Chapter 1

1

Creed Ferraro

Three days earlier…

“ T he next time one of your dealers ends up in Queens, I’m going to send him back to you in tiny pieces like human confetti,” Aiden Sanna warns Emilio Rovina while wagging his finger at the older bald man.

These quarterly meetings of the Council are how five Italian mob bosses maintain control of the five boroughs of New York City without constant bloodshed or ending up serving a life sentence. We may not like each other or agree with each other on most issues but wanting to stay alive and out of prison are the two things we all have in common. Together, we’ve also been able to keep the Irish and Russians out of our territory whenever they try to make a play for a slice of the Big Apple, which means everyone’s pockets stay nice and fat .

“Why was your dealer in Queens, Emilio?” I ask with a heavy sigh as I glance at the time on my watch, ready to get the hell out of this meeting. It’s Thursday which means playing a few rounds of poker with my brother, two cousins, and consigliere while we drink, light up some cigars, and give each other shit.

First, though, I have to survive the airing of grievances and insults.

My position at the head of the Council means that I’m the tie-breaking vote in these meetings — the voice of reason. And sometimes, it feels like I’m a goddamn babysitter for the most childish men alive, most of whom are decades older than I am.

The Ferraros have been ruthlessly controlling the streets of New York City the longest of the current five mafia families, which is why we’ve always worn the metaphorical crown of crowns. The other four families only exist because my grandfather gave them a piece of his city and a place at the table with him.

Constantino Ferraro formed the Council forty years ago. As the oldest son, I took over for my father ten years ago after he died of a heart attack just like his old man before him. Two mob bosses dying of natural causes? That shit is almost unheard of in the underworld.

And the older I get, the more I realize exactly why their hearts gave out before either of them made it to the age of fifty.

The lengths I’d go to keep my men alive and thriving would terrify most people. That’s the job, though, making everyone fear me enough to think twice about fucking with me or my family. And I’m damn good at it.

Most of the time, it’s only petty shit we have to deal with during our quarterly meetings. Meetings that always take place in the Omerta Club, my elite, members only social club on the thirty-sixth floor of the exclusive Park Avenue building. No cell phones are allowed, and every person who steps foot in the door is searched for wires by someone else’s guards. It’s the only way we can all attempt to try to trust each other.

Emilio Rovina’s eventual shrug causes his thick neck to completely disappear before he finally responds to my question. “How the fuck would I know what my man was doing in Queens? Marco isn’t returning my calls, and nobody has seen or heard from him in more than a week!”

“Aiden, is Emilio’s man dead?” I ask the shit-stirrer.

The pompous man straightens the sleeves of his gray suit jacket that brings out the silver in his beard. “I’m sure Marco will make an appearance just as soon as I have Emilio’s word that his dealers will stay off my streets.”

When someone begins to barter a man’s life to get their way it means we’re nearly at the end of our meeting. “Well, Emilio?” I ask to get the ball rolling.

“I’ll warn my guys not to stray into Queens to deal, but you do know you can’t keep all our people out of Queens forever just for spite, right?”

“He makes a good point, Aiden,” I remark with a grin. “How do you know Emilio’s dealer was dealing and not just visiting his girlfriend?”

Aiden slams both of his palms down on the glass conference table. “Because he had ten kilos of coke on him with the Rovinas’ mountain logo on every goddamn brick!”

I stare down Emilio, who doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “Emilio, tell your men not to go to Queens with a shitload of product on them again, or they may not come back out alive.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell them,” Emilio agrees, slouching lower in his seat. “But Marco wasn’t in Queens on my orders! I can’t control every motherfucker who works for me.”

“Try to keep your men in Brooklyn,” I warn him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want Sanna’s foot soldiers stomping through Coney Island, right, Emilio?”

“I told you I would handle it,” Emilio mutters.

Of the other four Italian mafia families, there are only three that I consider to be my true allies. Emilio Rovina was my father’s best friend. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s one of the biggest real estate moguls in the state and controls all of Brooklyn. Then there’s Gideon Marino, our youngest boss, who handles imports and exports coming into Staten Island. Weston Bertelli, the oldest man at the table in his late sixties, is not someone you want to screw with. He’s an arms dealer who also has an impressive hitman for hire organization all over the world and holds down the Bronx.

Finally, there’s Aiden Sanna who runs a gambling and transportation empire out of Queens and is always starting shit with the other families.

My family’s territory is Manhattan. We’ve made a fortune investing in and protecting hundreds of businesses, anything from simple street vendors to elite nightclubs. Those business connections are how we distribute literally tons of product a year without getting caught.

“Any other business before we adjourn?” I ask the table.

“I’ve got a question,” Weston Bertelli says. The white-haired man’s voice is scratchier than a sheet of sandpaper from a lifetime of smoking. “What the hell are we going to do about this new district attorney?”

“Kirsten Hunt is going to be a problem for all of us,” Emilio remarks. “She beat out our guy by running on an anti-drug, anti-corruption platform.”

“I still can’t believe Edwards lost to her,” I admit with a shake of my head.

“I heard she won’t take any bribes,” Aiden Sanna remarks.

“Weston, if you’re so concerned about her, why don’t you just do what you do best and have one of your men take her out?” Emilio asks.

The hitman holds up three of his yellowed, wrinkled fingers. “Because one, I don’t work for free. Two, she’s a female, which I don’t know about you, but offing women goes against my personal code. And three, I don’t need that sort of heat up my family’s ass.”

“Fine. We could at least send her a message, try to run her out of town,” Emilio suggests.

“Let’s not get our panties in a twist until she gives us a reason to,” Gideon chimes in. “Sometimes those ‘messages’ get bloodier than intended and could blow back on all of us.”

“I agree with Weston and Gideon, so you don’t have the votes yet,” I say to Emilio. “For now, we’ll wait and see. No one makes a move on her until we meet up again next quarter.”

“What are we supposed to do until then? Lie low? Because I don’t lie down for anyone,” Emilio grumbles.

“Worried your unruly brood will all get locked up now?” Weston’s hoarse chuckle sounds like a rake scraping over gravel.

Emilio surges to his feet. “ Vaffanculo !”

“Seriously, Weston?” I ask when I stand up as well and button my suit jacket. “You crossed a line. Apologize to the man for insulting his family.” It’s not that Weston is wrong. The Rovinas are a messy bunch of thirty-somethings who could all probably use a month of rehab.

“I’m sorry, Emilio, that your spawn are all worthless pieces of shit,” Weston says before he also stands up, going with escalation rather than an apology.

“I will rip your throat out!” Emilio starts around the table. But to do that, he’d have to go through me first. I turn around to face him, six inches and fifty pounds heavier, blocking his way with both of my hands before grabbing his shoulders.

“Calm down. Weston’s just trying to rile you up because it’s so easy. We all know Bowen leaves much to be desired as an heir too. ”

I can feel Weston glaring daggers at my back.

“How about we stop talking shit about each other’s families and call it a day?” I suggest. “Now, shake hands like you’re fucking gentlemen and not children playing dress up in designer suits.”

I take a step back and watch the two men. Both grit their teeth and clasp palms directly in front of me, then immediately get into a tug of war over who can pull the other toward them harder using their still clasped hands.

“Enough! Meeting adjourned,” I announce, breaking them apart. “See you all in three months unless you get yourselves killed and we have no choice but to deal with your unfortunate heirs.”

Everyone hastily makes a move toward the door, except for Emilio, which is probably for the best. The last thing I need is all the city bosses getting into a scuffle on my building’s elevator.

“Speaking of…unfortunate heirs,” he starts. “You still don’t have any, Ferraro.”

“My line of succession is secure without needing to procreate,” I tell him. “If anything happens to me, I know my men will be in good hands with my brother.”

He grins at me. “You’re not superstitious? Are you, son?”

I hate when he calls me ‘son.’ And whether or not I believe in my family’s curse…well, our history speaks for itself. Still, putting the blame on some old lady in Italy my grandfather pissed off when he refused to marry her daughter is ridiculous. The women in our family don’t have short lifespans because they aren’t Italian. They have short lifespans because of our way of life.

The women who have been brave enough to marry a Ferraro have all met the same fate, dead before their thirtieth birthday.

My grandmother was thrown onto the tracks and hit by a train when she was twenty-nine, thanks to the fucking Russians my grandfather pissed off.

My two aunts were tossed overboard a cruise ship. They were sent away by my uncles to keep them safe from the war with the Irish in the late ‘80s.

And my mother, she was twenty-eight when she died by my father’s hand. She stupidly thought the three of us would be safe in witness protection after she took his money and ratted him and his men out to the feds. She was wrong.

“Your father always wanted our families to form an unbreakable alliance,” Emilio says, leading up to his point. “Stella is a strong, beautiful Italian woman. She would make a good wife.”

“I’m sure your daughter will make a good wife…for someone else. I’m not interested in marrying a woman who doesn’t want to be in the same room with me.”

Everyone started calling Stella Rovina the ‘viper bitch’ when she was a teenager because she’s always been a handful. Now that she’s thirty-something all that’s changed is she seems to be even more hostile toward the entire male species.

There’s a rumor that she once gave her older brother’s friend a hand job using poison ivy in the bushes at Central Park. The fact she gave a man a red, itchy dick isn’t the worst part. The psychotic part is she was willing to let that shit spread all over her palm to fuck him up.

“Oh, Stella’s more than willing to marry you,” Emilio says, which is surprising since most women fear me. I doubt anything scares Stella Rovina, though. “She also agreed to carry your children. Although, she did say she prefers insemination, but I think you could eventually persuade her to do it the…natural way with the right motivation. We all need to do our part to keep our family legacies going, Creed.”

And there it is. Why would I want to marry a woman who refuses to share my bed?

I do like a challenge, but not one that puts my dick in jeopardy of being abused or mutilated.

“Your father would’ve married a good Italian woman if he knew what would happen with your mother. Don’t make the same mistake your old man did,” Emilio warns me.

“I don’t need to think about it. My answer is no,” I assert firmly. “But I’ll talk to Carmine and my cousins,” I concede, since it was my father’s wish for our two families to unite. And for some reason, even a decade after his death, I still find myself wanting to make the dead son of a bitch proud.