by Bethany-Kris
He indulged his mother, bending down to kiss her again before straightening to his full six-foot, four-inch height again. Something else he had taken from the male, Italian side of his family, and not the short, pale-skinned genetics of his mother’s Acadian Français side.
“And show off that new suit!” his mother shouted at his back.
Gian waved a hand over his shoulder, offering nothing else.
He loved his mother dearly. As a child, he had been enamored with her ability to never fail, never falter. She always wore a smile, and she had loved her husband, unwaveringly, through his many faults. If possible, he would prefer to have a woman like that. Silent strength and steadfast love.
Wishes, however, were not for made men whose lifestyle—one governed by the rules of Mafioso—was meant to benefit la famiglia, not the individual man. Especially not one like Gian.
As it were, he had been given too much privilege being born with his last name. According to some, anyway.
Gian navigated the halls of the mansion, heading up to the second level where he knew he would find his father and grandfather. Usually, he would meet his grandfather—the boss of their Cosa Nostra famiglia—at his home across the city, but tonight had been a change in scenery, for whatever reason.
From all the way down the hall, Gian could already hear the Italian murmurings between a father and son in the office. It never failed to amuse him—or confuse the fuck out of people he brought around as a younger man—that depending on which part of the house a person was in, the language could change. From French, to Italian, to English. Some, like he and his siblings, or his parents, could easily navigate between the three languages without issue in both reading, writing, and conversing.
His half Italian, half French, but fully Canadian family was certainly … colorful.
In more ways than one.
Well, considering the men were criminals and the women were wives of those same criminals, he supposed that led a little credence to the color.
Gian’s presence was instantly noticed when he stepped foot in the opened doorway of the office. His grandfather—Corrado—sat in one of the many chairs, while Gian’s father stood next to the windows, peering out over the darkness that had settled outside on the massive, private property.
“Il mio ragazzo!” his grandfather greeted.
“Ciao, boss.”
Corrado made a face. “No boss nonsense tonight.”
Gian nodded. “All right. I interrupted a conversion, didn’t I? The Raptors game, I think. Someone thinks they’re going to lose the next one.”
Corrado passed Frederic a look. “They’ve been on a streak. Every time that damn team goes on a streak, they choke.”
“Oh, they do not, Dad,” Frederic argued. “They’re the best basketball team in—”
“Merda! You only believe that nonsense because you’re attached to the team.”
Maybe Gian should have left the conversation lie with his arrival. “Argue about sports on a night when I don’t have somewhere to be, huh?”
His grandfather’s sharp, dark gaze skipped to him in the doorway, but the irritation was quickly replaced with the sort of mirth only an eighty-five-year-old man could have. Perhaps had it been another made man, and had Gian’s tone not been so playful when he spoke, his grandfather might have gotten up from his chair, ready to discipline his subordinate as only a Guzzi Don could.
But it was Gian.
And this was his Grandpapa.
He often got away with more than he should.
Gian tried not to abuse his grandfather’s affections. Corrado only looked old on the outside, as his mind was still as sharp, volatile, and prone to violence as it had ever been. He didn’t let Gian get away with very much when others were around.
Others not including Frederic, of course. Gian’s father was not a made man like he and his grandfather. Those rules of respect did not apply.
“You’re late tonight, Gian. You almost missed me, I was going to head home and go to bed. It’s been a long day.” Corrado pushed up from the large leather chair, wincing a bit as he stood. “My bones are getting too old to be up this late.”
“You will not, Dad.” Frederic jumped into the conversation from his spot at the windows. “It’s late, you don’t need to be driving all the way across the city tonight. You can sleep in the room you like upstairs. The one with the terrace overlooking the backyard.”
“I like that room in the spring, when the birds are back from wherever the hell they go for the winter.”
“You’ll stay here,” Frederic said firmly, shooting his father a look. Then, he gave his son a smile. “Did you say hello to your mother?”
“Would she recognize me as her son, otherwise?” Gian asked back.
“Point taken.” Frederic finished the last of the whiskey in his glass, and set it on the corner of his desk. “I’ll leave you two alone, then. Keep it at a dull roar, Dad. The room upstairs will be waiting when you’re done.”
“Yes, yes.” Corrado waited until his son was gone from the office, and the door was shut, before he spoke to Gian again. “The new club is opening tonight, sì?”
“Opened a while back, actually. This is the first night I’m going in to see the place in action. It’s fashionable to be late, or so I’m told.”
His grandfather chuckled. “Only when a boss is not involved, or …?”
Gian smirked. “Or you are the boss. I know, Grandpapa.”
“You have to learn, Gian, even the stupid, small things. Someday, I won’t be here to repeat this same, old shit to you every day of your life, and then who will? How will you remember when the time is most important?”
“You’re going to be here forever,” Gian said, “so what in the hell do you mean?”
“Not forever.” Corrado sighed, turning to face the window. “I’m as old as dirt, and you know it. There are too many people who continue to remind me of how old I am, Gian, and how it would be better if I stepped down for—”
“Fuck those people.”
A dark laugh escaped his grandfather as he turned back around. “Yes, what you said.”
Unfortunately, what his grandfather said had a lot of merit. Most Cosa Nostra bosses did not live long enough to see eighty-five. Never mind the fact that Corrado had already held his position for forty-five years. Bosses usually retired their seats before their age started to become too prevalent, as no good made man wanted to be seen as weak or senile to his men.
And now, their famiglia had gotten to a point where there were, at times, three generations sitting around the table with a voice wanting to be heard. His grandfather’s generation, men of his father’s age, and then their sons, too. Younger made men who didn’t get much of a voice.
Gian didn’t fall entirely into the young Capo category, considering he was his grandfather’s underboss with his own seat at the table, but he understood and sympathized with their frustrations.
“Well, I’ll send you off then, since there’s nothing to chat about that can’t wait until morning,” his grandfather said, passing him by with a clap on the shoulder.
“My evening is never as important as you are. I can wait.”
“It’s fine, just the usual nonsense with the men. I was thinking maybe we could work to erase some of the lines between the generations if we sat down and talked about it, but it can wait until tomorrow. Enjoy your evening, Gian, and behave.”
Gian scoffed. “I behave.”
“Define that word, and then we’ll talk.”
Corrado was already leaving the office. Gian followed behind his grandfather, only separating at the stairs, where Corrado went up, and he went down to the bottom level of the wing. He expected to leave, as his visit was over, but he found his father waiting at the front door, and nursing another glass of whiskey.
Frederic didn’t see his oldest son approach, and for a moment, Gian was struck at how young his father looked in the dim light of the hallway. It was almost like looking in
to a mirror, although an older one.
All the men in his family shared the same dominant traits—a strong, squared jaw, brown eyes with gold flecks, a nose with a straight, sharp slope, and lips that, even when not smiling, almost seemed to be pulling into a grin of some sort, just from their shape alone. Even their hair was the same dark brown, from his youngest brother Domenic, to their grandfather. Gian wore his hair slightly longer, leaving a bit at the top to be styled if he wanted, while keeping the sides sheared short.
“He didn’t keep you up there long,” Frederic noted.
“You know how he is.”
“I do.”
Something in the lilt of his father’s tone caught his attention, and not in a good way.
“What is it?” Gian asked.
“Corrado needs to slow down, Gian.”
“I’m aware. Tell him that.”
“I have, and so have his doctors.”
Gian’s brow knotted together. “Pardon? He won’t go to his doctors for more than a checkup or a flu shot.”
Frederic glanced down the hall, behind Gian, as though he were looking for someone to be standing there. No one was. “He’s not going to tell you, if he didn’t tonight.”
“Tell me what?”
“That he’s not well. Some strange results showed up in his bloodwork. He went in a month ago to have another round of tests.”
“He didn’t tell me about any tests.”
His father sighed, tipping his glass higher for another sip. “I think he tells no one. I know because I’m the surviving son, I need to know.”
Gian didn’t like where this was going. “What is it, then? What’s wrong?”
“Colon cancer, it seems. Aggressive. He’s supposed to start treatment within the week, but you know how he is.”
Corrado wouldn’t put himself in any situation that would give another made man in the organization a chance to point at him and call him weak—unable. This would do that, entirely. But not getting aggressive treatment would mean certain death, wouldn’t it? If the cancer was already at an aggressive stage …
“Does it matter if he gets treatment?” Gian asked quietly.
Frederic’s gaze dropped to the floor. “It’ll give him a bit more time.”
“Be specific.”
“A year or two, with treatment. Six months, maybe, without.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Gian grimaced as pain shot its way through his whole body all at once.
“I’m sorry, Gian,” Frederic murmured.
He loved his family. It was what Italians did.
But his grandfather?
It was far more than love. It was respect, and an adoration that had followed Gian since he had been a young boy under his grandfather’s feet. His relationship with his grandfather had always been different. Sometimes difficult, always strong, and never wavering.
“I … don’t know what to do,” Gian said lamely. “Do I bring it up to him or no?”
“It’s up to him, either way. He’s eighty-five; he’s old and wise enough to make this choice. Don’t ask him, or tell him you know, if he doesn’t bring it up to you first.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
He didn’t like it, but he understood. Apparently, like his grandfather, Gian was supposed to simply pretend nothing was wrong. And in six months, when it all went to shit, where would that leave him?
Gian didn’t know.
“Try to forget about it for the night. You’re young, Gian, and he knows that, which is probably why he didn’t want to upset you tonight. I’m not like him, though, and the longer you were made to wait before being told, the angrier you would be. Enjoy your time, deal with the rest another day.”
His father’s words seemed simple enough. That didn’t mean they would be easy to follow.
Gian bypassed the line at the front door of the new club—Danza—and went in through a back entrance where he had a man standing guard. He nodded a greeting to the enforcer as the man stepped aside, and held the metal door open.
“Busy, Raul?”
“Packed full, boss.”
Always respectful.
Always appropriate.
It was the little things, like calling an underboss “boss” whenever the actual boss wasn’t around, instead of his name. Made men appreciated those things and remembered when it was time to give a man his in to the family. Although, Raul had been given his button years ago.
Gian clapped the guy on the shoulder. “Good. I won’t be long, and then you’re free to do what you want for the rest of the night.”
“Thanks, boss.”
Gian moved through the back hallways that were used for storage, and then up the spiral staircase that led to the offices. One for the manager, and one for his personal use. He didn’t run the club full-time, but it was nice to have a place to hide away if the need arose.
Waiting papers rested on his desk, and Gian quickly flipped through what the manager had left for him. He tossed the papers aside again before moving toward the one-way mirrored windows that covered a whole portion of one office wall. He surveyed the people down below, looking for faces he recognized in the crowd.
Only a couple stood out.
But it was a couple of faces he gave a shit about, too.
Stephan Zito and Constantino Rossi sat in the sectioned off VIP area of the club at a circular booth that allowed their backs to be at the wall, while their fronts faced the crowd. Both were Capos for the Guzzi Cosa Nostra, though Constantino was closer to Gian’s age, while Stephan was nearing his mid-thirties.
Gian put up with Stephan for the sake of respect, but otherwise, he didn’t have a lot of patience for the guy. Constantino, however, had been one of the few men Gian had grown up with—a friend from childhood. Those were hard to find and keep in their world.
It was too damn bad that Constantino enjoyed Stephan’s company a lot more than Gian did.
Gian brushed off the irritation at seeing Stephan in his club, his gaze passing over the other people sitting in the booth with the two men. An enforcer for both Capos sat opposite to them at the booth, and a familiar woman sat beside Stephan.
Bambi, Gian thought her name was. Stephan’s goomah.
The guy was not very quiet about the mistress he had, not that it was exactly required for him to be so. Made men were a lot of things, but faithful didn’t have to be one of them. Especially, if their wives didn’t make too much of an issue out of it.
Gian’s gaze skipped to the woman sitting on the other side of Constantino, her red hair—a fiery ruby shade that was almost shocking under the lights of the club—set in perfectly-managed curls fell halfway down her back. That was all he could see of the woman, but guessing by the way she kept her body angled away from Constantino, she was not his date.
Gian wondered who she was, or rather, how she had gotten into his VIP section with made men. He planned to find out.
Five minutes later, the bouncer at the roped-off section of the VIP area stepped back to allow Gian through. On the way, Gian had grabbed a glass of whiskey at the bar, the one drink he would allow himself for the evening. It didn’t look good for a man to be drunk and acting foolish, even in a place he owned that was meant for drunken foolishness.
“Gian!”
A smile split Gian’s lips at his oldest friend’s shout. Constantino was already pushing his way out of the booth, offering little more than a fast apology to the redhead sitting beside him.
“You’re late,” said his friend.
“The boss called. I sent you a text and said I had to run over to Ma’s.”
That was all he gave as an explanation.
Constantino didn’t ask for more.
“Well, you’re here now and—” Constantino’s words cut off as his gaze fell on someone in the crowd over Gian’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed, and Gian knew then that whoever his friend had recognized was about to wish that Constantino hadn’t seen him. “He owes me a grand, that fucking
cocksucker.”
“All right, try not to break anything while you’re in here, huh? Keep any blood spills to a minimum.”
Constantino flashed a grin. “For you, always.”
“Yeah, yeah. Play nice.”
“Whatever you say.”
He smacked Constantino hard in the back of the head as the guy walked past him, dark laughter escaping him as he ducked an incoming swing from his friend.
“You’re getting slow, cafone,” Gian taunted, his back now facing the booth that Constantino had come from. “You’re supposed to be the young one here.”
“Give me fifteen minutes,” his friend shot back. “We’ll see how slow I am.”
Then, Constantino was gone, disappearing from the VIP section and off into the swelling crowd of people.
“I see you finally climbed off your grandfather’s dick long enough to show your face around here, Gian,” came a voice from behind him.
Gian stiffened, his teeth grinding. Reason number too-many-to-count why he hated Stephan Zito.
Turning slowly, Gian faced the grinning Capo at the booth, paying no mind to the other people at the table. “Do you want to try that again, Stephan?”
“No, I think I got it right the first time.”
“Do you? Think really hard, now. You’ve got some time.”
“Well—”
“Because I’m pretty fucking sure that to you, his name is boss, and nothing else. And if we’re going to be talking about climbing on dicks, I’ll let you take the lead on that one, since you seem to have quite a grasp on which man likes which dick the best. You’re the only one speaking up about it, anyhow.”
Stephan’s face reddened.
Gian only smiled.
“Stephan, grab me another one of these, would you? They’re delicious.”
Bambi’s high voice broke the staring contest between the two men, making Stephan look to his goomah’s hand, where she held out an empty martini glass. The girl was smart; Gian had to give her that. It was not the first time she had stepped in to divert her man’s attention and kept him from getting his face broken.