Page 16 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“Very much mine, fuck you,” Nico bristles, and I laugh. My brother’s possessiveness of his pregnant wife is off the charts. Not that I blame him. She’s the woman who holds the heart—and balls—of the ruthless Don of the Chicago Outfit in her dainty hands, after all.

“Listen,” Nico continues after a slight hesitation, “We’ve got company. The Irish are here.”

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “You have got to be shitting me.” I put him on speaker, so Sal can hear and know I’m not hallucinating.

“Afraid not. They’re at the Urban Elixir as we speak. De Luca reported it himself. They’re not causing a scene, but they ought to know who owns that club.”

My grip tightens on the phone, knuckles whitening. “The fuck are they playing at?”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The audacity of these Irish pricks, waltzing into our territory like they own the place. It’s a goddamn slap in the face.

Nico’s voice cuts through my seething. “Listen, Dante, I called you because I want you to steer clear. The last thing we need is another incident like last time.”

The memory floods back, unbidden. Those two Irishmen hurling slurs at Addy. My vision had gone red, and bullets were flying out of my pistol before I even registered the thought. It had been a fucking mess, reigniting the simmering war between us and the Irish Mob.

I take a breath, trying to calm the rising tide of anger. “But they can’t show up like this, Nico. Not after everything.”

“I know, I know. Just let me handle it, alright? I don’t want you running into them and starting another war.”

That’s where Nico and I are different. I shoot first and ask questions later. He likes to do things the other way around.

“But another war is exactly what they’re asking for, fratello.”

“You don’t know that fratellino,” he replies. “There has to be a reason for their presence. This time, Dante, I want answers, not bodies. Therefore, you and Sal are off tonight. Enzo and Orlando will handle it.”

Like hell they will.

“Nico,” I protest, “I’m literally minutes from the place right now. You’ll be hard-pressed to drag Enzo from under a mountain of vomit and diapers.”

Enzo is a high-ranking Capo and the proud and exhausted father of four-month-old sextuplets. He’s a sharp and dependable soldier, but since his babies arrived, he’s become one of those people who completely switch off when they’re off duty.

“Still, better Enzo than you,” Nico snaps. “I don’t trust nor expect you to shoot straight with the Irish—not since that crap you pulled two years ago. Go home, Dante. I don’t want you doing anything stupid tonight. Capisci?”

I grunt in acknowledgment and end the call, shoving the phone back in my breast pocket with more force than necessary as Sal executes a smooth U-turn.

What the fuck do those Irish want? I’ve stayed away from their precious little princess for the sake of peace, even though it killed me to do it.

I’ve not even stepped into Boston for two years. I’ve been a choir boy, playing by their rules. But do I get a medal from the smug pricks? No, instead, we get shit hurled at us.

I lean back in my seat, my jaw clenched tight. “Turn around, Sal. We’re heading for the Urban Elixir Club, after all.”

“The Urban Elixir? But didn’t Don Vitelli just say—?”

“I know what Don Vitelli said,” I snap, “But we’ve got some Irish gentlemen who seem to have lost their way. The least we can do is stop by and help them find it. Have Pietro meet us there.”

Sal’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t argue. He nods and changes course again, and I catch him trying to suppress a grin. Sal lives for moments like this too. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Besides, there’s nothing like a good old confrontation to reset eroding boundaries.

I may have promised Nico I wouldn’t do anything stupid, but I never said anything about not doing something necessary.

It’s time to remind those pricks just whose city they’re in.

Chapter Five

Adele

“I’m so sorry, Ms. O’Shea,” the woman at the front desk apologizes as she puts the phone receiver down. “The sixteenth floor has been evacuated. The elevators are out of service, and maintenance is still assessing the damage from the fire.”

I’ve been sitting in the huge lobby of the tower that houses Ecolab for the past hour, waiting for an update from Jim Pearson’s contact, or anyone from Ecolab. I’m too high-strung to have the steaming tea offered, I suspect, in a bid to pacify me, so I just cradle it in my hands, letting the heat soothe my jangled nerves.

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