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

assume is for me, Giovanni doesn’t say anything. He looks at me, then glances at the chair before settling on a spot next to the wall and watching us like a bouncer in a packed club. I look to Frankie, and he follows Giovanni, the two of them like bodyguards ready to act on a moment’s notice. Once the two of them are settled, I take my seat next to Victor.
    “So, we have a bit of a situation,” Victor begins, puffing on his cigar and running a finger around the rim of a small cup of whiskey resting on the table. His voice is deep and airy, almost like a dying cancer patient. “You have something that belongs to me.”
    “Yeah, I do, but I don’t think of it as a situation,” I counter. “I think of it as an accident. A misunderstanding.”
    “A misunderstanding? I suppose it is. I’m told you didn’t know the truck belonged to me.”
    “Nah, we didn’t, that’s why it’s a misunderstanding.”
    “Whether you knew or not, I’ll never know,” he snips. Victor doesn’t make eye contact with me as he blows smoke up in the air.
    “The truck wouldn’t have been approached if we knew it was yours, Victor.”
    “The fact that it has my name on the side should’ve been a dead giveaway. But that’s the thing with this younger generation of wise guys. You got no respect for your elders, think you can just take everything you see.”
    I have to take a deep breath to keep myself from getting into it with this guy. I don’t like his tone, his posture, or the fact that keeps puffing on that fucking cigar like he’s above me. Yes, he’s been in this thing much longer than I’ve been alive, but I’m a boss too, so talking to me like I’m low on the totem pole is a bad idea, no matter who you are. Nonetheless, I know who this is and the power his name wields with the Commission, so I exhale.
    “I know you’ve been in this a long time, Victor,” I begin, treading lightly even though it pains me. “But my guy just didn’t know the truck was yours. Jimmy didn’t mean no disrespect. It’s just a misunderstanding. It won’t happen again.”
    “Is that your version of an apology?”
    “An apology ?” I repeat, nearly startled by the word. “I ain’t apologizing for nothing. But I am assuring you it won’t happen again.”
    “Okay. Well, I can accept that,” Victor replies, finally looking at me. “However, in Our Thing, when a mistake like this is made, an assurance alone won’t do. There has to be compensation for the delay you’ve caused.”
    I glance at Frankie who does a good job of keeping a straight face considering where this conversation is headed.
    “So, here are my terms,” Victor starts, looking up at the smoke as it escapes from his mouth and forms a cloud around both of us. “The truck you stole had money in the back, which I’m sure you know by now. One-point-two million dollars, to be exact. I want that truck, with every single dollar in its exact place, delivered here tomorrow. Along with that, there will be an additional five hundred-thousand in a box of its own, from your family to mine, as restitution. Does that sound reasonable?”
    What, are you fucking kidding me? Of course that shit doesn’t sound reasonable, and I’d love nothing more than to punch this guy in his fucking neck for even pitching this shit as an idea. We’re all a part of the same thing here. We’re all connected, tied together by the same blood, the same brotherhood. And this is how we treat each other over an honest mistake? Fucking old heads can’t stand the idea of things being taken over by the younger generation. It doesn’t matter what it is, the older generation always despises the younger one for doing things differently than they did it. The old always think the young are lazy and irresponsible, and therefore need to be taught a lesson in manners. Well, I’m young and new, and I say fuck that. Either move your old ass out of the way, or you will be moved.
    “Half a million dollars?” I