My older brother Al calls me as I’m driving home.
“What’s up?”
“Meet me at Angelo’s,” Al orders, referring to the Italian coffee shop that’s been a Family haunt for the past forty years.
Fuck. “Be right there.”
I drive to Angelo’s and plop down across from Al at an outdoor patio table. Valentina, the old woman who runs the shop, brings over a double espresso without me asking. Like most of the old haunts in our neighborhood, the LaTorre’s own the place on paper, although Valentina and her husband still run it. This is one of the many businesses I launder our cash through.
“Thank you, Valentina.”
She sets a plate of cannoli in front of Al, who is there alone.
“What’s going on?” I ask when she’s out of earshot.
Al’s been my boss since about the day I was born. He’s my half-brother, fifteen years older, which makes him more of a parent than a sibling, and he’s always been the one who rode me the hardest—harder than our father, even.
Al made sure I beat the shit out of any neighborhood kid who stood up to me before I even started kindergarten. Al taught me the rules of the street. The rules of vengeance. The rules of crime. The rules of death and honor. Al was my capo when our father was still alive, had ordered my first hit, and sponsored me to be “made” when I was only seventeen.
“Stan Matranga bought a house here in Forest Hill.” Al inhales a cannoli in one bite.
The Matrangas are the other organization in Jersey, and the two families have been in a constant state of chess with each other for the past fifteen years. Strategizing about the game is, actually, one part of my job I enjoy. Al listens to me first, over Vito, his underboss, or Carlo, his protege from Sicily.
“Oh yeah? You paid a visit yet?”
“No, I’m sending you.”
Well, fuck.
This is not a part of the job I relish. I’m the money guy. I handle accounting. Wash the cash receipts, and try to make everything look legit. I don’t want to handle the actual threats on the street.
I’m not the enforcer.
I’m sure Al knows I hate this shit, yet he orders me into the fray anyway.
I keep my face blank and nod. I don’t know why he doesn’t send Carlo, who loves conflict. But, of course, Al’s groomingmeto take over as don if something happens to him. I have to be his second-in-command. Not to mention the fact that Al’s life goal is to make sure I’m not a pussy, a suspicion he seems to have held ever since he noticed I preferred sharing my toys to fighting over them.
“All right. I’ll stop by and ask what the fuck he’s doing in our neighborhood.”
“Good. You want to bring back-up?”
I consider. I’ll be visiting as an emissary, which means it’s doubtful I’ll get whacked. I might get beat up, but knocking off the boss’s brother would start a war. Of course, moving into Forest Hill was a shot across the bow, so maybe they wanted war. “I’ll go alone.”
Al considers me. I hold steady under the gaze. Now that I accepted the job without flinching, I suspect Al’s worried about me. This is always the way with him—he throws me to the lions, and then he paces beside the pit until I come out safe and sound.
It’s one constant test after the next.
“Is that all?”
Al sits back and shrugs. “You in a rush?”
“Course not.”
He unwraps a cigar and lights it.
“I went to see Sophie Palazzo today.” I don’t know why I shared it with him. Small talk, I guess. Or because the taste of her is still on my tongue.
“Yeah? How is she?” I realize Al sent me to Sophie as a check-in. A message to her, perhaps that one never leavesLa Famiglia.