Page 11 of Savage Enemy

Back to business, Vignali.

One of the men had a foot and hand braced against the door to keep it open, while the older one stood there quietly.

He wasn’t much older than me, mid- to late-thirties, similar height and build, wearing a black, well-tailored suit that legitimized his menacing presence.

Discomfort settled in my gut.

He had the same almond-shaped, light blue eyes as Valerie.

The asshole with his grip on my door was much younger.

His eyes matched hers too.

This one had tattoos covering his neck, disappearing into his hair. Scars marred some of his skin, and I would have wagered the ink covered more scarring. Marks that hid a story he didn’t want to share. A baby-faced thug with a past.

I could see it all in a single glance. One of the benefits that came with being the only surviving son of a crime family.

Yes, I’d seen this pairing many times before.

The businessman and the enforcer. The heir representing his family in a professional manner and the thug who broke bones when deals couldn’t be brokered. One offered a dangling carrot while the other held the stick.

Christ, I was bored with their cliché-as-fuck show of force.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?” I asked.

Really, I just wanted to go back upstairs to Val and demand answers from her. Tie her to my bed and edge her until she gave in and spilled all her dark secrets. Not boring at all.

Young Thug snarled at me.

The Heir stepped in front of him and extended a hand, offering me respect.

“Don Vignali,” he said, “I’m Marco Moscatelli, and this is my brother Santo Moscatelli. We’re here from Chicago because you’re currently in possession of something that belongs to our family, and we’d like to have that back.”

I arched a brow. He could keep his fucking handshake.

“You being here on my doorstep violates the New York–Chicago treaty. I’m sure you understand I can kill you for that.”

The treaty existed for a reason. Chicago lacked the civility for which the New York families were known. At least we smiled cordially before stabbing you in the back, and we did it only to protect the bottom line.

Always about the money.

Money drove New York City in every way, which meant the prominent dons could be reasoned with if profits were shared. Sure, at times some of the made men got too greedy, but even then, New York had a method to its madness.

Chicago had no such compunction. They craved violence for the sake of violence, money be damned, blood first. Anyone could find themselves in a lucrative deal in Chicago and die the next day just because one of the bosses felt like offing them.

Wars in Chicago broke out constantly. The news couldn’t stop reporting all the shootings. Stupid fucks.

Not only did an underground war cost everyone millions, but it also cost lives, and a family couldn’t easily replace those lives. Every made man had a dollar value tied to his experience and skill.

Wars also brought publicity.

Politicians only worked with a don they could pretend wasn’t a mafioso. Hard to portray a legit businessman when your mugshot graced the front page of the newspapers.

“Who took what?” I added. “We can come up with a civil arrangement, put it behind us, and you can go back to your second-rate city.”

I noted the hostility in my voice. This was my house. They were on my doorstep. They needed to keep that in mind.

Young Thug took another step forward.

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