Untouchable
By Vince
No matter who tries to talk me down—or how—no part of me will let this pass, even if I’m breaking my own fucking rules as Don of the Haven Syndicates.
I’m a cold, unfeeling, distant and hardened son of a bitch, entirely used to the vultures circling simply because I was born a Moretti. My twelve-month-old son, on the other hand, doesn’t deserve this shit.
I’m shaking, raging and ready to burn down the whole fucking city my great-grandfather built in retribution for the boy I didn’t even know existed until three weeks ago.
“Call the meeting,” I clip to my identical twin, Massimo.
The glittery black shadow and lip gloss may fool most, but not me. ‘Fabulous’ as the man may be, he is every bit as lethal and unforgiving as I am when it comes to business and family.
There is no such thing as rest until I find the fuckers who went against us.
“Be with our boy. I’ll handle this.”
“Vince…” Mass starts, his jaw setting around the argument I don’t have time to entertain.
My reign, such as it is, wouldn’t be possible without him any more than I could run these streets without my partner Rourke and Uncle Gio’s backing.
Luke might as well be my cousin too, blood or no.
Mass’s need to protect is as fierce as my own, but when it comes to ruthlessness and retribution, I’m the one who was groomed for it. My father beat every other way of expressing myself out of me until fucking and a warpath were the only two languages he left.
There are a dozen figureheads on our fair streets, and I’m about to meet every single one of the families I put into power at the start of my reign.
Not sure whether I want them to know who approved the failed hit on my son, or whether I’m hoping they don’t.
“I need you with him, brother,” I urge, holding Mass’s stare until he finally nods.
It was pure dumb luck that the child we didn’t know about until a few weeks ago was spared. Saved by some guardian angel we never knew to ask for.
Either way, I’m getting fucking answers.
I learned early what being a Moretti meant. The first attempt on my life was in kindergarten, but everything I know—everything I’ve done as Don over two fucking decades—should make this scenario infuckingpossible.
I’m not stopping until every one of the fuckers I put in power relearns what untouchable means.
There is a leak, a traitor or both in my midst, and so help me fucking gods, I will personally skin them alive and feed them their own dicks.
By the time I reach the laundromat in Central, the first of the Twelve should already be waiting. I ignore the blood, used condoms, crack and overall filth of the twelve-by-twelve basement while the rest make their way in.
Luke is the first to arrive.
Questions sharpen his obsidian eyes. But being who and what he is, my almost cousin doesn’t ask. He waits.
Like any true tactician, Lucian Gaines waits for every piece of information before showing any hand he has. Technically, Luke is a free agent. Not officially tied to the Syndicates.
Doesn’t stop him from being a silent investor, considering how far back our families go. And truth be told, he makes every cut man I have look like preschoolers in comparison.
The First Count of Haven has always had that Grim Reaper vibe about him. Tall, thin, pale, black everything, with zero expression to convey what he’s actually thinking.
I help myself to a bottle of bourbon from one of the crates while waiting to see who shows up and who conveniently opts out. Before I can get Luke’s read on whatever intel he brought, the metal door somewhere above us whines open and slams hard enough to carry through the vent.
“Cross Morgue. You kill ’em, we chill ’em,” a woman chirps in the darkest greeting ever delivered through the happiest customer-service voice I’ve ever heard.
“Damn, baby, I know you’re pissed, but the cold-caller script? Really?” a man answers through the speaker, his voice equivalent to a glass of bourbon that warms all the way down rather than stings.
His voice is more muffled than hers, placing him on the phone while she moves around the room above us. If memory serves, the renter uses that space as a bakery and has no access to the basement.
On any other day, I might be impressed. I half believe the greeting well enough to make a mental note for the service.
“In what world is a fuzzies convention a costume party, Alex?!” The woman’s pleasant albeit creepy act shatters as she shrills at the man calling her at three in the morning.
I might normally be interested. Not with my son in a fucking hospital bed.
“Well, people do wear specific—” Alex begins, surprise catching in his throat alongside a laugh he’s trying to swallow.
“Oh, don’t you dare even try to defend him!” she cuts him off sharply.
“You know Nick means well,” Alex tries again, clearing the laugh from his throat.
“I’m very well aware he means well, but when have good intentions ever stopped him or his curse from raining down on me?!”
The increase in her volume and pitch gets more than mine and Luke’s attention, so I signal Timms to take care of it. Unlike the fuckers who decided to come after me using my hot button, my people know women and kids are off-limits.
The guard Rourke stuck me with for the evening will pay her whatever it takes to disappear and let us return our focus to where it damn well belongs.
“It couldn’t have been thaaaat bad,” Alex answers carefully.
“Not that bad? Not that bad?!” Disbelief washes through her tone, followed by a sharp intake of breath that stops Timms in his tracks.
“So falling into a refreshments table to avoid a group of gropey cows flinging milk all over one another like champagne bottles isn’t that bad?!”
Even I have to stop and wonder if she said what I think she did.
“Everyone at that supposed costume party had to roll through cheap punch and every terrible assortment of finger foods to evade milk sperm before landing on a gorilla’s lap as he sucked a pig’s hoof?!”
For the first time in the forty-odd years I’ve known Lucian, his eyebrows actually lift at the ass-chewing that should be on social media, it’s so ludicrous.
“Just a daily occurrence for me to get lost in a mass of drunk, gyrating, smelly, orgasming animals, trip over my kitten tail, fall down a set of stairs and get smacked by two booze-soaked bunnies waiting their turns to ride his snout.”
Timms has stalled right along with the rest of us. More irritated than intrigued, I move toward him.
“By the time I found my way out of that cesspit, I’d started my period, and with every form of liquor, snack food and genetic material that shall remain unnamed matting my fur, I had to walk half an hour to find the nearest corner store with my phone in a used toilet thanks to the busty bunny rabbits!”
“Baby…” Alex tries to interrupt as two more men arrive, and I slap a wad of cash into Timms’s chest.
“Handle it. Now,” I hiss while she continues at an even more rapid pace, telling me she isn’t halfway through the tangent yet.
“With my new prepaid phone, cold medicine, Midol and tampons, the homeless man’s support dog was kind enough to eat the cheese puffs off my bum at checkout.”
“Again?” Alex asks, fully defeated.
It’s the second time I have to stop despite everything and make sure they’re actually saying what I think they are. This is a common situation for them—or her—or apparently Nick to put her in and leave Alex to bail her out of.
“It’s not funny, Alex!” she snaps, and I swear I hear her foot stamp through the boards above us.
I immediately wish Rourke were here to handle it.
“The clerk was laughing so hard he ran my card a dozen times, and now my account is overdrawn! At least Miss Fran waited until I was gone to howl like that!”
“Baby, I’ll—” It sounds like Alex is offering to cover it, but she cuts him off before he gets anything real into the conversation.
“Not finished!” the woman sniffs, and the sound is closer to a stifled sob than attitude or indignance. To his credit, the man shuts up and listens.
Which is generally the part of any conversation I tune out of. That’s what Mass and Rourke are for in my book.
“It was bad, Alex,” she nearly whispers, new cracks in her voice saying she’s on the verge of tears. “Really bad…”
“Talk to me, Kit Kat,” Alex urges.
I can only hope the metal slam overhead is Timms arriving to spare us the second half. At least until I hear what she says next.
“When I finally got back to Dockside, a raging lunatic ran a fancy sedan off the Weigh Bridge!”
Where the doctors at North-Point told me the paramedics brought Tio from…
