Authors: Bethany-Kris
“Whatever.”
“What are you doing up?” Antony asked, placing his glass to the table.
Lucian’s nerves grew under the scrutiny of his father and brother. “Nothing. Something woke me, a noise, maybe. Where’s Gio?”
It wasn’t like his father to have a meeting with one brother and exclude the others. Lucian didn’t like that at all.
Dante waved one hand in the air, uncaringly. “Sleeping off the drinks he slammed back before crawling into bed.”
Lucian caught his father’s cringe out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the youngest Marcello son had his issues. Most of them revolved around his taste for alcohol and sometimes things a little harder than booze. Being the baby of the boys afforded him a little leg room to move more than the other two, but Lucian knew Antony was two steps away from shipping his youngest son to a rehab out of country to get his shit straight if he couldn’t shape up and do it himself.
“Was it bad?” Lucian dared to ask.
“He didn’t drive himself home, and he came here for church tomorrow,” Antony said. “That was better than last week.”
“Maybe I should keep an eye—”
“No, do nothing,” Dante interrupted firmly. “Not yet. Give him a chance to handle it.”
Lucian shot his father a look that silently asked if that’s what he wanted, too. Antony said nothing, only shrugged before picking up his glass and taking another gulp of what Lucian suspected to be whiskey.
“I’m just saying, I could keep him a little closer is all.”
“Sure,” Antony said, nodding. “But what good will that do, Lucian? So far, he’s kept the issues away from business. I’m hoping it can stay that way. If it doesn’t …”
Lucian frowned. “But—”
“But nothing. He’s twenty-five going on twenty-six, not a little boy anymore.”
Yeah, but Gio was still his kid brother, too.
Lucian looked towards the large, ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the office. The time was well after two in the morning, letting him know it was early Sunday. Now, he was really curious as to the reason for the late night meeting in Antony’s office that didn’t include him, or Gio, and was obviously about business in some way.
No business on Sundays. It was a rule.
Just like dressing well, no matter what public opinion was. Even if they were on the Department of Defense’s list of major organized crime families in North America for their influence in the drug and weapons trade. Not to mention racketeering, extortion, smuggling, gambling, money laundering … The list went on and on.
There were quite a few rules, actually.
Being an Italian, Cosa Nostra born family was everything when it came to living life as a Marcello.
Family. Honor. God.
La famiglia. Onore. Dio.
Greed. Money. The business.
It all needed to be handled just so. Appearance was important. Family was everything. Pride and fearlessness was expected. As was the ruthlessness their syndicates and enemies had come to expect when a Marcello was crossed. They were to keep their heads on straight, no matter what situation they came in contact with. Never were they to leave their home without a gun on hand. Cops were not to be talked to, associated with, or trusted.
Lucian understood how to work and use his own handgun by the time he was twelve. At thirteen, he was disassembling and reassembling assault weapons. As a child, he knew the basement and attic weren’t places he was permitted to use or explore like any other room in the house because his father had a large collection of illegal guns in one, and kept multiple incoming and outgoing shipments of drug substance in the other.
They weren’t good people. Lucian didn’t want to be, either.
But he was proud of his family. It was just who they were.
“Business on Sunday, Papà?” he asked, nodding at the clock.
Antony scowled at his desk. “Wasn’t given much of a choice. Sit, we can talk now, I suppose. Just don’t tell Cecelia.”
He did as he was told, resting his frame down into one of his father’s high-back business chairs that always sat across from his desk. “You want me to go and get Gio up?”
“No, he’s likely too damn drunk still to understand the seriousness of this. I’ll talk to him after Mass.”
Lucian sat up a little straighter in the chair. Those words didn’t bode well at all. “What’s going on?”
“You know, I wish you’d quit marking up your skin with that awful ink, Lucian.”
Smirking, Lucian shrugged. He had many tattoos. They were all important in their own way. His newest tattoo rested across his chest, from one collarbone to the other in elegant script. It read:
This Thing of Ours
. It was, essentially, La Cosa Nostra in English. Usually, his father peered over his tattoos with the disregard of a man who disliked ink, but he rarely said anything. This vocal disappointment was new.
Giving his brother a cocked brow over his shoulder, Lucian wondered what in the hell was up with his father tonight. Dante had come to sit up on the couch as well, a seriousness darkening his otherwise friendly features. Not that Dante was particularly friendly with anyone outside of their family and business.
“Is it pick on Lucian night, or what?” Lucian asked sarcastically.
“At least you can cover them up, I suppose,” Antony said, ignoring his son’s remark. “If Gio gets another tattoo on his neck where I can see it when he’s wearing a dress shirt, I’m going to burn it off with a hot knife and blow torch. See how he likes the pain, then.”
Lucian shivered, but hid it well enough. Antony did not make idle threats. Even if it was towards his sons.
“I’ll keep the ink to a minimum,” Lucian said to appease his father.
“You do that.”
Or I’ll just keep my shirt on so you can’t see
, he thought silently.
“So, what’s up?”
Antony finished off his glass of whiskey before speaking. “About ten after twelve tonight, there was a shootout between the authorities and the motorcycle gang The Sons of Hell I’ve been keeping an eye on.”
Lucian’s interest was definitely peaked, now. “Oh?”
“Outside
my
casino.”
Damn.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Antony nodded shortly, anger clouding his face. “I don’t mind their business. I’ve let them do their nonsense on my territory because really, it’s not affecting me. They pay a healthy due to the Capos to keep their peace and place, just like every other drug or weapons dealer working inside my territory does. They follow my rules. I don’t fault them on that.”
“But?” Lucian pressed, knowing it was coming.
“But this is different,” Dante said from behind. “It puts us in a spotlight we don’t need right now. We do all of our business on the low, and the last thing we need to be, or even thought to be, is affiliated with a motorcycle gang famous for their bloodshed and drugs.”
“Like we’re not?” Lucian asked.
Antony chuckled. “At least we’re well-dressed sinners.”
Well, money did give them that.
Lucian still didn’t feel like he was getting the whole story. “What am I missing?”
“They’ve gone too far this time.” Antony sighed, a weariness reflecting in his green eyes. “This war they’ve declared on the NYPD has certainly kept the police off our backs for a little while. But it’s bad, Lucian. A young couple was picking up a friend at the casino. They had a baby in the back seat of the sedan. The young family was killed, as were three police officers, and one MC member.”
Oh, shit. Lucian felt a sickness rise in his gut like a poison. “Dad, you can’t blame your—”
“They aren’t the first innocents to be killed in this mess the MC created,” Antony continued, unaffected. “And while we all understand that collateral damage happens, they clearly don’t know when to quit. I will not have my businesses and family affected from their mess.”
“We’re going to make them quit,” Dante said, coming to stand beside his brother’s chair.
“What, pull a Montreal?”
A couple of decades earlier, an Italian crime family in Montreal, Canada stepped in during turf wars between rival gangs to put a stop to the bloodshed and violence. Oddly enough, it worked.
Antony gave him an unhappy look. “I wouldn’t say that. This isn’t a couple of kiddy gangs tossing lead at one another. This is the police, and a well-known, well-organized motorcycle gang that has over one-hundred-fifty clubs all across the United States and some in Canada. It’s not exactly going to be an easy thing, but it needs to stop.”
Fear was a great motivator.
The Marcello family was surely big enough to pull weight here.
“No, probably not easy,” Lucian agreed. “But what is?”
“I want it finished,” his father said finally, a sadness coloring up his tone. “Let’s sit down and make a list of names—important ones. We can easily set something up to meet with the President of the club and whoever else he wants there.”
“And if they don’t take your …
advice
… seriously?” Lucian asked.
“We’ll start crossing off names until they do,” Dante finished for their father.
Sounded simple enough, didn’t it?
It rarely ever was.
Church was always a fucking spectacle.
Lucian understood the importance his mother and father held for religion, respected them for it even, but that didn’t mean he particularly liked it. Mass on Sundays was a four hour—at least—event because the congregation of their church was massive. It never ended.
But, why Lucian disliked the event the most, was because he felt like a flea under a microscope. The Marcello family had attended this church ever since Antony’s great-grandfather stepped off the boat from Sicily ninety-something odd years earlier. They were big donators to the church, not to mention the many charities it funded.
After all, they had so much money when others had so damned little. Apparently the church didn’t give a crap where the money came from, or how it was made, so long as pockets were always filled.
The congregation knew, though. Or it sure seemed like it.
It probably didn’t help that without question or prompting, the very front pew was reserved only for Antony’s family. No one ever took their place. By the time they arrived to the church, it was nearly filled. Walking past row after row of people who couldn’t help but stare and whisper was annoying.
They were recognizable faces. Each Marcello son toted a fortune behind his name and an aura of danger mixed in with a heavy dose of charisma and charm. It didn’t seem to matter their name also carried the weight of organized crime and a Cosa Nostra legacy. Good looks, a cocky as hell smirk, and a nice car fixed all the concern right up. They were a handsome bunch; fit, and tall. Always with fitted suits that cost more than what most people who attended the church made in a month.
Socialite magazines labeled them all as three of New York’s finest bachelors. Rarely were they photographed with women when they did go out, but that was of their own choosing. It was easier to let the public speculate on the more private accesses of their lives than give a full show. Besides that, none of the women they did mingle with were the kinds of females any of the boys wanted the public eye to consider as anything but exactly what they were.
A fuck. Something dirty and quick. One hell of a fun time.
Definitely not a woman they’d take home to Antony or Cecelia. And if they wouldn’t take her home, it was a well-known fact their mother and father didn’t want to be reading about the extracurricular activities their sons may or may not be having with said females. It was a respect thing.
Another rule to add to the pile.
Pretty damn simple.
Resting back into the pew, Lucian sighed, frustrated. The seating arrangement for their family always followed the same order every Sunday. His mother would always sit to Antony’s left, while Dante sat to his father’s right, followed by Lucian, and finally Gio. It was, basically, the family’s hierarchy.
It didn’t matter that Antony was the Don—the boss of the Marcello crime family—Cecelia was the boss of
their
family. In no way was the hierarchy meant to denote anyone’s importance in the family, so to speak, but it showed very clearly who was who.
Cecelia was the wife and mother. The very most important person to all of the Marcello men. She was Antony’s chosen partner, his equal. Dante, both in the mafia business and private affairs, was his father’s right hand man—the underboss to the family. Lucian, a capo, was his brother’s. Gio, also a capo running his own crew on the west side, came at the end. It wasn’t that the youngest son couldn’t handle being given more responsibility but what he did, he did especially well. His young age gave him the ability to relate to the younger men in his crew. They respected him a hell of a lot more than some of the older guys.
Everybody knew when Antony would finally hand over his position, his title of boss would go to only Dante. Lucian, on the other hand, would second his younger brother as his underboss. Gio’s fate was still undetermined, but that was his own choice. It had always been that way, even when they were all children.
Today, however, the seating arrangement in church was different.
Lucian was sitting at his mother’s side, while Gio was sitting where Dante usually would beside their father. Dante, seemingly unbothered by the change in scenery, sat at the end, giving the very bare minimum he could manage of his attention to the priest.
It wasn’t the change of seating that put Lucian on edge. He didn’t give a flying shit where he sat, really. He was sure many people in the congregation were curious about the sudden change after over a decade of the family sitting in exactly the same order, but he didn’t care. It was the fact that sitting two seats down from his mother like he usually would, Lucian could at least stare at the intricate paintings covering the walls, or the high vaulted ceiling. There, he could lose himself in anything other than the drawling drone of a priest who was preaching to a man who cared very little for the words being spoken.
But no. Sitting beside his mother meant Lucian’s attention was being thoroughly monitored.
He was going insane.
A gentle touch of his mother’s hand to his knee drew Lucian from his thoughts. She had given his distracted mind just enough time to hear Father Peter ask for the congregation to stand one last time and join him in a final prayer. As he stood, Lucian gave his own silent prayer of thanks for the long morning coming to an end.
Damn, he was hungry as hell.
The prayer, as familiar as the church he stood in, was spoken quietly and surely. Making the sign of the cross with two fingers across his chest, Lucian echoed, “Amen.”
Unfortunately, when he turned to leave like everyone else was doing, Cecelia blocked his way in her own motherly way, her hand coming to rest on his arm. “Sit, dear,” his mother murmured softly.
Lucian frowned, glancing over his shoulder, watching his brothers and father begin filing out with the rest of the congregation. They didn’t even look back to notice the other two members of their family were staying behind. Not bothering to argue, as there was no point in doing that when it came to Cecelia Marcello, Lucian sat back down into the pew.
She looked as she always did on a Sunday morning. Her hair was pinned back in a flawless chignon, not a single strand of the chocolate colored strands out of place. Cecelia didn’t wear much makeup, as she didn’t need to, but the bit she did have on was perfectly applied and sparingly used. Despite the dress she wore being a dark, navy blue, something that seemed simple but still very stylish and appropriate, Lucian knew for a fact that article of clothing cost five grand easy.
Cecelia was an interesting character. She was an enigma in many ways. People often took her at face value. Her beauty and easy smile. The friendliness she portrayed and the genuine good heart she truly did have.
Lucian knew they were stupid for doing just that.
She was not simply a mother and housewife, like many assumed. She could just as easily bake a pie as she could cut a man’s throat, and she wouldn’t hesitate to if she needed to do just that, either. Cecelia was one of the strongest, most frightening women Lucian ever had the pleasure of meeting. Raised in a stricter home than Lucian could imagine, she was the daughter of a former Cosa Nostra boss. The same boss who Antony had later killed for murdering his best friend.
Yes, that meant exactly what it sounded like. The woman Lucian’s father had married was Cecelia’s younger sister.
It certainly made for interesting family dinners, if nothing else.
Not that Lucian gave a crap about Kate.
His mother, however, he loved as fiercely as her own flesh and blood sons did. Without a doubt, mafia royalty was the best way to describe his adoptive mother. Cecelia was Italian through and through. She enjoyed the lifestyle her husband provided, kept his home and sons in check, and supported her family in every venture they took on, even if it was a dangerous one.
Just the kind of woman Antony wanted his sons to find, Lucian knew.
“Your father told me you woke up late last night and were wandering the house,” Cecelia said, sitting beside her son once more.
Lucian sighed, looking up at the ceiling as if it would swallow him whole. Was that his father’s plan, now? Convince Cecelia it was his fault they were up late in his office?
“A noise woke me up, that’s all. It was nothing.”
Cecelia hummed disapprovingly under her breath, shooting him a sly smile from the side. “Lying looks terrible on you, Lucian.”
She always knew. “Sorry.”
“I’m aware of why you were in your father’s office after you woke up. He doesn’t hide things from me, you know.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“A noise, huh?” Cecelia asked.
Lucian hated lying his mother, so he chose not to. “Just a bad dream, nothing serious.”
“I figured.” Cecelia smiled at Lucian’s surprised look. “Mothers know, dear. Besides that, you’ve been terribly distracted lately. Barely kept your eyes on Father Peter today.”
“It’s church. I’m always distracted in church.”
“True, but not when you know I’m watching. Were you dreaming about the streets again?”
Once more, Lucian stared at his mother in a confused shock. How did she know him so well? “Maybe. Like I said, it’s nothing.”
“Perhaps,” Cecelia agreed, though she didn’t sound like she believed him. “Or maybe your subconscious is finally questioning all the things you never did when you were younger. We’ll always talk, if you want, Lucian. Whatever you need, Antony and I will give you. You should know this.”
Lucian was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable with the attention his mother was giving him. It wasn’t like this was new, because it wasn’t. Cecelia was incredibly attentive, caring, and supportive of her sons, but usually she didn’t bring something up unless someone else did first.
“Why change my name?” Lucian asked randomly, not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t you already know?”
“No, I don’t. It’s never bothered me before.”
“But it is now?” she asked quietly.
Lucian shrugged. “I’m curious, I guess.”
“
Ragazzo dolce
,” Cecelia said, half chiding, half soothing. Sweet boy, she called him. It was a tender term she used for all her sons when they were younger. “So you could be whoever you wanted to be. You could still be little Luciano, if you wanted, or someone new. It was your fresh start in one tiny step. The ability to keep the memory of your mother and father, while having a new pair to love, or let them go altogether. The last name, though, was for your own benefit.”
“I’m a Marcello.”
Cecelia’s hand patted his knee as she winked. “That you are.”
Standing, Cecelia straightened out the bottom of her dress. “Now, go to confession.”
Lucian had her there. “Confession is scheduled before Mass, and on Saturday mornings. Never after Mass. Next Sunday, okay?”
It was easier for him to simply divert the topic of going to confession rather than actually outright tell Cecelia he hadn’t gone in years. After all, confession was meant for those who intended to confess all of their sins, and genuinely desired not to commit them again. Lucian couldn’t say that for himself and honestly mean it.
“Father Peter is making an exception for you as a favor to your father and me, dear.”
Of course he was
, Lucian thought, scowling.
Cecelia smiled that knowing smile only a mother could have. “He mentioned last week it’d been a while since he last spoke to you. That’s not acceptable, Lucian.”
Goddammit.
“
Merda
,
Mamma
—”
“That mouth, I swear. Not in church. No more stalling, it’s been too long. Go, please.”
Again, arguing was obviously not going to work with his mother.
Clearly this was not a request he was going to get out of with semantics and deflections. The Marcello matriarch always did have her ways of getting what she wanted. Conceding to his mother’s demand, Lucian gave a short nod before dropping a kiss to her cheek. “Fine. I’ll be back at the house for dinner.”
“See you then. And, Lucian?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you don’t trust outsiders easily, but be honest in your confessions. It’s the only time you truly can be just who you are with someone beyond your father and brothers that will listen and understand the good that sometimes gets covered by all the bad. For now, anyway.”
For now?
Lucian didn’t get the chance to ask his mother what she meant by that. Cecelia had already turned and was leaving down the long aisle. The church was practically cleared out of parishioners, but for a few stragglers towards the back. Apparently he wasn’t the only one wanting to make a beeline out of the old building as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, Lucian was well aware that wasn’t going to happen today. Confession could take a while, especially if done correctly, and as his mother mentioned, honestly. Penance could be even longer. He was dreading that, too, though he wasn’t sure which one he disliked more.
So, just knowing that made Lucian take the long trek to the confessional a little slower. He distinctly remembered the first time he’d gone to confession because his mother demanded it. It was the Saturday morning following his eighteenth birthday. Antony allowed the Marcello boys to throw a massive party—something they were famous for—at their mansion style home in the gated community of Tuxedo Park in Orange County, New York with the bare minimum of parental supervision.