Series: Chicago Sin Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Hey, let’s stop for dinner. My treat, obviously.” He maneuvers his SUV to parallel park in front of Lorenzo’s Italian restaurant, one of the Outfit’s favorite haunts.
“Sure, yeah.” I don’t want to. The silent car ride was excruciating enough. I appreciate Marco’s loyalty to me, but I’d rather not have to spend another hour with him. I don’t want to see anyone I used to know.
But I always did love eating at Lorenzo’s. The food is served in large portions, and everyone is treated like a guest of the house, especially if you’re part of the Outfit. The waiters and staff used to know me by name, greeting me with enthusiastic handshakes and hugs. It’ll be interesting to see if anything has changed.
An explosion of voices assaults me as I step inside.
I have no weapon. I have no way to fight.
Chapter Two
Armando
My whole body goes rigid, my instinct to fight for my life activated before I can turn it off.
“Bentornato!” Welcome back. Cheers of celebration follow.
Fuck.
Bentornato, Mando, the giant banner spanning the private room reads.
Everyone shouts and claps around me as I struggle to exhale the breath lodged under my ribs. They’re focused on me with welcoming faces, but I can’t make my face crack even the semblance of a smile for the assholes.
“Cristo, you coulda warned me,” I mutter to Marco. We’re six months apart, me and him. Raised together. Fought together. We became Made Men together. We’re tighter than brothers.
And for a split moment… I thought we were going to die together.
He cuts a look at me, taking in my balled fists. The muscle ticking at my jaw. “Surprise,” he says sardonically. “Sorry. I’ll get you a drink.”
My ma throws herself at me, her thin arms strangling my neck. I have to force my fingers open to hold her. I feel too many ribs on her back. Adrenaline’s still pumping from the unwelcome fucking surprise.
Seriously. Who gives a new prison-release a surprise party? I coulda killed one of them if they were within swinging distance. Thank God Marco didn’t give me a gun when he picked me up.
I scan the room filled with familiar faces.
Don Pachino sits in the back, chewing on a cigar and sipping whiskey, his capos and son-in-law beside him. I lift my chin to him across the room to show respect, and he raises his glass.
It’s a soldier’s welcome: the hero’s return.
Except only the people in this room will treat me like a hero. To the rest of the world, I’m forever marked by my felony conviction.
A criminal.
“You’re too thin, Mando,” my mother chides when I finally get her to loosen her hold on me.
“So are you, Ma.” I kiss her cheek. She’s much more bony than when I left. Her hair’s going grey, too. It kills me to see how much my stint in prison aged her.
I stare down at the cross around her neck and wonder what she must think of me. It’s not often that the son of a devout Catholic ends up in prison. I know I’ve disappointed her in a way that can never be made right again.
The cross around her neck only serves as a further reminder of how far I have fallen from the altar boy with dreams of one day becoming a priest like my childhood hero, Father Fantoni. The faith he had always preached to me about seemed to have no power in saving me from my own demons and family ties.
My mother stares at me with a mix of love and uncertainty. I can see the fear in her eyes that I could end up back where I just came from, but still she welcomes me with open arms. She loves me despite what I do and who I surround myself with, and for that I am grateful. She’s a mother in the mafia, and that comes with a certain amount of baggage but also understanding. But no mother wants to see her son go to prison. I’m supposed to keep what I do secret from her church and the ladies she does lunch with. I’m not supposed to mess up.
I do want to tell her that I’m sorry for letting her down and that I will try to do better, but it’s hard to find the words.
I don’t know why stepping into the old place feels like a punch in the gut. This party is for me. I should be celebrating. But I don’t remember what joy feels like.
I don’t even remember what it means to feel.
Father Fantoni approaches, and though I’m surprised to see him at the party, I know he’s no stranger to the Outfit. He’s seen us all grow from children and is just as much family as anyone else in this room.
“I hope to see you at Sunday Service now,” he says as he places a welcoming hand on my shoulder. “Welcome home.”