforded me a little distance from the Romano family business. Technically, this wasn’t a mafia establishment, but despite him leaving the mafia, Asher was close enough to the family that Gio had left me alone for a while.
Until last month.
About the same time Asher had proposed to Lucy, Gio had started stirring this shit up again, pushing the daughters of powerful Romano men my way. It needed to stop like Tila Tequila needed a filter.
“Well, if you're planning on spending the rest of your life managing college kids at a bar”—Gio nodded in the direction of the bartender, though we both knew I actually ran the three-time Michelin star restaurant connected to the bar by the drywall to my left—“you can at least make yourself useful.”
I didn’t take the bait, instead focusing on the last half of his sentence. “What do you want?”
He inclined his head in the direction of my office and stood, not bothering to pay for his drink or tip the bartender, not that the little shit deserved it. We walked there, passing an employee break room shared by the bar and restaurant employees along the way.
My ex Dana winked at me from inside. I ignored her and flicked a piece of lint from my suit lapel. As soon as we entered my office, Gio locked the door. Never a good sign. Fuck me. I was too buzzed for a serious conversation right now.
I didn’t normally turn to alcohol to chase my demons—not even after Gio had betrayed my trust eight years ago—but I wasn't scheduled for work today and Asher, who I would usually be hanging out with right now, had a fiancée who monopolized most of his time. Don’t get me wrong. I love Lucy like a sister, but times like this reminded me of just how lonely I was.
Loneliness your dad is responsible for, the unforgiving part of my brain never let me forget. Loneliness Everett probably feels, too.
I swallowed and sat down at my desk, not bothering to offer a seat up to Gio. He'd take it if he wanted to. That was the type of men we were. Takers. We only gave when it came to the family, and even then, the number of people who shared the Romano name or—like Asher, Lucy, and our current fixer Niccolaio—had worked their way into the heart of this family was slim.
“We need to talk business.”
“My business or yours?”
One of his cufflinks fell to the floor. He kicked it under my desk, removed the remaining one, and tossed it in the trash like it hadn’t cost a month’s worth of rent in Greenwich. “Ours.”
Translation: Romano business.
