70

GIO
The Yonkers power plant, a weathered edifice with its front adorned in reddish-brown bricks, stood as a solemn sentinel by the banks of the Hudson River. This decaying relic, much like my uncles, held an air of antiquity and fading significance.
As we parked our car near the entrance, Sebastian’s voice carried a mumbled remark, almost lost under his breath, “The Gateway to Hell.” The power plant’s neglected surroundings were a throng of parked vehicles, creating an unusual congestion for this forsaken industrial site.
Gateway to Hell – that moniker had been assigned by the press in recent times, owing to the violent clashes among rival gangs that had stained its history. Yet, the most significant bloodshed had been orchestrated by the Famiglia. And now, on this day, as I stood near the entrance, the possibility of a similar grim episode lingered in the air. Dario had taken Millie out for a city tour, a deliberate move to ensure her safety should things escalate. The thought was clear: if Sebastian and I were to meet our demise, Dario’s course would involve safeguarding her by seeking refuge with the protection of the Outfit in Chicago.
Twin smokestacks soared skyward like the barrels of massive guns. My own firearms rested securely against my chest, a hopeful symbol that their use wouldn’t be required today. Side by side, Sebastian and I moved past the groaning iron gates, our footsteps echoing in accompaniment to the symphony of rust-devoured pipes. We entered the towering nave of the building, an expansive space that seemed more akin to a cathedral than a power station. The hundreds of men present turned their gazes towards me as I strode ahead. The front lines were comprised of soldiers from New York and Boston, familiar faces whose camaraderie I had shared over the years. However, the ranks that trailed behind held visages less familiar – soldiers from Washington and Atlanta, from cities spanning the East Coast, all under my dominion. To some, I was a figure known only through stories and press snapshots. An almost imperceptible hum swept through the assembly as their scrutiny rested upon me. Unlike the traditional three-piece suit favored by my father and his predecessors, I had opted for a fitted dark gray dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal the sinew forged from years of labor.
Deliberately, I bypassed the raised platforms that offered a grand view of the hall, choosing instead a lower concrete dais, fragments of rusted bolts still clinging to its surface. Here, I turned to face the gathered Famiglia, resolute and unaccompanied. Sebastian remained stationed at the periphery. His presence beside me would have conveyed a need for reinforcement, but today’s purpose was to demonstrate my capacity to stand alone, to face any challenge head-on.
With a commanding gesture of my hand, the hush fell upon my men. Amadeo, stationed right at the forefront, met my gaze with a veneer of concealed disdain. “I extend my gratitude for heeding my summons,” my voice resounded, filling the space. “I am aware that meetings of this magnitude have not been the precedent set by my predecessors, but times demand change. While we honor our traditions and codes, foundations that have guided us well, certain adaptations are imperative. We must evolve to fortify our Famiglia, to confront impending threats and emerge even stronger.”
The bulk of the younger soldiers nodded in accord, and a substantial number of the elder ones followed suit. Yet, some expressions remained etched in skepticism, among them those worn by my uncles Amadeo and Tonio. A ripple of astonishment swept through the assembly at my next words. “As a demonstration of my respect for each of you, I’ve convened this gathering to offer you the chance to voice your apprehensions before pledging your allegiance to me.”
Whispers of surprise, exchanged glances.
A gesture toward Amadeo, who promptly straightened himself. “To underline my earnestness, I now yield the floor to one of my critics, my uncle Amadeo Merante, Underboss of the Atlanta Famiglia. His name might ring familiar to some of you.”
The irresistible opportunity to taunt Amadeo surged within me. For as long as I’d known him, he had been more a purveyor of words than a man of deeds, hardly ever glimpsed beyond the confines of his office. It was doubtful that many within our ranks had ever caught sight of him in any setting other than that.
Yet, on this occasion, there he was, slowly advancing and struggling to mount the platform. His difficulty spoke volumes; it had evidently been a considerable stretch since his last brawl, a fact starkly revealed by the bulging pouch marring the smooth line of his suit. He afforded me the faintest of nods by way of acknowledgment – a gesture that never failed to make me question whether I should have heeded Sebastian’s counsel and silenced Amadeo permanently. But blood ties ran deep, and at the very least, I had to maintain the illusion of caring.
With some throat-clearing, Amadeo gathered his composure and ascended the platform. He extended his arms with an air of grandeur that seemed out of place. “Let it be known that I intend no disrespect. Those familiar with me are well aware of my unwavering commitment to respect,” he began, and I battled the urge to roll my eyes. His commitment seemed more to the art of malicious gossip spoken behind closed doors than any genuine respect.
“But there are matters that demand airing for the sake of our Famiglia. We require a firm hand, a hand seasoned by experience, to navigate these tumultuous waters. Gio is undoubtedly strong, but his youth and inexperience are undeniable.”
A murmur of astonishment rippled through the assembly. My countenance remained an inscrutable mask. If my subordinates perceived the impact of Amadeo’s words on me, they might begin to consider them as truths.
“Among us are numerous adept Underbosses, individuals with decades of invaluable experience. It’s conceivable that one of them could assume the mantle of Capo until Gio comes of age.”
Pure drivel. Once I relinquished my position, Amadeo, along with my other uncles and their offspring, would take pains to ensure it remained beyond my grasp, likely with a blade wedged between my shoulder blades.
Once more, I raised my hand, my visage an unyielding mask of steel. “Whose very name commands respect within the Outfit? Whose vengeance sends shivers down the Bratva’s spine at the mere contemplation of crossing us? I’ve dedicated twelve years to the Famiglia, extinguishing nearly two hundred adversaries in the process. My name is whispered in dread. ‘The Vice.’ They fear me not because of my age but because my actions resonate louder than my years, because I execute what must be done, irrespective of the bloodshed, the peril, the brutality. Yes, Uncle Amadeo, you possess more years, an undeniable truth. But how many battles have you engaged in, how many souls have you tormented, how many enemies have you dispatched?” My gaze remained steady, fixed upon the hundreds below me. “Yes, age favors you, but that is what shields you today. I won’t execute you for challenging your Capo, for I revere my elders. I venerate them so long as they reciprocate that respect, but take heed: the next time you contemplate insurrection, neither your age nor your status as my uncle will halt the thrust of my knife into your heart.” My focus shifted, encompassing the throng before me. “Those who have fought at my side understand why I’m the Capo the Famiglia requires in this hour. I possess combat prowess, in stark contrast to the many past Capos who remained ensconced behind desks and bodyguards. Yet, I can also navigate diplomacy, a skill demonstrated by my alliance with Carlo Pearce’s daughter.”
“We refuse the presence of the Outfit’s harlot in our Famiglia!” bellowed a deep masculine voice.
Swiftly, my gaze pinpointed the source of the outburst. Sebastian greeted me with his sinister grin, a gateway to the abyss. Tonight, the air would be suffused with the scent of blood.
“Who dares?” I inquired.
Several figures shifted to my right. I honed in on them, fixing upon a towering figure unfamiliar to me – presumably one of Amadeo’s men – whose eyes met mine without faltering.
“Who?” My voice carried a roar.
“I did,” he acknowledged, his tone unwavering.
With determined resolve, I sprang off the raised platform, cutting through the dispersing crowd with purpose. Just a step behind me, Sebastian followed faithfully. As I navigated through the sea of faces, my men’s expressions caught my attention-a mixture of respect and fascination shone in their eyes. Despite the disparity in height between most of them and me, their loyalty was evident.