4

My boots slide through gray slush on the streets as my breath puffs out in white clouds. I reach for the door handle of Le Zinc, Johnny’s restaurant and headquarters. It’s a swanky, upscale French bistro with an antique zinc bar. I step inside the warmth gratefully, the sudden heat prickling my frozen fingers and toes. Pierre, a young guy who watches the door, nods at me as I enter.

It’s noon and the place is packed. A mixture of Johnny’s crew and oblivious civilians fill the restaurant. Pierre takes the wool coat from my shoulders and I smooth the suit over my chest. Johnny sits at his usual table in the back. He stands up, smiling, his arms outstretched.

“Tony, how are you?”

Tommy, the new soldier, sits nearby, along with one of Johnny’s captains—Fred. At first sight, Johnny doesn’t look like much. He’s slender and slight of build, and usually wears a small smile, but he’s the thirty-five-year-old boss of the Cravotta family. At the age of twenty, he bought out all the payment companies and had all the construction companies in his pocket. At twenty-five, he bought out a dairy company up north and began extorting all restaurants and grocery stores that didn’t use Verdino cheese. Now every grocery store only stocks his cheese, and restaurants that fail to make protection payments go up in flames. When he was thirty, he backed Les Diables, a biker gang in the city, during the biker wars. They work for him now. He gets a taste from every construction company, restaurant, casino, and racetrack in Montreal. He’s invincible.

It’s for those reasons that I always seem to forget to breathe in his presence. I’m not the kind of guy who gets nervous, but Johnny’s a fucking legend.

He smiles at me as though I’m his best friend and pulls me into a fierce hug, and I kiss him on both cheeks. It means nothing. I’ve seen him smile like that to a man he pulled into an embrace, right before he dug his pistol into the man’s chest and killed him.

“Hey, John.”

“Have a seat. Do you want something to eat?” Always courteous, Johnny waves over someone even after I shake my head.

He gives me a menu, but I know the thing by heart at this point. The waiter bustles to our table, his pen poised over a small notepad.

“No, really, John. I’m good.”

“At least have a drink with me.”

The waiter grabs the bottle of wine, a vintage from Tuscany, and pours a glass for me. “All right.”

He swirls his glass over the white tablecloth and lifts it to his lips. “Tabarnak, c’est bon.” Fuck, it’s good.

My hand curls over the stem of the wineglass, and I take a small mouthful. It’s pretty fucking good—dry and full of flavor. I set the glass down, avoiding his painful stare.

“I’ve bad news about Turner Construction,” I say finally, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “They won’t do business with us.”

Johnny doesn’t say anything for a moment, but a sudden, caustic, burning heat flares from his eyeballs. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I swallow hard. “They’re an American company—they don’t do business like us. They can’t accept bribes.”

“Then you make them understand how it’s done.”

I grit my teeth from the rumble in his voice. “I tried leaning on the boss a little, but I think they’re just going to leave Montreal. They just don’t want to deal with us. I’m sorry, John.”

There’s nothing but the sound of people talking, the clatter of silverware, and John’s frozen stare boring into my skull. He opens his mouth.

“I’m really disappointed with you, Tony. I thought you were a better negotiator.”

I clench my hands over the table, feeling a surge of anger.

Don’t get angry at the boss.

“There was nothing else I could do. Americans don’t do business with the mob. It’s just that simple.”

“Do you think I got to where I am now because I gave up that easily?”

Quiet resentment builds inside my chest as he stares at me.

I never wanted this life for myself.

“There’s something else I need you to do.”

He reaches in his jacket and I tense for a moment, because he could easily be reaching for a gun. Johnny smiles at me as he takes a photograph from his inner jacket and shows it to me.

It’s a family photo of Jack Vittorio, the former New York boss, and his wife and—the girl I met yesterday. Holy shit, she’s Jack Vittorio’s daughter?

“This girl showed up in my restaurant yesterday, trying to contract a hit on a made guy.”

“Yeah, I met her in Tommy’s bar. She asked me for the same thing.”

Johnny smirks at me. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

“Nope. I told her no, of course.”

“Anyway, I need you to watch her. I don’t want anyone fucking up my relationship with New York or Les Diables. She might try going to them next. Do not let her.”

An unpleasant twist leaves me feeling gutted as I stare into the photograph. She’s beautiful, really—the type of girl my Ma would love. Dark hair and innocent, big eyes. Italian.

“And Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“Try to keep your dick in your pants.”

“I can’t promise that,” I respond, grinning at the photo.

He sighs loudly. “Go. Get the fuck out of here and start your collections.”

The cold, dismissive tone freezes my jaw shut. I somehow manage to grunt out a good-bye and then I stand from the table. He’s looking somewhere else. It’s as if I’m already gone.

Fucking hell, I need to get a new job.

But that’s it, isn’t it? I can’t just quit—not after becoming a made member. It’s not just a job. It’s a way of life.

I gather my wool coat and shrug it over my shoulders, eager to get out of there. At first it was great. All the pussy I could want and more money than I’d ever had, but after a while you start to notice that all the girls kind of look the same. They act the same, and they want the same things from you. Namely, your money. But I still want something to fill the gaping hole that girl nailed into my chest the other night.