Page 14 of Enemy of Ours 1
“Sei solo geloso,” she mutters in Italian about me being jealous while inspecting her nails, but she can’t contain her grin.
“Non posso essere geloso; sono il Don,” I reply back in Italian perfectly, knowing I have a shit-eating grin on my face, boasting about how I’m the Don. Plus, it’s good to remind everyone once in a while before they get cocky.
“Yeah, yeah. Mister I hold all the power because I’m the Don, yada yada. In any case, rumors are circulating that a ship arrived late last night at the harbor near the Irish docks.” She pauses and fidgets nervously for a second in her seat while avoiding my eyes.
Instantly I’m on guard because Gemma doesn’t get shifty or appear nervous; if she is, all her cards are always close to her chest. I’m on the edge of my seat as I lean forward and place my elbows on my desk.
“What?” I bark, my patience running thin as I think the worst.
“It wasn’t the usual supplies. They had a guest visiting from Scotland, but it’s quiet. Too quiet. O’Connor didn’t even greet this man upon his arrival; I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know that someone was on the ship. It’s too shady. Especially for a priest.” She screws her nose up, her expression completely confused by why a priest would be sneaking off a cargo ship in the middle of the night on the Irish docks.
“Fuck.” I thunder, banging my fist on the desk before swiftly standing and striding towards my office door to throw it open.
“What is going on?” Gemma jumps from her chair, following me, but I’m hardly listening because I don’t have time to explain.
“Enzo!” I yell, my voice echoing through the mansion, making the guard at my door jump half a foot in the air. “Suit up. We are leaving in five. Get everyone on board. Now!” I shout, hardly paying attention as he nods quickly and runs off, barking orders into his walkie-talkie.
I quickly go back into my office, heading over to my bookcase and pulling out the encyclopedia until the small button behind it comes into view. I press the button and wait as the grinding noises shift and click, revealing a hidden door in the bookcase. Without stopping, I gesture for my cousin to follow me as she stands there with her mouth hanging open in wonder.
“What is happening? Holy fuck! Is that a bazooka?” she asks in awe but quickly shakes herself out of it and follows me over to the gun wall as I start pulling down five mags, two Glocks to secure in my belt behind my back, and one M4 automatic rifle. My gun holster slips over my shoulders so I can hide it under my suit jacket. I’m already reaching for my two favorite guns to place in the holsters on either side of my ribcage as Enzo comes running into the hidden space, panting for breath.
“What the fuck is going on? Everyone is on full alert, saying we are rolling out with guns blazing in five.” He exhales loudly while still buttoning his shirt, covering the smudge of lipstick on his chest.
“We are going to have a little visit with O’Connor. The Irishman had a priest step off the ship onto his docks last night. You know what that means.” I explain through gritted teeth, handing him a sniper rifle, and ignore his round, disbelieving eyes as my words finally penetrate his thoughts, which were probably still on whoever he was rolling around in bed with.
He doesn’t ask any more questions, just straightens his spine and loads up on ammunition next to me as quickly as he can.
“Two minutes,” I bark out and check the casing of my guns, pulling back the magazines, before placing them in my shoulder holsters.
"I love you both, but if no one explains why we're loading up like we're going to war, I might strangle you," Gemma hisses in frustration, stomping her foot in a way that would usually make me crack a smile, but not this time.
We are all fucked.
“Listen carefully, baby cousin. I know you're still learning, and you handle more of the assassination side with no questions, but this is part of the business side that involves the other families. I’m talking about the Irish, Russians, Spanish, and Italians. Each family has a way they conduct… the handling of when something goes wrong,” I start to explain, feeling my heartbeat pulsing in my neck. We are wasting time, but she has to know what she’s stepping into.
“Our familia—everything and everyone comes to the Don, me, if there is a problem that needs handling, and it goes down the chain of command to be taken care of. The Irish have O’Connor as the leader of his Irish mob, but even he reports to someone else. It’s always been that way.”
She nods along and slips knives into her boots before strapping on a thigh holster to place more knives on the inside and outside of her upper thighs.
“Who do they report to?” she asks seriously, her movements getting quicker until she’s all loaded up like us with enough ammo to keep her well off for at least an hour, depending on how many people she has to take out.
“The church,” Enzo mutters, grabbing a cigarette pack and placing it in his suit jacket’s inner pocket.
“The bishop is at the top of the hierarchy, followed by the reverend and the priest. The bishop approves and reports on all business dealings. If they don’t agree, they send out one of their own to take care of it. It hardly ever happens, but if it does, it’s a fucking bloodbath.” I shudder in dread and storm out of the hidden room to grab my suit jacket, pulling it on as I lead us out of my office.
“Santo cielo!” she swears in Italian, expressing exactly what I am thinking.
Holy shit, indeed.
By the time we make it down to the main entrance, twenty of my men have assembled. Expensive, perfectly ironed suits, shiny shoes, and the sweet sound of magazines sliding into place are the only things you can hear as they wait for orders.
“We head to the docks first. I want to see if O’Connor or his priest is still there. I want three men to watch O’Connor’s house for movement and report back to me. Keep your fucking eyes peeled and fucking call Enzo or Tony if anything looks suspicious,” I command, looking each of them in the eye as they respectively nod their heads at the orders. “Questa nostra cosa.”
They all repeat the motto and immediately move out as I walk toward the garage. I’m moving at a brisk pace, forcing Gemma and Enzo to run to keep up with my stride; something in my gut is urging me to hurry.
I know deep down inside it has to do with Iris. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me at the moment. The Irish can be brutal and don’t have the same motto as my familia. Family is everything and comes first above all. The Irish prioritize who’s in charge over family ties; they will kill anyone who doesn’t follow the church’s orders. It’s basically laying down the law and executing anyone who doesn’t agree with your agenda. I can understand their perspective, but we Italians believe that our Don will guide us on the right path and that we won’t resort to violence without a justifiable reason. Well, at least some of us. Like me. I’m not just going to shoot you because you have a different opinion from me, but you better fucking follow orders when I give them. Give me a reason why my advice and leadership are a bad idea; I’ll mull it over and actually think about your perspective. That’s what makes a good Don. Believing in the familia and not taking orders from a higher command—well, except God, but he’s not talking to our priest about who we should kill.
I quickly cross my chest, sending a little prayer up to the big guy above that Iris is going to be okay, that nothing has happened to her.
