Caruso;
"The vehicle couldn't be traced, boss. It had no plate numbers attached and cannot be identified."
Bubbles float atop the amber liquid when I dump my unfinished joint into the tumbler. "The intruders?"
"Still unidentified, boss," Michealo reports, a light tremor slipping into his words.
"How incompetent," I drawl, mentally thinking of ways to incapacitate him…slowly and painfully.
Without too much of a mess, of course.
A splash of blood here and there—that will do.
"All the CCTV footage from the party suddenly went blank, with gaps and time lapses as well," he relays, conflict lining his facial expression. He's trying to make sense of the situation too.
As intriguing as it sounds, it calls for serious investigation.
Someone—or someones—are planning something.
And what could be their aim?
The Mafia? The Cosa Nostra hasn't made any major attacks as far as I'm aware.
An old-time enemy?
My gaze narrows at that prospect.
Michealo drones on about his recent findings. I hear none of it. Solely focused on the matter at hand.
Will the Don know anything about this?
"…tattoo or something," my attention is snagged by his next words. I lift a brow, prompting him to continue.
He pauses, then digs into his pocket to produce a neatly folded sheet of paper. "Here, boss."
Michealo steps forward, bent at the waist. He drops it on the table, sliding it beside the tumbler containing the half-filled liquid, the joint stick still jutting out of it.
I tilt my head—a habit that has stuck with me.
The soft ruffle of paper scraping against the mahogany wood fills the air as I lift and unfold it.
A drawing rests on it.
Shooting my eyes upward in Michealo's direction, he immediately understands my silent inquiry.
My men comprehend more than my words.
They are very aware of how rarely I speak. They know what every slight movement I make means.
They wouldn't be by my side if they weren't privy to such mundane things.
Michealo begins, "A tattoo resembling that drawing is on the wrist of the man who pulled the trigger two nights ago at the party."
A grin threatens to split my lips. "Oh? And what information have you gathered regarding this?"
He shifts, adjusting his stance. "It's some sort of group tattoo. The team is looking into it. Maybe it could be interpreted or have a meaning—perhaps symbolize something." His gaze darts from me to the drawing on the paper.
"It belongs to a gang."
"Is that all?" I ask, not sparing him a glance.
"Yes, boss."
"And the girl?" I lean back against the plush leather, legs crossed and fingers thrumming rhythmically on my thigh, my tongue pressing against one side of my cheek.
"About that, boss. Galo Montagna was indeed invited to the party; however, none of his daughters arrived with him."
I lean forward to pick up my liquor, lifting it to eye level and watching the ash disintegrate, the particles falling and mixing at the base of the liquid inside. "Really?"
Michealo hesitates to respond because of the grim smile etched on my lips. I bet he's never seen me grin so wide.
"This is going to be fun," I murmur to myself. "You may leave," I dismiss.
"Yes, boss." He bows before turning on his heels and heading for the exit of the lounge.
Not until he pauses, fishes his crackling radio from his holster, and speaks into it.
After a few seconds, he looks over his shoulder at me. "The Don asked for you."
I feel a skull-cracking headache coming on immediately he delivers the message.
Michealo doesn't await my response. He strides out, leaving me as I press the heel of my palm to my temple to curb the migraine already finagling its way into my head.
On my feet, the base of the tumbler echoes as it collides with the wood, and I stride out, one hand buried inside my pants pocket.
I arrive at his wing in five minutes. Raising my knuckles, I'm about to brush them against the polished wood of his door—
"Come in." His gruff voice halts my movement.
I twist the handle and walk in, wondering why I even attempted to knock in the first place—he's always aware of my presence.
Some bullshit about my aura commanding attention.
"Father," I greet as I stroll in, the scent of tobacco hanging heavy in the air.
"Son," he acknowledges, his lips peeling back into a crooked smile.
"You sent for me." I try not to focus on the ashtray littered with cigarette butts. Instead, I train my gaze on the swinging pendulum atop his desk.
"Yes, I did. Have you heard any news about your brother?"
I peel my attention from my usual distraction to him. "No," I deadpan.
"Caruso." He leans forward, his hands forming a steeple beneath his chin. "Do not lie to me."
Fuck.
"I got my men to look into his whereabouts, but they came up with nothing. Even his line is disconnected. All of them," I grind out, fury making the muscle in my jaw tick.
"You disobeyed my orders," he growls, his eyes darkening.
"I didn't know where you might have sent him." My rage matches his. My knuckles whiten as I clench my fists.
Father inhales deeply, his eyes closed behind his specs. Once they open again, he appears calm.
I am far from it.
"He'll be back in a few days."
My teeth rake against my lower lip. "Are you certain?"
He grins at the distrust in my tone.
"Yes, son," he concedes. "He did exceedingly well with the task I sent him on."
Asking him will yield furtive results. I don't waste words.
"I sent for you to ask you a favor." Leaning back, his full attention settles on me, and the action makes my blood churn with something feral.
Inclining my head to the side, I tamp down the urge to ram my fist into his face.
"Color me surprised." I couldn't care less.
"Romano listens to you—and to you alone—willingly."
I cock a brow. "Where are you going with this?"
His pretentious smile settles. "Convince him to get married," he finally reveals. "We need to expand our influence, Caruso. And you know that."
Taking off his glasses, he rises from his seat.
Unfazed, I silently fix my gaze on him. I let the silence grow deafening. And just like he didn't spit that nonsense out earlier, I report, "The ammunition will arrive at the dock in three days."
I spin on my heels, turning my back to him.
"Son," he calls out, making me halt mid-stride. "You'd make an excellent heir."
Without turning to look at him, I deadpan, "That's not my position to take."
I walk out before I listen to the voices in my head and do something I'll likely not regret.