Long Live the King (An Italian Mafia Romance Duet #2) by Ws Greer

city. “Robbing our own guys doesn’t look good, you know. It looks like we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. Like we don’t have any control.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Frankie answers. “Don’t worry about it, Dominic. I know you’re like a prodigy in This Thing of Ours, but you can’t know everything all the time. Sometimes mistakes are made.”
    “Mistakes in Our Thing get people killed,” I snip. “Especially bosses.”
    “It’s not the mistake that gets people killed, it’s the action after the mistake. It’s all about how you handle it afterwards. We did the right thing by reaching out to Victor last night and setting up this sit-down for today. As long as we go in with an open mind, knowing we’re gonna have to bite the bullet.”
    “Oh, fuhgeddaboutit,” I say. “I already know this is gonna cost us. I just hope Victor is reasonable. I don’t wanna have to do anything I’ll regret.”
    Frankie doesn’t reply, choosing only to glance at me for a second before refocusing on the road. I don’t think either of us expects Victor Fronzo to be reasonable.
    When we pull up to Big Vic’s warehouse, the place looks completely dead. We left early this morning, so the sun is still shining bright. Giovanni told us Victor wanted to meet in the middle of the day because it looks less suspicious than trying to do something at night in a place like this. There are no cars outside, all the doors are closed, and as we make our first pass around the outside of the warehouse, neither of us sees anything.
    “This is the place, right?” I ask.
    “Yeah,” Frankie replies, looking out the window. “I’ll circle around again.”
    Frankie eases onto the gas and we start around a second time. When we get around to the back side this time, a big overhead garage door is pulled up, and in the entrance stands a husky fucking giant. This guy is at least six-four and has to be pushing three-hundred pounds. He has absolutely no hair on his head and his face is completely clean shaven. The only thing he’s wearing on his face is a mean scowl as he glares at us through the opened garage door. His white t-shirt definitely came out of the big and tall section of some department store, and he doesn’t resemble your usual made guy. He looks like a regular, albeit extra-large, Joe Schmoe off the street, which is exactly how the Chicago Outfit operates under Victor’s rules. They’re quiet and under the radar. You won’t know they’re there until they’re killing you.
    The behemoth at the door crosses his giant arms and waits for us to park Frankie’s Escalade in front of him. Once we hop out and approach him, he nods a greeting.
    “Long time no see, Giovanni,” I say.
    “It has been a long time, Dominic,” Giovanni Cirillo replies. His face never shows any sign of a smile, and he doesn’t bother to pat us down because he knows even if we have guns, we wouldn’t dare use them. Nobody wants a war. “Mr. Fronzo’s inside. Follow me, please.”
    Frankie and I let Giovanni lead the way. He turns around and walks towards the other end of the warehouse where there is very little light. As my eyes adjust, I can see a dark figure sitting in a chair in the corner of the spacious warehouse. A few more steps and I can make out the gray-haired Victor Fronzo, wearing a black suit and puffing on a cigar.
    As we approach, Victor doesn’t stand, he just sits there eyeballing us as we make our way to him. The stories of the things Victor has done in his lifetime don’t exactly fit with the image of the man I see in front of me now. Victor is seventy years old, and he looks every bit of it. His hair is gray and thin, and his frame looks frail and weak, but this is the same guy who’d scalp you for saying the wrong thing. He may be elderly, but he’s not to be tested, just like I’m not. I won’t let my guard down when it comes to dealing with him.
    When we reach the small, round table that only has one other chair that I