I slip in behind my four men and dart to the side of the room.
I stay at the very back of the pack, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone as my men move forward, pushing their food trolleys.
The dons are all seated around a table in the center of the suite. I count each one, ticking their names off the list in my head.
Maggadino.
Ambrosino.
Guzik.
Juarez.
Ruwindu.
Bufalino.
That sadistic motherfucker, Kovar.
And lastly, Budimir.
My men circle the room, but no one pays them any attention. That is the beauty of posing as the staff—you become virtually invisible.
Even my uncle’s eyes slide right off my face as if he’s never seen me before.
I can see a visible fault line between the dons. Budimir sits in the center of the lavish meeting hall, his feeble attempt to conquer the room off to a poor start by the look of things.
On his right sit Maggadino, Ambrosino, Guzik, Juarez and Ruwindu. The legitimate dons. Battle-tested, diplomatic, wise. They look displeased.
On his left sit Bufalino and Kovar. The sewer rats of the underworld. Grinning like rats in a slaughterhouse.
The tension is palpable, but Budimir is projecting an air of calm. I know him well enough to know that it’s all a fucking façade.
He’s treading on thin ice. He may control the Western coast, but his hold is tenuous at best. He’s one turf war away from extinction.
It isn’t enough to have power.
You need to hold it, too.
I notice Ruwindu’s gaze flicker to Kovar with distaste. He is the youngest of the reigning dons, only a few years older than I am.
The snake tattoo snaking up his arm disappears into his sleeve and reappears at the nape of his neck.
It appears to move as he adjusts in his seat. Like it too is pissed at Kovar’s unwelcome presence at a council meeting.
“I’ll have some of that champagne,” Kovar says, clicking his fingers towards Maxim, completely unaware of who he is.
I’ve only ever seen pictures of the asshole, but he’s bigger and more disgusting in real life. His tattoos are just as ugly, a multitude of unintelligible etchings, heavy on the blood-red.
Maxim comes forward, eyes downcast, and offers him a tray of champagne. Kovar snatches one with a flourish and downs half the glass in seconds.
“What a party!” he crows, clearly aware of the open hostility in the room that’s directed at him. “I hated to miss it these last several years.”
“You were exiled for a fucking reason,” Maggadino intones harshly.
“Not a good reason,” Budimir interjects, before Kovar can get a word in. “Kovar should have been included in the council meetings from the beginning.”
“Stanislav was threatened by my presence,” Kovar replies. “Which is the only reason he convinced you all that I was a menace. Why, I wouldn’t hurt a butterfly!”