Indebted to the Mafia King
Queen of Saints

Dante

I slide into a booth at La Dolce Vita, an Italian restaurant I haven't been to since before Frank Lombardi killed my father and inhale the garlicky air. "Good, right?" Tony sits next to me. "I've been all over this place the last two weeks."

I shoot him a look. "I've been all over whatever the hell Domino's wife saw fit to feed me. Do you know what that is, by the way?"

"Yeah, I think she prefers a diet of 'shut up, it saved your life,' just like in the old country." Tony picks up a menu. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

As if to prove his point, my chest burns.

"Yes," I say. "And whether I'm ready or not, I have to get back into the game. She's leaving tonight."

Tony grunts noncommittally, thankfully pulling me away from the attendant ache of that statement.

"What? I thought you'd be throwing her a going away party."

He shrugs just as a waitress walks up to the table.

"What can I get you guys to drink?" she asks.

Tony looks up at her slowly, emphasizing his blue eyes in a move I've seen so many times I can't help but snicker. As always, the woman is too entranced by him to notice. "What do you suggest?" he asks. "I like to try new things."

She giggles. "Um...I'm new here, so I don't really know. I think we have great wine?"

"Bring us a bottle of your favorite," he says.

She scurries away, and I roll my eyes at him.

"Business, not pleasure," I say.

"You found a way to combine them." He opens his menu.

The door opens, and a few moments later, two men join us. I glance over the top of my menu at them. Ben, the college student who saved Eleni from getting kidnapped with Sebastian sits next to an older, more distinguished version of himself. Exactly who we were waiting for. Our first meeting of several tonight with known Coppola operators.

Ben's old man looks stoic despite the conversation that he knows is about to take place.

"Dante Cattaneo." I stick out my hand to shake. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Lucio Mazzi." He shakes my hand firmly. "And my son Benicio, whom you know."

I smile at Ben. He just nods, looking tired.

"Tell me how things have been." I gesture broadly, despite the pain in my chest. "I'm paying as long as the story's flowing."

Lucio sighs, and the night begins. We entertain Coppola after Coppola, hearing the same stories of conflict and disorder in the ranks since Thano's death. No, not since Thano's death. Since Eleni called open season. A few of the men we talk to are already technically on Saints' payroll, just on probation, including Ben and Lucio. The Coppola outfit is in tatters. Not everyone knew about the plan to flip on us. Those who didn't feel betrayed. Those who did are terrified of retribution. Everyone is tired of hiding. In a break between meetings, I lean over to Tony.

"I like the father and son," I say.

"For what?" he replies.

I sigh. "We're scooping up all the Coppola territory in the city, and as much of the Lombardi slice as we can. Look at the way these men move around Lucio."

All the Coppola operators loosely circle the end of the bar where Lucio and Ben sit in the unconscious way of men who rely on a leader. After a moment, Tony nods. Lucio is a boss, whether he wants to be or not.

"I see your point. But they're already on probation. What more do you want?"

"Take that off," I say. "Full membership, starting tomorrow, on the ground they'll help us clean up all this confusion."

Tony nods, and I lean back. Finally, I feel a little like my old self again. Maybe I don't need-

Teo, the bartender from Benny's, slides into the booth across from us.

"I thought you were dead," I say mildly.

"Same to you," he replies. "What's this I hear about probationary admittance to the Saints?"

The door at the front of the restaurant bangs open, and I twist as much as I can without wincing. A trio of redheads I don't recognize waltz in.

"Irish Kings," Teo sneers. "They've been hanging around all the Italian spots. Somebody needs to show them the world hasn't ended just because Luca's dead."

I remember the red-circled sticky note. Was this why?

Tony runs his tongue along his lower teeth as he leans into my side and says, "Cal's been making moves on the old Lombardi territory, boss."

Ah, that's why.

The trio of Kings sit right behind us, laughing raucously. I roll up my sleeves. If I'm going to declare that I'm able to run the Saints again, I need to put my money where my mouth is.

Tony grabs my arm in warning, and I freeze. I look slowly up at Teo, who is staring at Tony's restraining hand. Tony withdraws it slowly and begins rolling up his own sleeves. He knows how the game works. It doesn't matter that I have sutures and staples holding my chest together.

I stand and march to the end of the Kings' table.

"Well, I heard they had some bonny lasses in here, but I never expected the likes of you fine young ladies," I say in an exaggerated Irish accent.

That's all it takes. One of them, the broadest, launches up out of his seat. Mistake. Tony steps out from behind me and slams a fist into his face, immediately knocking him back into the booth. The other two scramble to stand as civilians scream and scatter. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me the Coppola men won't be getting involved. As much as they were auditioning for me, now I'm auditioning for them.

Am I really still the Dante Cattaneo who's run the Saints these past five years?

My chest screams as I snatch a stein of beer off a nearby table and smash it over the head of the second King to find his feet in reply. The smell of hops fills the air, and I suck in a breath just long enough that the third one can land a hell of a right hook on my jaw. I stumble back and catch myself on a chair.

The one who hit me who has the longest hair of the three by far-crows and leaps forward to hit me again. I swing the chair between us, legs out, and grin as he slams directly into it. One of the legs snaps off, and I abandon the much too heavy seat for the makeshift club. As he struggles to his feet, I smash it into his gut, and he crumples.

"Dante!" Tony shouts.

I whirl to find him on the floor, the other two cornering him. It's as easy as breathing with a bullet in my chest to club the broader one over the head and give Tony enough space to get back up, which he does by slamming his knee into the chest of the smaller one and nearly flipping to his feet. He grabs the wine bottle, shatters it against the table, and brandishes the jagged neck like a knife.

The broader King bellows as he gets to his feet and charges me. I forget all about my injury as I dance to the side at the last second, then bring the chair leg down on the back of his neck. When he falls, I roll him onto his back and bash his teeth in for good measure. By the time I turn back to Tony, the final Irish King has joined his friends in lying on the ground and spitting blood. I pant, feeling alive for the first time in too fucking long.

"Maybe we take the fight outside next time?" Teo looks around at the mess we created, the terrified patrons.

I don't give a fuck about Teo. I bend down to the big King at my feet.

"Tell your boss," I hiss, "that the Staten Island States run New York City, and I'm their fucking king."

The man at my feet smiles through broken teeth. "I heard the Saints had a queen these days. Cal's desperate to meet her."