Devil at the Altar - A Mafia Romance

Angelo

I glide through the night in my sleek black sedan. Windows tinted. Watch golden. Knuckles bloody.

It’s time to take up our collections.

The men I am calling upon do not want to see me darken their doorstep. But they deserve neither my pity nor my mercy. I am coming to collect what is owed. What is rightfully mine. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, my second-in-command, Levi, doesn’t agree with me being here. I can feel him scowling, seated next to me in the back seat. He believes that a man like me—the son of Carlo De Maggio and the next in line to become don of the infamous De Maggio Family—should not dirty himself with something so simple as the collection of tribute money. He’s been in my ear about it since the moment we set out on this little errand.

“Tell me something, Giuseppe,” I muse, interrupting Levi’s whining.

Giuseppe glances in the rearview, guiding the steering wheel. He is a giant man, my lieutenant, with a soft face and dark eyes. A good, trustworthy soldier.

“Yes, boss?” he asks.

“Is it possible for the men to respect a leader who hides in his castle?”

He narrows his eyes. That’s what I like about him. He always thinks carefully before speaking.

“No, I don’t think so,” he rumbles. “Not if he stays there all the time. Or unless he’s old. Men can respect a man who’s already paid his dues.”

Levi grunts beside me, shaking his head. He’s stick-thin with a wisp of black mustache and dark brown eyes. I’ve known him since we were kids, and those eyes have always been the same: searching. Perceptive. Aware.

“Dio aiutami, Angelo,” he growls. “Next thing I know, you’ll want to clean the fucking toilets, just to prove a point. Tell the truth: you just want to take your anger out on this poor city.”

I grin savagely and punch him in the shoulder. A little too hard, I’ll admit. He raises his fist as though to strike me back. Both of us smile.

“The collections have to be made, my old, grumpy friend, and who better than us, the most dangerous and capable men in the city?”

“Remind me to get you business cards with that printed on it,” Levi drawls. “Christ, you’re on something special tonight, even for you.”

“Get with the spirit, Levi,” I say, laughing. “It’s collection time. Best time of the month.”

“For you, maybe,” he drawls. “Not so much for our evening’s hosts.”

He scratches his chin and broods as Giuseppe pulls up outside the rundown apartment building and parks. The three of us step out and stride over to the intercom. As usual, bystanders scamper out of our way.

I press a buzzer at random.

“Y-yes?” an old-sounding lady inquires, voice crackly. “Who is it?”

I pitch my voice up high, feigning innocence, as I say, “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we have important business in 10F and I’m afraid they are not answering. Would you be ever so kind as to buzz us up? Now, I know you must be careful nowadays—this city can be dangerous, can’t it?—but let me just tell you two things: my name is Angelo De Maggio and I have it on good authority that as soon as my business is taken care of, you’ll find two-hundred dollars under your doormat.” I let go of the button. Levi laughs and shakes his head sadly at my side.

Silence, and then, “Yes, yes.” The door opens.

I glance at Giuseppe. “Attend to the cash for our little helper. We’ll take the collection.”

“You got it, boss.”

Levi is not happy with me. “You gave your real name. That could be dangerous. What if her nephew is a goddamn Albanian lieutenant or something?”

“You are the most paranoid man I have ever met. Come on, we’re running behind.”

We head to the top floor of the apartment where our target—Derrick Salsworthy, a two-bit dealer of stolen and knockoff electronics—lives. He borrowed from the Family because he had a business opportunity that he thought just couldn’t fail, and men like him can’t exactly stroll into a city bank and get a legitimate loan.

But of course, it did fail. They almost always do. And now, the time for repayment is past due.

I knock heavily on the door so it trembles in the frame. Levi stands back, hand idling impatiently near his hip, where his gun hides.

“How crazy do you think this poor bastard is?” I laugh. “You think he’s going to kill Levi Mancini? He’d get drawn and quartered and have a different chunk of him sent to all five boroughs. Relax. You’re putting me on edge.”

Levi shakes his head. “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Relax,” I repeat. “Rilassare. Everything is going to be fine.”

“Who is it?” Derrick finally grumbles from the other side of the door.

“You know who it is,” I say pleasantly. “Open up, Derrick. First and final warning.”

The door cracks open and immediately, he’s full of excuses. Derrick has greasy hair and dirty fingernails and—oh, for fuck’s sake—he’s trotted his wife and kid out to try and make us soft. They stand at the rear of the apartment, near the grimiest, water-stained section of wall, wearing hangdog expressions as if to fill us with pity.

My rage rises. What sort of man uses his family as props?

“We have been calling, Derrick,” I growl.

“Have you?” He tries to laugh as his eyes move over me and Levi, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallows nervously. “My phone’s been broken, Angelo. You know me. I’d never ignore a call from you. I’m not an idiot.”

I don’t even listen to what he says. It’s as meaningless as a cow bleating at the slaughterhouse. “You’ve missed your payment. You owe us two thousand dollars. Does it seem like a good idea to owe the De Maggio family two thousand dollars?”

I walk close to him, having to force myself not to look at his family. The wife has her hand across her kid’s chest. She’s shielding him from me. As if I’d ever fucking hit a woman or a kid.

Anger rages in me. Derrick is the one who borrowed money and couldn’t pay. He should be the one cowering. Not this desperate woman. Not this innocent child.

He blinks stupidly at me. “I …”

“Spit it out, Derrick.”

“I’m just surprised to see you here, Mr. De Maggio,” he splutters. “I expected—”

“Some poor bastard you might be able to talk into letting you off in exchange for, oh, I don’t know—an hour alone in bed with your wife? Someone gullible? Someone merciful? Let me spare you the trouble and inform you: you expected wrong.” I feel a cold spear of anger moving through my spine. I try to control it. I try to breathe.

Most of all, I try not to look at his wife and child cowering in the corner.

“Do you have my money or not?” I snarl.

“I can get your money, sir,” he mumbles.

“Wrong answer, Derrick.”

“Stronzo,” Levi swears in mock disgust, shaking his head. “I think you owe us four thousand dollars now, Derrick. For the medical bills.”

“M-medical bills?” There is no color left to his face.