Page 7 of Dominance

He’s a cutup, witty. When he’s not given an ounce of authority to abuse.

I get the feeling that he’s been tasked with shadowing me since I’ve been back. Not that I mind the company most of the time, but he’s always popping in unannounced.

Going to need to stifle that soon.

“Hey, Pablo, I’m sorry about that. I’ll replace the curtains. Take how much you need out of the cut.”

“You know I cannot do that, Mister Diamante. I am already two months behind.”

“Why is that?”

“Money is tight. Ever since…”

“Ah. Right.” I can see he wants to say more, complain.

Since Domenico took over. People are scared of change.

So, they shore up their walls, stop spending. They don’t go out on the street as much. And they know better than to speak up or fight back. That’s how you survive.

But it hasn’t been this hard. Not for a long time.

“You know, things didn’t used to be this way when your brother was in charge,” Pablo mutters, catching my gaze.

“Yeah, well.” Way to instill confidence.

But I can’t say much. Can’t make promises.

Even if I miss the days when Alessandro was in charge just as much. He was fair. He was a solid leader. He didn’t threaten people. He made promises and he kept them.

So, when people paid for our protection, we gave it. Backed them up.

Dom is pushing the envelope. Increasing the taxes to fill his coffers.

And so far, I can’t see what for.

Not to mention the fact that he has me out doing grunt work when I absolutely shouldn’t be. Not as his supposed right-hand man.

But that’s the ticket. The key to all of this since I’ve been back.

Domenico pulled me in close, then locked me up. Tied me up in petty tasks and menial management.

And his excuse?

He says he wants me checking the ins and outs on the ground, the low-level soldiers on the street. Says he needs to make sure things are running like they always have, and I’m the only one he can trust to do these “inspections.”

Honestly, I’d be fine with doing grunt work if it wasn’t keeping me from watching Dom and trying to figure out what he’s doing with our organization.

Street work is easy. Simple.

Unlike my job of trying to play consigliere to a conniving madman who doesn’t want my advice. One who is insanely smart, unpredictable, and who seems to anticipate my every move.

Shouldering the door, I tuck the meager pack of cash into my coat and step out. It’s a windy late spring afternoon in Queens.

“You got it?” Stefano flicks his cigarette butt.

“Yep.”

“You never make any of this fun, you know that? Like I’m a comedian and you never let me deliver the punchlines of my jokes!”

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