“Mne nasrat’, chto ty dumaesh’. The day I listen to you, is the day hell freezes over. You know what you can do with your condescending advice, Svoloch’? Za cyun v shopu,” Volkov snarls, spitting to the floor in distaste.
You don’t have to be fluent in Russian to know Volkov just told Rossi to shove his advice where the sun doesn’t shine.
Not a great start to this fucking peace treaty meeting.
Everyone glares at their enemies from across the table and there is no mistaking the animosity we all have for one another. There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t like to wring the neck of the man sitting at their side or across from them.
“We came here to ensure peace in order for us to continue on with our livelihood. That can only happen if ego and pride are set aside,” Don Rossi continues with less vehemence in his tone.
“That’s a tall order to make, old man,” Benny chimes in.
“It’s an order that will ensure you get to be as old as me. Or is life so dispensable where you come from?”
“Depends on the life.” Benny shrugs, back to his bored facade.
“Are we going to sit here and do this whole song and dance of who has the biggest cock in the room, or are we going to come to an agreement where we stop killing each other?” Giovanni Moretti exclaims, frustrated. “We all know why we are here, what needs to be done. Now, are we men who want to ensure that our way of life continues, business as usual, or should we just kill each other and save ourselves from these childish tantrums?”
“As much as the idea of gutting your bellies open like fish amuses me, Moretti is right. Business must come before pleasure,” Miguel Hernandez adds his two cents.
Of course, the El Jefe of the Hernandez Cartel has business on the brain, and it has nothing to do with saving his kins’ lives. It’s a well-known fact that the South American boss lives off the misery of others and doesn’t care if it’s one of his own that perishes in this war. All he cares about is his fat bottom line, and that his drugs continue to be spread out around the world.
I’m not ignorant to the fact that The Cartel are the richest dipshits in here. While the rest of the families have billions at their disposal, these fuckers have trillions. Enough money that they will never be able to spend it all in their lifetime. However, Miguel Hernandez’s greed for more knows no limits.
That’s another difference between our families. We don’t want world domination, but like fuck will we roll over and concede to any man’s greedy ambitions. I want their drugs out of Boston and as far away from our domain as possible. I know that will never happen unless this treaty goes through. One of our demands is that only a small percentage of their drugs enters Irish territory. I have no idea what the other requests stipulated from these assholes are, nor do I care. This is the only one that, for me, is non-negotiable, and I know Athair feels the same way. Especially since we know firsthand what that junk can do to a family.
“It has been a year since we started our deliberations, and the time has come to put them into action. I admit it will take some time to get used to this new reality, but resistance is futile,” Carlo Rossi deadpans.
My gaze falls to the man who, in an even note, just told us to either bend the knee now or die, without looking one bit flustered at the threat he laid at our feet. The fucker is old school through and through. Like the Outfit, he is cold and pragmatic. It’s served him well so far. To his discontentment, though, the only part of New York City that he hasn’t been able to reign over with an iron fist is Hell’s Kitchen. And that’s because we rule it. I have no real beef with Rossi or his well-tailored goons, even though I highly doubt they would say the same. The Cosa Nostra think we Irish are an unruly bunch. Too unpredictable to be trusted. They like everything nice and tidy. Organized. And we Kellys have always thrived in chaos and disorder. You can’t control a loose cannon, and for those who view control as a precious commodity, the unpredictability of the Kelly family sets them on edge. Still, the Cosa Nostra has been in this game way before the word mafia was even a thing to be feared. They deserve some respect, even if just a sliver of it.
“To ensure blood will stop flowing, we need to mix the families together,” he proceeds with his rant. “We must make sure we are all connected in some way, so no one thinks twice before waging war on us.”
“Agreed,” the heads of each family reply in sync.
“We all have daughters, and a woman’s reason for being has always been to be used for alliance purposes, so it fits that they be the ones to be sacrificed here,” the Cosa Nostra Don continues on.
I bite my inner cheek at that aloof comment, thinking of little Iris back home being thrown to the lions just to end our combined strife. Unfortunately, I don’t see another way, either.
“Once the girls are of age, they must marry the leaders of their family, or soon to be dons and bosses. This exchange must all be done within the same time frame. We don’t want to have anyone back out because they got cold feet and are no longer interested in the union. Can we agree on those terms?”
No one says anything to the contrary, establishing a silent agreement.
“Good. Now seeing as my daughter is only eight and the youngest of the girls, I propose marriage should only occur in ten years’ time when she’s of age.”
“That’s preposterous!” Miguel exclaims, looking red-faced with fury. “My daughter is of age now. How can you expect Rosa to wait to be married until she’s almost thirty? People will think there is something wrong with her.”
“When has public opinion ever been a concern for us?” Benny retorts smugly with an arched brow.
“This will make a mockery of my family. It will only bring shame to my daughter. At that age, who knows if she’ll even be fertile enough to bear children!?!”
God, this asshole is a misogynistic pig.