When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)(24)

“I was not. Back in Napoli, I wasn’t exactly on the path for it.” I was too busy spending my days and nights drinking in my dark apartment, thinking about Sara, and wishing Nunzio was dead. “It took me a couple years to earn it. In the Casalesi, your bloodline only puts you in the running, but to get made, you have to show that you can be a real asset to the clan and earn. I was twenty-three when Damiano called the meeting.”

“Hmm.” Nero pulls out a small metal box of cigarettes and offers me one. “We do it differently. For us, becoming made means showing that when you find yourself in a situation with only one way out, you have what it takes to do the hard thing.”

The willingness and ability to kill for your family.

We halt for a moment to light up.

“You take your traditions seriously,” I tell him over the flame of my lighter. “That’s how it used to be done many decades ago for us as well.”

“Traditions are important to the Messeros.”

I inhale on the cig. “For us, that particular criteria didn’t prove to be enough. Our clan wouldn’t be what it is today if all we had were fighters. We have enough of those. To be made, you have to show you’ve also got a mind for business, something that’s far more rare than brute force.”

The insult isn’t buried too deep, but Nero laughs it off and blows out a puff of smoke. “Then I’m even more excited about working with the famed Casalesi. I’m sure Garzolo already told you we’re here to talk about expanding our partnership. We’re delighted to be attending De Rossi’s wedding.

“It might not be taking place in one of Damiano’s clubs, but I can guarantee it will be a good party.”

“I love a good party. Next time you’re in New York, make sure to get in touch. I’ll return the favor.”

He’s laying it on thick, but I’m not fooled by the friendly giant act. This man wouldn’t be a consigliere if he wasn’t clever as hell.

I have to stay on guard.

“I will. Although, I doubt I’ll be there anytime soon. Things are busy here and back in Italy.”

“Of course. I remember what it was like when Rafe took over the family after his father’s death. There was a lot of work to do in the months that followed.”

“Must have been a big adjustment going from a made man to a don. Damiano’s been a capo for a decade, so he’s had time to earn the respect of our clan. That helps.”

We stop at the edge of the cliff to admire the view. Messero’s got his hands in his pockets, his expression a neutral mask. I take the opportunity to size him up. His features are sharp. Polished. There’s something vulture-like in how he carries himself.

Nero puffs on his cigarette. “Not really. Rafaele’s been preparing for this job his whole life. He earned everyone’s respect a long time ago. After all, he got made at thirteen.”

Fuck, that’s young.

I think back to the folder Napoletano shared with us a while back. Inside were all of Messero’s known crimes, business deals, alliances, and enemies.

The last section was sparse.

Messero had killed most of them.

An hour later, the six of us spread out across the leather armchairs and sofa in Dem’s office. I offer everyone whiskey, and they all accept except Napoletano. He joined us after the tour, and there’s a distinct annoyed glimmer in his eyes at having been asked to step away from Mari for this meeting. They haven’t emerged from their bedroom all day, and the collar of Napoletano’s shirt doesn’t quite cover the hickeys peppering his thick neck. Dem noticed them when we first walked in and gave Napoletano a dirty look. He knows better than to say anything though. Mari might be his sister, but now she’s Napoletano’s wife.

“Should we get down to it then?” Nero throws out once the drinks have been poured. His gaze lands on Dem. “Your second delivery was a fraction of what we agreed on.”

Dem props an ankle across his thigh and settles into his chair, looking utterly at ease. “I took control less than four months ago. We’re still working out the kinks with the new supply route we established for the counterfeits.”

“Have they been worked out?” Nero asks.

Irritation prickles across my nape. That fucking tone. “We don’t report to you, so stop talking to us like we’re your fucking crew.”

Nero lifts his palms up. “I wouldn’t dream of it. No disrespect, fellas. We’ve stumbled onto a good thing here, and it’s in both of our interests to get the cash flowing.”

“Indeed,” Damiano says, his gaze moving to Garzolo. “How much product can you move in the next six months?”

Garzolo takes a swig of his drink and glances at Messero. “That’s a question for Rafaele.”

I make a note of that. Interesting. So Messero’s crew is handling most of the distribution? What’s Garzolo’s role in all this then? We’d been operating under the assumption that he and Messero were splitting things fifty-fifty back in New York.

Messero is slow to answer. Clearly, he’s in no fucking rush. “We have a network of retailers across the East Coast with an eager clientele. The first month you sent us one million worth of merchandise. We could sell five times that.”

My eyes widen as I do the math in my head. Given our terms, this operation could bring in two and half mil per month. Jesus. After expenses, we’d be left with a two million profit each month.