Of volume lineage

Winter

I

Giova

Peace made me wary.

I blamed it on my childhood. I had been born during a time of war, nursed to the sounds of pain, and taught how to walk on bloody floors. Instead of playing with blocks, I had entertained myself with unloaded guns and before I knew my alphabet, I knew how to kill a man with his own watch.

Those were the days before Ma fell out of favor with my father. He had kept her around, long enough to corrupt my twin and I’s souls before sending her out onto the streets with nothing but the clothes on her back and two hungry mouths to feed. She had died not long after that and Lorenzo did not invite us back into his household.

The turbulence of my childhood had shaped me into the man I was today. A man who disliked peace, who abhorred treaties and understandings. I couldn’t comprehend why our kind even pretended to like tranquillity and order.

You don’t become a mobster for the paid holidays.

Besides, this addiction to peace that my fellow Made Men insisted on made them sloppy and lazy. With fat stomachs, they became untrained and blind–and so much easier for men like me to catch them off guard.

Like the Lombardi Famiglia.

The recent destruction of the Falcone organization had made Vitale Lombardi more on edge. He had doubled his security, tightened his i

He was correct in his assumptions. However, no doubling of soldati in the streets would be a strong enough shield to stop me from taking his territory. I had often found during my life that if I set my sights on something, I always ended up with it in the end. Relentless, my brother said. Psychotic, my ex-wife had argued.

Psychotic indeed, I mused to myself as I watched Don Lombardi exit his car and step out onto the busy Manhattan street. A group of soldati circled around him, some dressed in all black whereas others blended into the swarm of pedestrians.

I handed the binoculars to my underboss.

“He has seven men with him,” Vincent stated what I already knew. “He’s nervous.”

Wind whistled past my ears as we assessed the world below us. From the balcony of the skyscraper, there was very little we couldn’t see, despite the darkness of the wintry night. Vincent called this spot our hawk’s nest, despite the pink princess castle to our left.

“Any rational man would be.”

For the past few weeks, I had been closing in on Vitale. First, I took some of his loyal men in the early hours of dawn, then cut off a few trade routes. Now he was discovering his politicians and drug lords were no longer forthcoming with their information and friendship. I was weakening his stronghold, making it easier to destroy when the time came.

There had been one problem, however…

“Domenico said Ia

I, too, felt faint frustration.

It seemed I had underestimated how loyal the traditional families were to Vitale. Or, I supposed, how loyal they were to their traditions. I doubted it mattered who was Don, as long as the conventions they had been raised with and lived by went untouched. This included Catholicism, arranged marriages and legitimate blood.

I was an unmarried atheist, but my worst crime was being born out of wedlock to a young woman and infamous Mob boss. Bastard was the usual word that was used to define my heritage.

Bribing and threatening those who held the most power in the Manhattan organization had been unusually difficult. To them, the rightful heir to the Lombardi throne was Vitale’s eldest son, Vitale Junior–even if the unambitious principe did not have a single leadership quality in his body.

They would rather see their once magnificent famiglia fall than accept a new norm.

In the end, however, they wouldn’t have much of a choice.

Vincent and I stepped back into the warmth of the penthouse once the Don disappeared into the safety of his building. My men were crowded around the dining table, their discussion heated as they talked about possibilities and weaknesses. At the sight of me, they fell silent.

I looked to Domenico. “What happened with Ia

Domenico Giordano was young for a capo but no less effective than his vicious counterparts. He had worked beneath me in Maine and had proven himself to be a very valuable man to have on my side. In a traditional syndicate, his lack of a father and legitimate surname would’ve stopped his talents from being recognized.

The syndicate I ran wasn’t so caught up on blood and parentage. Every single soldati who worked beneath me had to prove themselves, had to show that they were worth my time. I didn’t waste resources on lazy heirs, something the traditionalists of the Lombardi Famiglia would learn in time.

Capo Giordano didn’t look proud as he said, “Ia

“No, he is fiercely loyal to the Lombardi Famiglia,” interrupted one of my other men, Quintus Zetticci.

“There is a personal attachment,” Giordano reasoned. “He grew up with Vitale, they took their Omertà vows together and arranged marriages between their children. The Lombardis are known for their loyalty.”

“To their boss or to each other?” Quintus returned.

I casted my eyes back out through the glass, contemplating what my men were saying. Lombardis were known for their loyalty, choosing to chew their tongues off in custody than rat out their famiglia. It would take a lot more than a bloody tongue to stop me from taking their territory.

Some of the men were wondering why we didn’t kill every single Lombardi and rule in their absence. I had considered it at the very begi

A few reasons stopped me from committing a cull. Firstly, killing hundreds of men would catch the attention of the government. Secondly, I wasn’t becoming king of Manhattan to rule over barren terrain. And thirdly, the other Italian mobs would not take kindly to the bloodshed and could make my reign very difficult. I would not sacrifice money and manpower for the sake of pride.

No, mass homicide was not in the cards when it came to dealing with the loyal Lombardis. I would need to take another route. Bribing and threatening didn’t appear to be working, forcing me to stand back and assess the situation again.

If there was one lesson my father had passed down, it was how to find weak points and then put pressure on them until they snapped.

“Vitale’s younger brothers, Angelo and Bartolomeo,” I said, the room falling quiet beneath my tone. “Both of them would covet after their big brother’s position. Let’s find out just how much.”

Grins were shared across the table as the energy in the room shifted.

Loyalty might shape the world, but jealousy made it turn.

My own brother and I had never fallen victim to envy. Both of us understood how to compromise with each other, and how to play to each other’s strengths. I was more suited to war and bloodshed, whereas Leo had always found strength in spying and creating alliances. He did have the friendlier disposition out of the two of us.