"Isn't it always? When it comes down to it, it's always either you or them."
He's got a point there, although I'm not going to admit that. I'm not giving him any more credit than I have to. If any more ego squeezes into the narcissistic brain of his, nobody will be safe.
"Almost two years," I say, "and you wait until now to say hello?"
"Eh, what can I say? I wasn't sure what to make of you. The man Carmela spoke of sounded a hell of a lot like the friend I remembered, the one who saved my ass, but the guy I saw when I got here? He was different. So I kept my distance, because quite frankly, I was trying to decide what to do about it."
"I'm assuming you've decided."
"We're here right now, aren't we? Besides, it would've been a pity to have to kill you."
"You really think you could've?"
"Maybe," he says, casually shrugging a shoulder. "Glad we didn't have to find out."
The conversation is over at that.
I glance at my watch. A few minutes before noon. I'm standing here in broad day, wearing my favorite suit. The sun is shining, but it's doing nothing to provide warmth. It won't be long now until winter is upon us, blanketing New York with snow.
I'll be long gone before that happens, though.
Long gone.
Although, a small traitorous part of me is worried this is a mistake.
I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't do this.
I should just go.
Run.
But I don't have it in me.
People who run are being chased.
I'm not going to let that happen.
Not now, not ever.
So maybe, this time, I don't know what I'm doing, but I do know I have to do it.
There's just no other way.
I fix my tie and smooth my jacket before setting my focus on the house. It looks quiet, still, but looks are deceiving. There's nothing benevolent about this place today.
At exactly twelve o'clock, the front door cracks open. They're watching, waiting...
I don't expect it any other way.
"Go time," Lorenzo says, waltzing right past me, practically glowing with excitement as he heads toward the porch. He's going to enjoy every second of this. I know he is. There's a bulge at his hip, his oversize shirt mostly concealing it. I only know it's there because, well, it always is.
Some things just never change.
Go time.
I follow Lorenzo right up to the house. A man stands there, wearing all black, guarding the door. He lets us in without a word. A few men are gathered around, coming together to lead us down the hallway, toward the thick set of doors. They stop there, but Lorenzo keeps going, shoving the double doors open and strolling right in.
Four men sit inside, at the long wooden table, each of them dressed in their best suits. The heads of the four remaining crime families in the city have gathered together yet again for little ol' me.
A fifth chair is still empty.
Guess that one now belongs to Lorenzo.
They don't seem happy about it as he plops down in it, not awaiting an invitation, not offering any sort of greeting, like there's no question about his importance. Official or not, he's one of them. He's earned that spot. He leans back, kicking his feet up on the corner of the table, crossing his legs at the ankles.
Genova looks like he wants to shoot him right in the face.
I've been acquainted with the man for about two decades. He's hostile, and bitter, and about as selfish as you'd expect him to be. He doesn't do dirty work, though. No, that's what his men are for. His own little bloodthirsty army. He's a ruthless general.
He doesn't like it when others try to invade his space.
Stepping into the room, I close the doors behind me, reaching over and locking them. Always lock the doors. The men are too preoccupied by Lorenzo's antics to even notice what I'm doing.
"Weapons on the table," Genova demands, his voice bordering on a growl as he tries to contain his animosity.
I step forward and stand there, right in front of the table, reaching into my pants pocket, retrieving my same black ink pen. I set it on the table, but Genova pays me no attention.
He knows I've got nothing else.
He's not talking to me, though.
He's looking right at Lorenzo.
Lorenzo, who treats his gun like American Express. Don't leave home without it.
Sighing dramatically, Lorenzo reaches into his waistband, pulling out the Colt M1911. He waves it in the air, as if to say 'you got me', before setting it down on the long wooden table.
Seemingly satisfied, Genova finally looks at me, but Lorenzo clears his throat, interrupting. "Weapons on the table."
Genova glances back at him. "What did you say?"
"I said weapons on the table," Lorenzo says. "Come on... don't even try to pretend that I'm the only one in this room packing heat today."
"This is my house," Genova says. "I'm in charge here."
A smile turns Lorenzo's lips. "Got me there."
Genova tries to veer the conversation. "Vitale—"
"But," Lorenzo chimes in, stressing the word, as he drops his feet to the floor, suddenly sitting straight up. "Correct me if I'm wrong—"
"You're wrong," Genova says.
Lorenzo ignores that. "But these things, these meetings, are governed by a set of rules, rules put in place long before you took over… long before these meetings were held in your house. You don't just make this shit up as you go. Even the president has gotta follow the Constitution."
Genova shakes his head. "This isn't a fuckin' democracy."
"So I've been told," Lorenzo says. "Word around town is you're a bit of a dick-tator."
That sets Genova off. I can see him tense, his anger flaring. Before he can react, though, the others interject, pulling out their guns and laying them on the table.
Rules are rules.
We all have to follow them.
Begrudgingly, Genova pulls out a gun from a concealed shoulder holster. He sets it right in front of him, still within reach, as he glares at Lorenzo, not liking that the man one-upped him.
The smile returns to Lorenzo's lips.