Page 12 of Enemy of Ours 1
ROMEO
“Romeo. What brings you by?” Danny O’Connor grumbles from behind his desk, steepling his fingers over his stomach. When I don’t immediately reply, he raises one thick, orange-red brow.
I love playing with him, so I take my time, enjoying the way he starts to sweat when all that Irish anger is about to burst out. I unbutton my suit jacket and sit down, crossing my ankle over my knee as I take out a cigar and matches. The glow casts an illuminating shadow on my face when I light it and relax back into the leather cushion chair as if I don’t have a care in the world.
“Don’t play coy, Danny boy. You know why I’m here. We haven’t met in person ever since that night, so you know it’s time.” I flick my wrist, letting the match burn out, and take a deep inhale, only to blow the smoke toward him with a sneer.
He’s been a good business partner for many years, but that all changed that night he took the coward’s way out and let my girl get hurt.
That’s when everything came crashing down. It feels like it was just yesterday. But in the darkness, some light shone through, and I got what I wanted in the end.
“Your father would be proud of you, cugino,” Enzo mutters off to the side, cigar smoke puffing from his mouth as he leans back in his seat in the limo.
I nod, clearing the thickness in my throat and rolling down my window to let the smoke out as I pull in a deep inhale. It’s not enough to block the pain in my chest; the overwhelming feeling of grief makes me feel as if I’m drowning, almost like my chest is caving in.
I’ve felt this way ever since I got the news of my father’s passing. I knew for years it was coming; it was only a matter of time before someone put a bullet in Emilio’s forehead. It’s part of being the boss, a man who leads and takes care of the family. It’s now my job. The new fucking Don of the Messina family.
I’m not ready, but then again, I’ll never feel ready. It’s not an easy job. It's extremely dangerous and nerve-wracking to constantly worry about making a mistake that could lead to the death of one of your men. I hold the protection of the family in my hands. Just thinking about it causes my palms to sweat. I grasp a scotch in my other hand, allowing its smooth texture to slide down my throat and soothe my racing thoughts.
“Are you sure this is a good time… We just buried our Don today.” Tony tries again to talk me out of my plans as we pull away from the cemetery, but I’m determined to get this done.
It’s what my Don would have done, and I’ll be damned if I don’t follow in his footsteps. Life moves on, and you have to buckle in for the ride. Just because someone passes away, you don’t stop. You keep going. That’s one of the mottos in the familia. Someone dies… You'd better still show up if you're needed for the business. Your wife is in labor… Congratulations, but you better be where your Don needs you.
“Nothing changes. Business as usual, and O’Connor has some answers to confess if he doesn’t want a full-out war with us.” My tone comes out dark, like my mood, grief taking the back burner as fucking rage sits front row and wants to fuck shit up.
“Of course, boss.” Gemma, my little baby cousin, who’s now a full-grown woman and dipping her toes in the water of the family business, agrees from across the limo, tapping her sharp red nails on the windowsill, deep in thought.
I do worry for her sometimes; I don’t want to see her get hurt, but the family likes to call her Vixen for a reason. She may be young, but she can bring any man to his knees. She likes to use either her looks or her prowess to her advantage. I’ve literally seen her get approval from my uncle Lenny as she stabbed a grown-ass man in the eye with a bobby pin and then somehow skidded her small body up to climb on top of the guy to snap his neck with her thighs. It was a sight to behold, leaving us both proud and a tad scared of her. She is terrifying, and that’s why she’s a hidden gem in the family. Our hitwoman. She's probably contemplating ways to scratch Danny's eyes out with her bare red claws right now. Seriously, those bad boys are sharp, and I’d hate to be on the receiving end of them.
“We’re here,” Enzo announces, checking his Glock out of habit to see if all bullets are accounted for before snapping the chamber closed and slipping it into his gun holster under his suit jacket.
I stub out my cigar and get out of the limo without waiting for our driver to open the door, buttoning my black suit jacket. I look up at the open dock doors of the fish market, bustling with employees yelling as they check the quality of supplies.
I walk into the slaughter part of the factory, passing butchers chopping off fish heads. Everyone stops what they are doing to watch us. You can still hear the factory machines,arguments farther back into the building, and the busy noises from the streets, but otherwise, no one utters a word as I walk past. It’s a tense silence, like they know why we are here. They probably do, since my father was killed only two days ago, and I’m here on the day of his funeral, just moments after I buried him in the damp, cold soil.
Pretending I don’t notice, I stride forward to the metal staircase that leads up to the second floor, which overlooks the factory and Danny’s office. My family follows behind me, covering my back. No doubt already with their hands on their guns while trying to appear calm and collected.
Today’s been a shit show, so we’re all on edge. I don’t blame them.
I reach the closed office door and don’t bother knocking, walking in like I own the place. I take in the room, my gaze passing the filing cabinets and the empty decanter of whiskey on his bar cart before stopping on Danny O’Connor, who looks like utter shit. He’s sitting behind his oak desk, downing a glass of aged Irish whiskey. He slams it down once it’s empty while holding my gaze with bloodshot eyes.
“I knew it would only be a matter of time before you showed up, but I didn’t think it would be today. Have you even had time to grieve, boy?” he slurs, running a hand through his already messy red hair that’s sticking up on end like it hasn’t been the first time he’s done that today.
“It’s Mr. Messina, O’Connor.” I unbutton my suit jacket and sit down in the brown leather chair in front of his desk while my family stays standing behind me, silently watching. “See, when someone murders my Don, I don’t have fucking time to grieve until the one responsible is sinking to the very depths of the ocean as shark food. I’m sure you understand, given your experience in the fish business? Everyone has to eat.” The calm,relaxed expression slips off my face, and the rage underneath comes to the surface for the drunk man across from me to see.
“Mr. Messin-Messina,” he stutters, groaning as he leans back in his chair and scrubs at his eyes, “I didn’t think… I never thought… it wasn’t the brotherhood. I swear to you. I had nothing to do with this, nor did my men. I respected your father as a business partner. It… was the church not pleased with the business arrangement we’ve had,” he confesses, looking like he’s aged twenty years as he looks up at me with sad eyes.
“What church?” I ask angrily, already guessing the answer but needing confirmation from him before I decide what to do next.
“My bishop. The Irish Catholic Church from back home wasn’t pleased we were having deals with the Italians. I told them the negotiations were good for both sides, but they're old-fashioned. This is a fucking mess. The actions they took against your Don were intended as a message. It was a hit, and it won’t be the last. They aren’t pleased with me right now.” He speaks in a dry voice as he opens a drawer, pulls out another whiskey bottle, and places an additional tumbler glass on the table.
He raises a brow at me, filling them both and offering me one. Blowing out a breath of exhaustion, I feel my shoulders slump from all the pressure of the last few days. I accept his drink with a clink against his before throwing it back in one swallow.
It fucking burns as it makes its way down my throat, like a dragon is trying to breathe fire out of my chest.
Danny chuckles sadly, throws back his head, and coughs roughly while pounding his chest with his meaty fist. “Tastes like shite but makes the hair grow on your chest.” He grumbles and pours another without pausing.
It’s silent for a few minutes until I look over my shoulder at my cousins with a nod and tell them, “Wait outside the door.”
