THERE WAS NOTHING quite like being strapped in while speeding through the clouds in something that might as well have been a tin can. It was no wonder that it was practically impossible to find bodies after a plane crash, all things considered.
Christ, his thoughts were morbid today.
“You really don’t like flying, do you?”
Joseph Rossi hated that his discomfort was this obvious. Mind you, it was his father, but still. He took great pains to keep his outward appearance at undecipherable levels. It was a talent of his.
Or shit, it should have been.
He fingered the rosary, a gift from his uncle, Tommas, at his First Communion, around his throat, and wished it would give him the peace he usually found in it. The church had become somewhat of a sanctuary for him.
No matter the kind of shit he did—or how much blood stained his hands when the daylight broke over the horizon—those doors were still open. The church still welcomed. His priest was still there to listen.
He was the worst kind of sinner.
It never seemed to matter.
Damian didn’t miss Joe fidgeting with the rosary. Frankly, his father never missed very much anyway. Eagle-eye, and all.
“We’ll only be another thirty minutes,” his father said.
Joe shot Damian a look from the side that he hoped screamed at his father to just stop before he started—
“Take a deep breath,” Damian added.
And there he goes.
“Don’t use that voice with me,” Joe muttered.
Damian raised a single brow high, and regarded his son. “What voice?”
“That one—the one you just used. The one with the tone.”
It unsettled Joe for more reasons than he cared to explain. Mostly, though, because it wasn’t like his father to be a gentle kind of man in his speech. Soft-spoken, and quiet, sure. That was just Damian’s way because he didn’t need noise to get the job done, or to do violence.
A lot like Joe.
No one ever saw them coming that way. Yeah, he was definitely the worst kind of sinner.
“Hand to God, Joe,” Damian said, shaking his head,” I have no idea what you are talking about.”
His father looked sincere, too. That was the thing about Rossis, though. They could look innocent as fuck, but at the same time, be planning some way to slit your throat the first chance they could … if they had a reason to.
Men like them—criminals; Mafiosi—all needed an edge to stay on top where this life and business was concerned. Joe’s edge just happened to be a hell of a lot like his father’s edge once used to be. He was the man in the shadows doing what needed to be done to protect the organization and family. Damian had once done that, too, except he traded his hitman-style in for a cushier seat as the Chicago Outfit’s underboss.
Funny how that worked.
“That tone you just used,” Joe said as the plane finally settled out of the turbulence. Jesus, he could actually breathe again. “You know exactly what I mean, Dad. It’s the same tone you used to use on Cory and me when we were kids, and you wanted us to admit to something we had done wrong. Now, you use it on Monica because it doesn’t work on us anymore, and she’s the only one who hasn’t caught onto your shit.”
And Joe only blamed his sister’s trusting nature on her age—being a decade younger than his twenty-one years, she had a valid excuse for being gullible.
Damian’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. “You sure about that?”
There it is again.
Joe opened his mouth to speak, but his father held up a single hand and let out a short laugh. It was only the amusement and mirth in Damian’s eyes that kept Joe quiet for a moment. Sometimes, he just let his father have his moments. They all needed them occasionally.
“You’re right,” Damian said quietly, “I do know which tone you mean.”
“Great—stop using it.”
“Glad I could distract you long enough to prevent you from ripping the armrests off your seat, however.”
Joe blinked.
Huh.
He had removed his death grip from the armrests. At least, for now.
“I know you hate flying,” Damian murmured, staring out the port window.
He really did. More than he cared to admit. It was an unjustified fear, and just about the only thing in life that did scare the hell out him, but that didn’t make it any less real to him. Like the universe was coming around to kick Joe in the ass with a sarcastic smirk to remind him that he was just as fucking human as everybody else.
“We could have drove to New York,” Joe said. “Damn, I would have drove for you.”
Damian’s gaze drifted toward his oldest son, and he smiled a little bit. “It’s amusing.”
“What is?”
“That you feel like when another family calls—a family with bigger pull and more control than yours—that you have the option to make them wait.”
Joe stiffened a bit in his seat. “I didn’t—”
“That’s exactly what you’re saying, and you know better, son.”
Just like that, the easy banter between a father and son was lost. In its place was the unspoken code of made men, and the mafia life they were surrounded and suffocated by. It was never-ending. All the rules, the expectations, and everything else that came along with being men like them.
Usually, he didn’t mind.
Joe didn’t know anything different.
“You’re twenty-one,” Damian said, never turning his attention away from the window as he spoke, “and so I will give you a pass for putting your own wants before someone else’s. But you’re close enough to twenty-two, Joe, that I can’t keep giving you passes.”
Clearing his throat, Joe glanced down the first class aisle at the flight attendant starting to make her rounds again. She was too far away yet to hear their conversation. No doubt, his father knew that, too.
Damian knew everything.
“No offense,” Joe started to say.
“Whenever someone starts a sentence with that statement—”
“It’s usually going to offend someone. Yeah, let me talk.”
Damian waved a hand as if to silently say, Get on with it.
“No offense,” he repeated, “but you didn’t even tell me what we were coming to New York for, Dad. You just said the Marcellos needed something, but not what, or why I needed to come along. You expect me to know everything just because? I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”
“Business,” Damian said simply, “when the Marcello family calls, it always means business.”
And Joe knew … He’d grown up his whole life being told—everybody bent to the Marcellos, but they didn’t fucking bend for anybody else. So was their right being who they were, and having what they did.
No mafia organization remained on top by playing nice with others.
