by Landon Beach
“It should be thought of as a contribution, but Don Russo sees it more as a legacy. And leaving legacies is dangerous in our business.” His uncle already knew this, which is why he had been such a stabilizing force within the Detroit family. The family was not made up of just one family, but many. The ‘family’ was a true association, and that is why it had been so successful. Its members intermarried, keeping the familial bonds strong and making it almost impossible for undercover agents to penetrate. If anyone could speak to the word legacy, it was the man sitting in front of him now; in fact, his uncle’s legacy was to condition members of The Association to not think of legacy.
Don Ilario “The Smile” Russo was currently on his deathbed at home—stomach cancer, the man had immense appetites—and hadn’t been seen in public for almost a year. As Underboss, Fabian had handled almost all of The Association’s business, and the machine had been running smoothly—until recently. Don Ilario, backed up by his longtime Consigliere Silvio Verratti and the Don’s son Ciro “Ace” Russo, had broken with the tradition of taking ten percent of the total take and had demanded fifteen percent. Ciro was contemplating upping it to twenty percent when he became the boss. Fabian let his uncle know this.
Papa Pete sat forward and poured them both more Chianti. “Silvio...my old fellow capo, he knows better than to allow this. They won’t be able to keep the necessary number of soldiers on the payroll.” His uncle’s eyes became glassy pools. “We had it all in front of us in those days. Liquor. Pockets bursting with cash. Women.” He glanced up at the ceiling, and his face said that he was in tremendous emotional pain. Pain that Fabian thought accompanied remembering how you once were. “I never slept back in those days, unless it was with one of God’s beautiful creations. Vanni is still with me. Now that lady, my dear nephew, is God’s art.”
“There’s more,” Fabian said.
His uncle put the wine bottle back inside the chiller and frowned.
“I’m being demoted.”
The move was uncommon but not unheard of. However, when it had happened in the past, it meant that there had been either a pattern of careless behavior that had jeopardized the institution or a mistake so unforgivable that power had to be stripped. Careless behavior usually came from escalating drug use, which is why in the Detroit Association, it was discouraged. Absolutely, sell the hell out of pot, cocaine, and heroin—just don’t use it. Unforgivable mistakes included sleeping with another made man’s wife, cutting a deal with the feds and becoming a snitch, or screwing up a business opportunity beyond repair. Fabian had deduced that his upcoming demotion had nothing to do with any of these reasons. A week ago, in private with only Consigliere Verratti as witness, Don Russo had held Fabian’s hand from the comfort of a hospital bed that had been wheeled into the bedroom of his home and told Fabian that he had been a superb Underboss, a man of honor, and that he should retire early and live the rest of his days in luxury and peace just like his Uncle, Papa Pete. “Of course, you will be given a substantial cut of money because of your service, and men will continue to respect you,” the Don had said. The sentiment was heartfelt—he had been an excellent Underboss—but the masking of the real reason behind an ‘enjoy the rest of your life’ gift made his heart knock against his ribs. The real reason was...
“They see you as a threat, Fabio,” his uncle said, finishing Fabian’s thought. “From what I hear, the narrative that has been established behind your back is that you have not moved with the times—that you are inferior when it comes to running the family through more technologically advanced means. A Don for the future is needed, and you would represent a leader who is stuck in the past like Don Ilario. We both know the propaganda is false. You have moved with the times and are just as in-step with today’s gadgets as Ciro is.” If the family business was a basketball game, then his uncle saw the court from the rafters above—seeing every player, every movement, the open lanes, the closed lanes, the slimmest of opportunities to take advantage of or hide a player’s weakness or capitalize on a team or player’s strength. He always appeared to have lightning-quick reflexes; he could sniff out or sense a threat before anyone else. He was also the most organized man that Fabian had ever met. His planning and foresight took care of potential problems before they became problems. This, and many other reasons, was why his advice was so sought after.
“True,” Fabian said. “And they also don’t want to give up their percentage.”
“They’re used to it now,” said Papa Pete. His eyes drifted away from the table, settling on the window that looked out at the calm lake water. “Silvio...Silvio...oh, what have you done, my old friend?”
Silvio Verratti had been a close friend of his uncle since childhood. Together, they had made their bones four houses down from his current home. In 1965, a member of the family had made an unpardonable mistake out in Las Vegas, where The Association was expanding its territory. Silvio and Pietro were called to the legendary Don Giovanni Russo’s mansion on a warm July night. Both boys were eighteen, about to head off to college in the fall. They entered the Don’s house, where they were greeted warmly by his butler and then taken out back to the pool. There they saw the great Don, who would rule The Association from 1946 until 1978, seated at a pool lounger. In front of him, on his knees and held by two large men, was the Las Vegas traitor. The two boys were brought around the side of the pool to the Don, where he explained what the man on his knees had done. They saw the man’s hands tied behind his back with heavy rope; his feet were also bound. Then, the Don told them that it was time for them to make their bones before going off to be educated by a bunch of soft bellies at the university. The boys nodded, and the two men holding the traitor picked him up and threw him into the pool. The Don simply said to the boys, “Kill him.” For the next few minutes, they took turns holding the man underwater until he was dead. After that, Silvio and Pietro had a brother-like bond. Now Silvio was being complicit in Pietro’s nephew’s demotion—an unfair demotion at that. Fabian hoped to rouse his uncle’s anger even though he knew he would never see it—only feel it.
“Who do you command loyalty from?” Papa Pete said.
Fabian exhaled. The real business was about to be discussed. From this point forward, there was no turning back. “GiGi, of course—”
“Of course,” his uncle said.
“The Street Boss is not happy with the fifteen percent; I know that for certain. He will go with me.”
His uncle started to eat again. He always ate heartily when difficult business was being discussed. After chewing on a bite of sandwich and washing it down with wine, he said, “That’s an important man to have.” He took another bite of the sandwich.
“The Caporegimes are a bit tricky. My son has put out some feelers, and the Abruzzi brothers will go along with us. Casale and Scala are a tough call. They don’t like the situation, but they are close with Ciro—more so than they are with Leo.”
“So, three and three. What about Florida, Canada, Ohio, and California?”
Papa Pete didn’t miss a detail, for he was a man of numbers. In addition to his organizational mastery, he had turned The Association’s gambling operation into a quarter-of-a-billion-dollar-a-year business in the 1980s. He who controls the numbers controls the business. The out-of-state members were important to have, but letting them in on the possible power move was too risky. And his uncle knew that. What his uncle wanted to know was which way Fabian thought they would tilt if Fabian moved. What were the numbers? The players were all key members in the family’s machine: Dante “Miami” Marino in Florida, Nico “River Nicky” Colombo in Canada, Michael “Buckeye Mike” Romano from Toledo, and Paolo “Sunshine Paulie” Esposito out in California. As Underboss, Fabian had met with all of them, but the two with whom he had worked more closely with were River Nicky and Buckeye Mike.
“Miami Marino and Sunshine Paulie will accept whoever is in charge. They just need to know who to send their product to, and, more importantly, who is providi
ng security for the transfer. I’ve never had a problem with them. They won’t stick their necks out to help, but they’ll accept me. River Nicky and I are tight, which makes my demotion a difficult move for Don Ilario. We’ve never lost a shipment of heroin, and Nicky is the best in the biz.” He took a piece of Bruschetta and bit it in half, the crunch highlighting the end of his sentence. “Mike grew up two houses down from me—he’s with us,” Fabian added, his mouth half-full, as an afterthought.
“Us?” His uncle asked.
The moment of the meeting had arrived. Fabian took a drink of wine to help swallow the Bruschetta. “Uncle Pete, no one knows the business better than you do, which is one reason you are so respected.” He leaned forward. “And you are both liked and feared.”
His uncle’s eyes narrowed, an intensity in them he had not seen today, but his body was in a relaxed posture that made him all the more intimidating.
“I should be the next Don, and I have the means to achieve this. If I succeed, I want you to come out of retirement for a few years and serve as my consigliere.” Fabian let the offer hang in the air. Then, he leaned back and said, “Naturally, one of your jobs would be to help me select my long-term consigliere, and when this is done, you could go back to being semi-retired.”
His uncle did not move but eventually said, “More.”
“The details would have to be fine-tuned,” he said, pausing to let the statement find its mark, “and there is no one better at doing that than you.” Fabian took a controlled breath and exhaled. Be direct. “Four hits: the Don, Ciro, Ciro’s driver Big Joey, and...Silvio.”
His uncle motioned to the Strega and the two glasses. Yes. Fabian relaxed as he poured the yellow liquid into both glasses. He passed one to his uncle, and they drank. He shuddered as the liquid slid down his throat. He had forgotten the jolt that the liquor gave him.
His uncle grinned. “You need to drink more of this.”
“Perhaps I will when I have your answer,” he said—more bluntly than he had intended. Papa Pete’s grin disappeared.
“Great danger, Fabio,” his uncle said. “Many ways it could go wrong.” He took another sip of Strega. “And only one where it goes right.”
And the one where it goes right is if I have you helping me. Without his uncle, he would not be able to make the move—his uncle knew this because Fabian would have already moved if it weren’t so.
His uncle sat, seeming to measure him. “There appears to be something you’re not telling me. How can I advise if I cannot see all of the numbers?”
There was something, but he had hoped to persuade him without having to discuss the topic. Now, he had to talk about it. He needed Uncle Pete. “I have said that the Don is taking fifteen percent.”
Papa Pete nodded in agreement.
“But I believe it to be more. The revenue has been too high the past few years compared to the profits being paid out. I have methodically narrowed it down to one wing of the family business, and you’re not going to like it.” The information would be his best chance to persuade him now because it would hit his uncle where it hurt the most: the numbers. “At first, I didn’t notice because the amount was so small, but when Don Russo appointed Ciro to oversee the majority of the illegal numbers business, I noticed the profit start to shrink. Finally, I was able to get a member of his crew to let slip what was going on.” He now looked directly into his uncle’s eyes and, for the first time, matched the cold stare. “All of your hard work running the figures and managing a system you had built to last has been eroded—the skeleton is still there, but the organs are dying one by one. I need you back. I believe that Don Russo, with Silvio and Ciro’s help, has stashed away an immense amount of money somewhere. Money that should have been distributed to me and the rest of the family. I intend to find it, and I intend to give you whatever you need to rebuild and modernize our gambling operation. If Ciro becomes Don, then soon there will be nothing left to distribute.”
Papa Pete took a drawn-out breath, but instead of exhaling through his mouth, he blew the air out of his nostrils as if he was a dragon flame-spraying an enemy to death without mercy in that popular TV series he had been obsessed with. What was it called? Ah yes, Game of Thrones. A title that described his present predicament perfectly.
I may have him.
“What are your plans for Angela and Stansie?”
Angela Russo was the now rarely-seen wife of Don Russo. Beloved by the members of The Association, she was not only a friend of Fabian’s but also a close friend of Papa Pete’s. The Don’s nickname may have been “The Smile” for his welcoming hard-to-say-no-to grin, but it was Angela’s smile of approval that family members longed to receive. Fabian knew that with the Don’s declining health, Angela had been meeting Papa Pete to play bridge every Friday afternoon for the past two months. Seeing her husband’s decline was too much, and his uncle had provided a sanctuary for her to escape the misery for a few hours. The Don had approved.
Stansie Russo was the family’s black sheep, who, against all odds, had recently become the golden child. She was young, spoiled, and a former drug addict, and Fabian had hoped that her situation would work itself out. It did work out, just the other way. To everyone’s—mostly his—amazement, she had met a tall Anglo-Saxon who had helped her get and stay clean. As a reward for rescuing his daughter, the Don had made the man his head groundskeeper and allowed him to live in a room down the hallway from Stansie. Only if they were married could they share a room, which in Fabian’s mind was ridiculous, as a maid had confided to him that the pair were sharing Stansie’s room and each other’s bodies from sunset to sunrise. A part of him was happy because her turnaround meant that he would no longer have to manage the payments to the rehab facility. She had turned her life around, matured, and, unfortunately for her, become a silent force behind Ciro’s rise to power. Fabian wouldn’t kill her immediately. By now, she had to know where the money was hidden. He would get the location out of her first and then orchestrate the vanishing of her and her gardener boyfriend. But there was another reason behind his disgust for Stansie Russo. There had been an agreement between the two families that Stansie and his son, Leonardo, would marry—the wedding one day taking place in the Don’s back yard like all of the other Association weddings. The relationship had started well, with Stansie being the first and best piece of ass that his son had ever had. But then, in high school, they had drifted—Stansie to marijuana, Leo to bathroom blowjobs from pretty underclassmen who knew about his family. Fabian had not been concerned. He had been young once. The families always thought the couple would reunite, and all would be well. And it almost happened. One day in college, after sharing his bed with two co-eds at the same time, Leo claimed to have an epiphany: He still wanted Stansie as his bride. The problem was that by the time he realized this, she had graduated college and graduated to LSD, cocaine, and eventually heroin. Then, Don Russo had done something no other Don in The Association had ever done: He called Fabian and Leonardo into his office, apologized to them, and then broke the arrangement. Leonardo was free to marry someone else because the Don’s daughter was forever lost to a more powerful suitor. Yes, rehab would be arranged, but in the Don’s eyes, it would not matter. His little girl was gone. Fabian had never forgiven the Don for this slight.
He told his uncle all of this.
“We should have Marino arrange for Angie to have a nice quiet place on the beach in Florida. There, she can live out the rest of her days in peace,” his uncle said.
He had figured this would be his uncle’s position—had a soft spot for family members not involved in the family business. “They should remain untouchable,” had been his firm stance. Well, let the old man think she would be safe. In time, she might find out who was responsible for killing her husband and children, and then no human could suspend the lust for revenge. He would let “Miami” Marino get her settled in and then take care of her quietly a few months after. Papa Pete would not need to know about it. The story
he would hear is that she died of a broken heart.
“That’s what I was thinking as well,” Fabian said.
His uncle took a drink of water. “Shall we finish lunch?”
Fabian watched as he dipped the end of his sandwich in a pool of olive oil and then took a bite. This signaled that nothing more needed to be discussed. His uncle would think it over and give him his decision before Fabian left. He picked up another piece of Bruschetta, smiled, and took a bite.
The killing would start soon.
4
Grosse Pointe Shores, Michigan
1 Week Ago…
It was nearly 4 p.m., and Conrad Cranston stood naked beneath the outdoor shower by the Russo’s pool house. Only his head and feet could be seen as the rest was hidden behind the bamboo cube. The cool water needled his hot skin, and he took cavernous breaths as his tight muscles felt the relief. He had a deep tan from the never-ending mowing, edging, trimming, planting, and maintenance of the lawn and mammoth landscaping beds that surrounded the house and property. His blonde hair was professionally cut to just above one of his dress shirt’s collar and was even lighter now after the long hours outside. He rubbed coconut oil shampoo through his thick locks, enjoying the sweet smell, and then massaged his scalp. He had nowhere near the talent of their hairdresser’s healing hands, but he had learned enough to now believe that the de-stressing process began with the head and ended with the toes. He rinsed the foam from his hands and squirted a blue glob of body wash into one palm and then began to rub it all over his thin, taut body. His belly fat had disappeared after a month of morning workouts with Stansie, conducted by a trainer her mother had hired for them. Because of that, he was arguably in the best shape and best health of his life. He owed it all to his sweetheart. They had found each other at a low point, well, the lowest point; she was hooked on heroin, him on cocaine. Usually, this familiar American story ended in death: When two addicts got together, it just accelerated the process—sometimes by the drugs, sometimes by the addicts killing each other for money to get another fix. If they hadn’t found each other, one of these scenarios would probably have led to two more casualties in the cesspool of drugs. But, in the ever-present unpredictability of life, Conrad Richard Cranston had found luck and the light out of the darkness once again. Instead of heading toward an inevitable outcome, they pulled each other out of the black hole.