Page 2 of Angelo's Vengeance

AGE: 11

Even though Iwas only eleven, my father loved taking me around with him on all sorts of his Santelli mafia crap. Training, he said.

I had learned not to interfere with what he and his men did. I was supposed to learn the business so I could one day take over and keep the Santelli name alive. That meant when my father introduced me to people, I was supposed to nod and keep my mouth shut. On a good day, I had problems with that.

“This meeting we’re going to is important.” His fingers drummed on the leather seat, ignoring Umberto, who pulled away from our house in silence. Staff knew that my father preferred no conversation or interaction fromthem unless asked specifically. Umberto’s job was to drive, protect, and, if necessary, die. In the Santelli mafia, the soldiers were disposable toys to my father. Their value was negligible.

“Now, this meeting we’re going to is important,” his fingers drummed on the leather seat. “You can’t fuck this up for me Angelo.Hai capito?”

“I understand.” It was the only response that could shut him up.

Once I was a don, I wasn’t going to drive around in a crappy Lincoln Towncar, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to have a driver like I was helpless. My father had no sense of style when it came to cars. When I grew up, I’d make sure my cars reflected who I was—a badass. No more of this bullshit. It would be Ferraris for me.

“The meetings are all important.” The reply sounded robotic as I stared out the window while Umberto navigated through the Bronx toward the club where this pointless meeting was supposed to take place. My father grunted in agreement, satisfied with my response, as he scrolled through his emails.

He had already filled me in on most ofwhat would happen at this meeting. It had been planned for months. The Santelli mafiafamigliawas going to sign an agreement with the Volkov Bratva, the O’Kelly mob family, and the Anthakos… not sure what the fuck they did. Shipping, maybe? Smuggling of some kind? My father was all hot for the agreement because it would give him better and safer trade routes for his shady deals. He wanted to move up in the hierarchy of the organized crime families, and the Italian mob life wasn’t cutting it.

I tried to keep occupied by watching the cars pass and imagining the ordinary lives of the people in them. Sometimes, I wished for a normal life for myself and my siblings—maybe without guns and deals with the devil, but maybe that’s all my life would ever be.

The club was a dump.

A neon sign flickered weakly above the entrance, half the letters burned out, making it read more like “LUB” than anything else. The smell of cigarette smoke and beer clung to the air, thick and unshakable even outside. A bouncer leaned against the doorframe, barely glancing at us as Umberto pulled up to the curb.

I slid out behind my father, wrinkling my nose. “This is where we’re meeting them?”

“It’s neutral territory,” he replied without looking at me, already adjusting his suit jacket as he strode toward the entrance. “That’s what matters.” He glanced at me briefly. “If you can’t meet someone on your own turf, then you meet them on neutral ground. You check your shit.”

My father liked to drop these pearls of wisdom as part of his training. That was when I was expected to nod and keep my mouth shut. I didn’t understand why neutrality had to mean meeting at a shithole, but I didn’t bother wasting any energy on arguing. Instead, I followed him inside, where the lighting was so dim it took my eyes a second to adjust. The place was half-empty, with a few drunks slouched in booths, ignoring us. A woman was working the pole in some half-hearted attempt at dancing, though she looked drugged even to me.

In the back was a full table of men, and the area around them had been cleared. That was obviously where we were headed. My father moved toward them, and I studied each one as we approached. My stomach did somersaultsas I noticed that each of them had kids with them. It wasn’t unusual for mafia bosses to bring their sons with them, but this felt strange, and all my senses began to tingle.

The O’Kelly boss, Cormac O’Kelly, looked like he had just come from working under a car. His red hair was a mess, and a grease stain smeared across the front of his white button-down shirt. He had the build of a man who had thrown plenty of punches and taken just as many to the face. His son, who was perhaps a few years older than me, was the exact opposite of his father. He was dressed as neatly as a pin in a suit that didn’t quite fit his large frame, with his freckled face set in bored defiance.

The Russians, on the other hand, seemed to take pride in their professional appearance. You could probably cut yourself on the pleat of Alexei Volkov’s slacks. He sat rigidly, his suit crisp and flawless despite the grungy setting. His face was sharp and severe, the type that appeared to have never smiled.

“Santelli.” He nodded, his thick Russian accent dripping from his few words, while his dark eyes flicked in my direction once before wholly dismissing me. His son sat beside him,mirroring his father’s cold composure. He didn’t slouch or fidget. He was like ice.

Then there was the Greek—Yianni Anthakos. He was large, his belly straining against the buttons of his expensive silk shirt, and he was already drunk. Distaste coated my throat. My mother was a drinker, and it made her even meaner. Alcohol changed people, and it was rarely for the better.

His thick fingers drummed against a glass half-filled with what looked like whiskey. I had tried it — it was terrible. His kid was the youngest of us, and I already felt kind of sorry for him. Every time his father laughed or got too close, he flinched. He seemed unsure of himself, too thin, with eyes darting as if he were waiting for someone to give him a reason to run. I could have told him that there was nowhere to go and that no one in this world would save him. I had learned that lesson already.

My father took the last empty seat, gesturing for me to sit beside him. I crossed my arms, glaring at the table, already knowing whatever was about to happen was going to suck. Nothing my father did was sunshine andrainbows, but this already reeked to high heaven.

“Let’s get this done,” Alexei said, his Russian accent clipping his words. His lips curled slightly, and I could tell that he found the club as distasteful as I did.

“Volkov, calm down. The lawyer isn’t even here yet. Let’s have a drink first and relax,” Yianni laughed, leaning back with his glass. “Let the boys get to know each other. This is my son, Ilias.” He placed a heavy hand on the poor kid’s shoulder and nearly pushed him face-first into the tabletop.

The kid twisted to glare at Yianni with unfiltered hate, flinching away from him even while his father grinned like a maniac.

“Just getting him used to the business. He’s spent too much time with his mother,” Yianni added. “Try some of this.” Yianni thrust his glass toward the boy and poured himself another generous serving.

Ilias was clearly familiar with his father’s habits since he didn’t bother refusing the glass, but he didn’t drink it either. Yianni had already moved on to animatedly talking with the O’Kelly boss, who was equally unpleasant—no wonder these men had gone intobusiness together. My father and the Volkov pakhan had begun a stilted conversation about an operation on the East River.

I tuned them out and tried not to worry about what would happen when the lawyer arrived. I didn’t know the other boys’ names, but I didn’t care much. The small consolation was that they weren’t happy to be here either. The O’Kelly boy looked distinctly uncomfortable, and that pleased me.

Not fifteen minutes later, a man who looked like he’d blow away in a strong breeze rushed up to the table. “Apologies, apologies.”

He must have been the lawyer everyone was waiting for. The guy looked like a fucking mouse in his outdated suit with his little briefcase. It was hard to believe he was working with the mafia and hadn’t gotten popped yet.

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