Page 158 of Savage Roses

Reluctantly, Kozlov nods, his lips thin and tight.

Lucius grins. “Now, anybody else got any objections, or can we begin?”

Nobody says a word. A few share cautious looks from where they’re seated, but nobody dares speak up. The silence pleases Lucius even more. His mouth twists into an even wider grin and he leans back in his chair, snapping his fingers.

Within seconds, he has a cigar delivered to him by one of his guys. Puffing on it, still surveying everybody else as though they’re shit stains he can’t stand, he says, “Good, good. Seems like we’re all on the same page about who’s really running things. Which brings me to the first topic of discussion this time around. There’s going to be some… changes to this arrangement the five of us have. I’m restructuring some of the territories. Some of you don’t need as much land as you have.”

Immediately, everybody breaks out into a chorus of confusion. Giancola half rises out of his chair to argue with De Trolio, who tells him to shut the fuck up. Saito and his advisor whisper amongst themselves in Japanese, so nobody else can decipher what’s being discussed. Michael Frausto, representing the Belini family, pulls out his iPhone and places a call to somebody undisclosed. Kozlov remains still and stoic, though the venom translates, anyway—he’s not happy with the announcement.

Lucius, in true Lucius fashion, doesn’t have a fuck to give. The more the other Families react in outrage, the more amused he becomes.

The chaos amuses him, much like it had with Brenda’s surprise appearance. He picks her out of the crowded room.

“You,” he says, pointing at her with his cigar. “You’re recording me, ain’t you? You don’t think I know who you are and why you’re here?”

Brenda stammers answering, fidgeting in her seat. Two of Lucius’s men aim their weapons at her, ready to fire at his command.

But they don’t get the chance. The lights dim and the projector attached to the ceiling whirs as the machine starts up. It projects onto the large polyester canvas draped across the wall behind Lucius. Static flickers in and out on the screen just like when played on the box TVs in the abandoned library in Old Northam.

After a few seconds, the camcorder footage sets in and the twitchy static goes away. In the corner, the date stamp shows up in neat yellow text:April 1994

The scene is familiar—the wood-paneled walls of the Neptune Society Club and the sea of tables littered throughout the dining room and the dozens of criminals socializing.

One by one, everybody falls silent. Any conversation drops off as the other Families watch the beginning of the footage with aghast eyes and furrowed brows.

Lucius is the last one to comply. He freezes up, recognizing the sounds recorded on the tape, and then spins in his executive-sized leather chair.

“You fucking piece of garbage,” he growls under his breath, rising up to his feet.

“Not so fast, Pop,” I say from the doorway.

All the heads whip away from the projector screen and over to me, like they’ve planned on synchronizing. Almost two dozen stares fixed on me and my crew flanking me. I ignore each and every stare except one—me and Lucius locked into expressing our mutual hatred and loathing, so focused on each other nobody else exists in the room.

“It’s time we all sit down and watch a movie,” I say, holding up the remote. “And you’re going to sit like a good fat fuck and watch along.”

De Trolio sneers from the sidelines. “Or else—”

“Or else we’re all going to go BOOM. Want to try me? See this remote right here? It’s not to the projector.”

Lucius’s nostrils flare and pure hatred clenches on his face like never before. I almost smirk, though I hold my composure and let my eyes do the communicating. The flicker of amusement is enough.

He knows. He knows I’ve got him. He’s fucked.

Everybody’s going to see it. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

Revenge at last.Even if death comes after.

lucius

september 1972

Ihave never likedthe dark. It’s evil and scary. But Pop twists the key and locks us away for our own good.

That’s what he says.

We sweat in the summer. Our bellies ache and our tongues beg. Food and water are a luxury, or so we’re told. We wait. We behave. We’re good boys.

But there’s always a reason. There’s always something we do wrong.