Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  “My brother has a perfect sense of timing,” he tells me, stroking my cheek. He even helps me up from my knees as though I’m the delicate one, when his whole side is blooming yellow and violet, and then he goes out to the other room. I hear the door opening.

  “Fuck!” says a deep male voice from the other side. “Jesus Christ, put your junk away!”

  “You interrupted me, Frank,” Lucifer says in this cool, autocratic voice. I lay it away in my memory, ’cause I know that’s what he’ll sound like all the time when he really hits it big.

  I’ve never been so fucking sure of anything in my life as I am of this guy. It’s like a conversion experience.

  Chuckling at myself, I stroll into the other room where Lucifer has left the door open for his brother.

  “Yo,” I say with a raised hand when Brother Frank walks in, still complaining.

  “Aw, come on!” he says, throwing up his hands when he see me in all my naked glory, too.

  “Finch,” I say, walking across to offer a hand.

  He actually shakes it. “Frank. What the fuck happened to my brother?”

  I give a shrug. Up to these two to sort that out. “I just cleaned up the mess,” I tell him. Frank looks a lot like his brother: tall, dark, with the same blue eyes, only my guy is sharper, more refined in his features. Frank looks like he’s caught a fist in the face more than a couple of times, his nose large and twisted. His ears are cauliflowering. He looks older than the both of us, but it’s hard to tell what’s age and what’s injury when a guy’s been fucked up enough times.

  Lucifer waves a cut-it-out hand at the both of us. “I’ll tell you all about it later, Frank,” he says, and turns away. “I just need my clothes.”

  “What the hell is that on your back?” Frank asks him, his face screwing up.

  “Cum,” I tell him, grinning. “That, Francis darling, is a physical manifestation of the love your brother and I have shared.”

  Frank turns away, putting his hands up towards his head like he wants to cover his ears but knows he’s not nine years old anymore. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. He adds, “And it’s Francesco, dipshit.”

  Lucifer reappears. “Where the fuck are my clothes?” he asks me.

  I have to think about it. “Oh, yeah. I sent them for cleaning when you were asleep.”

  “Well, shit,” Frank says. “Look at little Suzie Housewife here.”

  Lucifer and I both ignore him. “You can take something of mine,” I tell him with a shrug. I don’t know how well it’ll fit him—he’s way longer in the legs—but I have sweats he can take. He follows me to the bedroom again. Frank waits in the living room, grumbling loudly.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, as I grab out pants and a hoodie. He ignores the question and pulls on the clothes, staring down at the Harvard crest on the front of the hoodie. “My Pops’ alma mater,” I say. I want to keep him here, this sinful demon of a man, for as long as I can. Forever.

  So I talk.

  “Pops wanted me to go there too, but I took some time off after high school and now, I don’t know, I’m thinking something more arty. Or maybe, like, drama school. My sisters tell me I’m a drama queen all the time, so I figure, why fight destiny?”

  Lucifer squints at me.

  “Georgie, come on!” Brother Frank hollers from the other room. “I got places to be!”

  “Georgie?” I grin. “Georgie.”

  The guy looks pained, and not from the contusion taking up half his side. “That’s not my name.”

  “Then why—”

  “It’s what Frank likes to call me when he’s looking to piss me off. I can’t return these clothes. And when you get mine back, you should get rid of them.”

  “Mm,” I say. “Well, you know, I’m fond of that hoodie. I like showing off that my Pops went to Harvard.”

  “And you, too,” he says back. “Eventually.”

  “Ooh, was that a burn? You don’t think I got the chops to tell my daddy I don’t wanna go to Harvard?” I give him a smirk, but I hate him a bit, nonetheless.

  Because he’s right. I don’t have the sack to do my own thing, because I have this crazy idea that maybe doing what Pops wants me to do will make him like me more. Besides, he says he won’t shell out anymore if I don’t get my ass to Harvard, and I love Pops’ money as much as anything else in this life right now. Money is the only thing that makes existence bearable for me.

  Except maybe this fucking guy.

  I follow him back into the other room like a puppy, dancing around his heels, in front of him, trying to slow him down. “You don’t have to go yet—we can order up room service. Frank, you could eat, right?”

  “Dude, I don’t know you,” Frank says, bored.

  “But you will,” I assure him. “I’m amazing.”

  “You ready, Georgie?” he says, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.

  Allegedly-Not-Georgie turns to me, and I can see it. He wants me, just as much as I want him. There’s a fire in his eyes and it’s one I lit.

  “Stay with me, Georgie,” I say. “Stay with me and make me your New York Queen. Marry my fortune, take my lands, use my body to sire your heirs.”

  “Uh, it doesn’t work that way, dude,” Frank snorts, shaking his head.

  But I don’t even glance at him. I’m busy staring at the love of my life.

  Maybe it’s the remnant of those drugs from last night, or maybe it’s Fate clobbering me over the head. But I’ve known it since I saw his blazing aura on the dance floor at that shitty nightclub. This is it for me. He’s it for me.

  “I’m in love with you,” I tell him.

  He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know you right down to your fucking blood cells. And you know me. Don’t walk away from me.”

  He kisses me for that one, and I put my whole being into that one kiss, because it’s my only shot.

  I guess it’s not enough, though, because he pulls away from me. There’s regret in those eyes, but he blinks it away. “Have a great life, angel,” he says.

  “You done it again, Georgie,” Frank sighs, as my eyes begin to sting with tears.

  Lucifer and his brother leave without another word.

  Chapter Six

  LUCA

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  When faced with the prospect of his own mortality, every man becomes a mewling pile of flesh.

  I’m standing over the latest fool I’ve had to beat down on orders from my Capo, having an existential crisis about how alike all humans seem to be. They’re always such a disappointment by this stage, when their teeth are broken and their spirit along with it.

  If I had a heart, it might affect me. But my reputation for being calculating, cold and merciless is well-earned. I’m not the muscle, not myself. But I give the orders, and more importantly, I have the ideas. I know how to break a man. I deploy the appropriate tool at the appropriate times. Sometimes that tool is the fist of one of my men; sometimes it’s a quiet word in the ear of our target.

  What it comes down to is this: I know how to make a man cry.

  And now here I am, a made man, despite my so-called unnatural desires, and all I can ever think about is how small-time these crooks are that I run with. What a waste of my time it is to be tasked with these jobs. How I need to better myself so I can take what’s rightfully mine. The city, yes. But ever since that angel with the green-gold eyes opened my own to the possibilities, I’ve craved even more. But before I even get started, I need an awful lot of self-improvement.

  And before self-improvement, I have to deal with this crawling, puking bag of flesh before me. The boys have done most of the handiwork. I’ve been using the stick instead of the carrot so far, but I think it’s time now to change tack.

  “Come on, O’Leary,” I sigh. “Just tell me what I need to know so I can let you go.” This guy is old-school; I was almost starting to despair he’d ever tell me what I need to know. The Irish have
n’t been serious players in this city for a long time, but I can see how they’ve clung on to pockets of power here and there. Sheer fucking obstinacy.

  Jim O’Leary here, for example. He was a faithful bodyguard to the Donovan family for years, until the drinking got to be too much of a problem. They cut him off without a second glance a few months back. The guy is stubborn to the end, though. He’s taken more hits than Muhammad Ali in his heyday. But he’s almost there, I can tell. He just needs a little more persuasion.

  I crouch down next to him, trying to avoid getting his blood on my shoes. “They kicked you curbside, those swanky Donovans,” I remind him. “You’re not beholden to them.”

  He looks up at me, or tries to. Both his eyes are closing over, puffed out and blackening. “I tell you, you kill me,” he pants.

  He has a point, and I’m running out of time. “I won’t kill you,” I say. “We’ll have to keep you here until we have the package, but I’ll let you go after that. You have my word.”

  He tries to laugh at that. “What good is that?” he asks, spitting blood. But he doesn’t spit it on me, at least, which tells me something.

  “I keep my word, once given. Besides, you have no other options.”

  O’Leary sinks down onto the ground again, whimpering. “But he’s a good kid,” he says at last. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Maybe if his papa plays nice, he’ll go on being a good kid.” That’s a lie. I’ve been given a direct and explicit order on this hit: the Donovan kid dies to teach his old man a lesson. But I know O’Leary wants an excuse to spill. Something that’ll ease his conscience. “Come on, now,” I urge him. “Be reasonable. My boys are tired of punching you, and you’re tired of being punched.”

  He cries then.

  I hate this part, when they cry, even though it’s what I’m best at. But in general, I’m uncomfortable with emotion.

  Frank, across the room, smirks at me, and I think about his damn nickname for me. He used to sing it at me every time I came in from a one night stand; every time some twink came knocking at the door, begging to see me; every time they rang the phone and pleaded for one more night with me.

  Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie.

  Kissed the boys and made them cry…

  Men used to cry over me because they loved me. Now they cry for other reasons.

  I take the white and red polka-dotted handkerchief from my top pocket and wipe away the sweat and blood rolling into O’Leary’s eyes. The handkerchief came with the suit I’m wearing, and I thought it looked good on the mannequin in the store. It’s ruined now.

  “Come on, Jim,” I say softly. “I want to show you mercy. Give me what I need, and I will.” I’ve learned over the years that the motherly touch is what makes them break all at once, but you have to time it just right. After the gut punches and the broken bones. It works here just like it always does.

  Weeping and choking on his own tears, he gives me the information I need.

  I look up at Frank, who nods, and beckons to another two of the crew, and the three of them head out together on their mission.

  I look at the two guys left with me and sigh, gesturing at the Irishman. “Get this cleaned up. Make him presentable for our guest.”

  O’Leary begins wailing at that. “No, no, no, Mr. D’Amato! Please, please don’t let him know I turned on him, I love that boy like he’s my own son—”

  “If that were true, you would rather have died than tell us where he is,” I point out. “The deal was that you get to live, O’Leary. Whether you’d rather die isn’t my concern. You’ll have to wait until we’re through with the Donovan kid. And then, well, I guess his father might have something to say about your involvement.”

  I leave him to my men, who’ll hose him down and tie him to a chair to wait for the arrival of Howard Donovan the Third, beloved son of Howard Donovan Junior. How these rich folks can’t afford to give their kids new names I’ll never know.

  Howie Three vanished years ago after the hit on his mother, Orla Donovan. He’s kept out of the gossip rags and off all social media, too, which must have been a feat in this day and age. All I’ve managed to dig up about him is that he went to a fancy private boarding school, got kicked out of Harvard after one semester, and has a drug problem that Daddy keeps quiet for him in between rehab stints. I guess Howard Junior wants to make sure his son is still fit to take over the family business when it’s time. I also know that Howie Three is gay, but with three daughters before he finally popped into the world, I bet his sexuality doesn’t make much difference to his aging, billionaire father.

  No, I bet that kid had anything he wanted growing up.

  And now he’s just about to turn twenty-four, and my Capo thinks it’s time he became a player in the game. Well—not a player, but a pawn.

  The Irish Mob have been making waves lately. My seniors corralled them and controlled them before I was even born, but some of the Boston gangs seem to have new plans for New York City. Donovan pretends to have cleaned up his business, but lately he’s been tugging against the very generous leash we Italians have given him in this town. He owes my Capo, Sam Fuscone, enough to justify a kidnapping of his son, but Sam Fuscone has never been known for his restraint. He’s ordered a hit instead.

  Problem is, he hasn’t run it by the Boss, Augustino Morelli.

  I said I’d take care of it when Fuscone ordered it because I’m a good soldier, even if I think it’s a stupid idea. But then, Fuscone is a stupid man, as well as greedy. His hold on power is wavering, which makes him hold on that much tighter. But I can sense the loyalties shifting around him. His lack of control over his own impulses make the other Families nervous. Fuscone’s been up before the Commission more than once to explain himself, but he has just as many friends as enemies in high places.

  Still, if I play my cards close to my chest, I could move up another rung on the ladder by Christmas, make Capo myself, run my own crew. God knows I pretty much run Fuscone’s for him.

  We’ll see.

  This shitty warehouse we’re in doesn’t have a shower, but in the grimy bathroom I wash off my hands and trash the handkerchief. I wait up top in an old office that looms over the warehouse floor so I can watch Frank come in with our prize. This is the part where all I have to do is wait and think, and I prefer to do that alone. I can see O’Leary below, still sniveling, tied to his chair, spirit defeated. Two of my crew are guarding him, Mikey and Snapper, but there’s no fight left in the Irishman now. He knows now it would have been far kinder for me to execute him.

  But I happen to think betrayals should be done face to face, not behind backs. I want Howie Donovan the Third to see the face of the man who betrayed him before he dies. I also want O’Leary to be clearly visible in the video we’ll send to Howie’s dad. Then it will be up to Donovan and the Irish to decide how to deal with O’Leary.

  Really, I’m doing them a favor by pointing out a weak link.

  It’s almost four hours later by the time Frank and the boys get back. We’ve gone dark on comms, but I trust my brother to deliver. It’ll be a while, because they’ll have to take care of the guards before they pry Howie out of the safe house. But Howie himself should be easy cargo. He’s no fighter, and high as a kite most days to hear O’Leary tell it.

  I couldn’t help the disgust I felt at that tip. Drugs, booze, sex…I’d never let any of them take over my life, and I look down on people who do, even though the only man I could have loved indulged in the same.

  I’ve been thinking about him during the wait, as usual. My mind wanders down old familiar pathways more often these days. I’ve relived the memory of him enough times that it should be worn out, but every time I still feel that rush of connection, that shock at finding him just by chance: the one man in all this hellish world I could have loved, given the opportunity.

  And every time I get to relive that feeling when I left, like he’d sewed his soul to mine when he stitched up my arm, and I had to rip us in
two again. It left me gaping for a long time. Bleeding out emotions I never thought I had, emotions I’ve never felt again.

  I wonder what he did with my clothes. I still have the hoodie, although of course I never wear it. I used to bury my face in it just to smell him again, but that scent wore out long ago.

  The roller door on the warehouse starts to clatter and clash its way up; Frank and the boys are back. O’Leary starts wailing again, calling on the saints to save him.

  I watch the old white panel van drive onto the warehouse floor, and Frank jumps out from the driver’s seat. He looks up at me and I flash him a thumbs-up. But he shakes his head grimly and makes his way over to the stairs that lead up to the office.

  I wait. There’s no point making a scene and running down to demand what’s gone wrong. Knowing Frank, they got a flat on the way or something. He makes a big deal over everything, as though he can’t see when something is important and when it’s just a nuisance. As long as the Donovan heir is alive and well for now—even if he’s in a drug-induced coma—it’s all fine. We just need him breathing long enough to kill him on camera.

  And I can see he’s still with us, because as the rest of the crew pull him out of the back of the van, he’s kicking and twisting away from them, only he can’t see anything thanks to the bag tied over his head. Joey Fuscone drops him with a quick punch to the solar plexus, and I’ll have words with him about that later, because it’s unnecessary. The kid’s a fucking junkie, how much trouble can he possibly be?

  I open the office door and watch Frank stomp up the metal stairs. His face is grim. “We gotta problem,” he says.

  “Did you get the kid?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then we don’t have a problem.”

  “Georgie, listen to me, we do gotta problem. This kid—”

  I push by Frank and make my way down the stairs. “I don’t have time for your worries, Frank,” I tell him as I pass by.