Page 12 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
JOE
As the bastardson of Salvatore Portelli Sr., I knew that calling to ask for my old job back would leave me open to all manner of insults. But when he simply grunted, told me to call “his real son,” and then hung up on me…not gonna lie, it fucking hurt.
I suppose I should be grateful that Sal Jr.—Sally to those of us who grew up with him—lost a couple of guys from his crew and was more than willing to give me the asscrack of dawn shift. I’d complain about the early hour, but given the state of my finances, I don’t have much in the way of options. The sad truth is I’ll make more doing the illegal shit than I did with a job that required an MBA.
The Portelli crime family is a lesser-known family in the boroughs, which makes them more dangerous, not less. My father’s been running it since a dispute between the Portellis and the Stefano crew in Manhattan led to the deaths of both bosses.
He was twenty-one at the time and became ruthless in ways that squashed most territorial disputes or notions of disloyalty. Most families have a scorched earth, kill-every-relative policy when it comes to those things, but my father always reasoned that adult caskets only send a one-time message, whereas a single child-size casket will keep two to three generations of soldiers in line.
He’s never killed extravagantly, only with breathtaking brutality.
The more powerful Stefanos, seeing the score, agreed to a truce between families. My father stays out of Manhattan, and nobody messes with him in Brooklyn.
Where my father is measured in his cruelty, my half-brother is impulsive. His penchant for producing bodies is what got him knocked down to the docks in the first place.
Sally isn’t complaining though. Working the docks isn’t sexy, but it is lucrative, and it keeps him in our father’s good graces. He’s hoping to make don after our father retires, but I just don’t see it.
Anyway, a few texts and the remainder of my dignity later, and here I am, driving a forklift. It’s not that I mind good honest work, but that’s not what this is. And it feels like I spent all those years slogging through late-night studying and the smirking side glances of people from the neighborhood to end up right back where I started.
I’ve always been scrappy, what with growing up out and proud on the outer edges of a Mafia family, taking no shade and giving no fucks about anyone’s opinion. Still, this morning’s soft dew settles over every inch of exposed skin and feels a little too much like humiliation.
I spend the morning unloading boxes and pallets from a ship, then transferring them to shipping containers. And if I’m asked to put certain packages in very specific shipping containers, it’s none of my business what’s in those packages.
Fuck, I hate this. Even more when I spy Sally making his way toward me, a superior smirk on his stupid face. Almost made it a whole shift without having to deal with his bullshit.
“Hey, Goody Two-shoes. Someone’s here to see you.”
I got the nickname because I hate hurting other people, another reason I’m back with the crew on the docks. They’re not tasked with executions.
Doesn’t mean I don’t have bodies on me.
I park the forklift and straighten my clothes: a pair of worn jeans, my faded Binghamton College tank top under some coveralls, and a backward baseball cap. Sally waits at the office entrance, which sits at the front of the larger warehouse structure. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, smirking as I walk by.
He juts his chin over at the tiny waiting area where Rand Wolfe sits in one of his rickety office chairs. “You got some grease on your cheek.”
I quickly wipe my face and pray that Sally doesn’t know who this guy is.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”I hiss, approaching my visitor.
Wolfe stands, trying to loom over me even though he’s only got an inch—two, tops—on my frame. The space is small, and the move is purposeful, which irritates me to no end.
“And a good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Portelli,” he says, ignoring my question. “Do you know that you are an exceptionally hard man to track?”
“I was hoping for impossible, so this is rather less than what I was going for. How the fuck did you find me?”
His eyes widen in alarm. I assume people don’t talk to him like this very often. Weirdly, he raises his hands in an open gesture. “I had my assistant—”
“Sherry.”
“Yes. Um, Sherry.” He pauses, shaking his head as he stitches his brows together. “I had her pull your records.”
His confused look amuses me. He shakes his head again and asks, “How did you come to know Sherry?”
“What, like she’s a secret?”
“No. She mentioned something this morning about working with you, but she rarely interacts with…individual contributors.”
“Peons, you mean.”
