His: Tony: The Sabatini Family by Fiona Murphy (sneezy the snowman read aloud TXT) 📕

a while since I let loose as much as I did tonight, and it felt fucking good. It was a high like it had been in the old days. That shit was dangerous, though. Nothing worse than getting high off giving pain. Feeding the high always led to a bigger appetite the next time. A glimmer of the past peeks out, and I shut it down.

No, I wasn’t that man anymore. There is a time and a place for everything. The thing about the mafia was blood and violence would always have their place, and the time was usually from one moment to the next, if you let it be. The crux lay in giving into it at the optimal time, not just when it felt good.

I light a new cigar as I get into the back of the Escalade. A check of my watch tells me I’m running late. Fuck. Carlo is a bitch when I run late. He wants to believe I have a problem with him becoming underboss last year and not me. Even though I’ve told him over and over I was fine with it.

A long time ago, becoming underboss and then Don was what I worked towards. The desire and expectation, guiding the decisions I made as I followed the path my father and his father had laid out for me. Being third generation in the Outfit, my future was secured by the deals and alliances they made. Until the night I lost my boy, and I burned down my world to get vengeance.

For seven bloody days, I let my heart rule my head and killed one man after another without asking permission or seeking approval for my actions. I killed six men of the mafia, not of the Outfit here in Chicago. Maybe if they had been from the Outfit, it could have been swept aside, made nice. But the Outfit and the mafia out of New York don’t mix much. The Outfit, we have our own rules and govern ourselves. Before killing them, I should have asked permission from my Don. He would have approved it with New York, but I wasn’t willing to wait.

Then I fucked up one step more. A woman saw me kill Michael Corsia—the piece of shit who killed my boy. I had taken too long, drawn it out, beating him with my own hands until I was sure I had broken every bone I could. It wasn’t until the pain in my hands got to me that I stopped, ending him with a bullet to his gut, a painful and guaranteed death. I stood over him and watched him until he took his last breath.

My Don told me to take the plea bargain, not to go to trial. Except the DA wanted to send me away for everything they had never been able to catch me on. They offered me second degree and twenty years. On the advice of my lawyer, I took it to trial. In doing so, I not only went against my Don—I made waves you aren’t supposed to in the Outfit. It worked, though, I got manslaughter and only five years.

The fact I was a Sabatini and both my Don and underboss owed me is the only reason I wasn’t left to rot, cut off from the Outfit while I did my time. Both Johnny Conti, underboss at the time, and my Don, owed me. With me making waves, once I got out of prison, I buried myself deep out of sight of the public. There were no parties and hand shaking, greasing palms among the players in the city. Without the ability to move among them with the excuse of being a businessman doing his civic duty, I would never rise above a capo, no matter my name.

In the almost twenty years since it all went down, I long ago made peace with it. I’m content with my territory and running it as I see fit. It’s amusing to be a bit of a ghost in the city of Chicago for those familiar with the Outfit. People knew my name, knew I was operating, but it’s rare I meet or do business with anyone directly. The only issue I’ve grown to resent is with my low profile and the fact few people have met me, is that I’ve become the go-to hitter in the family.

The hitman is a movie and book myth. A hit was usually carried out by whoever could get close to the target, barring that, it was the next person’s turn. Over the decade since Johnny became Don, he called on me more and more. In the last few years it was almost every hit he had. It’s not for me to question my Don, but it’s getting fucking old. It’s only May, and I’ve already killed nine people. In years past, if I hit that many people in an entire year, it was a bad.

Joseph grunts as he checks his phone. “Carlo is running late too. Johnny isn’t happy he’s sitting there on his own. Dominic isn’t there. Richie is sending a woman over to his table with a bottle of Macallan. She’s willing to go down on him if he’s open to it.”

That doesn’t sound right. I shake my head. “If Carlo isn’t there then that’s a fucking problem. The man doesn’t waste an opportunity.”

A nod as Joseph looks up from his phone. “Rumor is, he’s stressing and having conflict with his second in command, who wants his son inducted this year. Carlo thinks the kid is too young at eighteen.”

I shake my head. “Kids man, it’s bullshit they get pushed into this life younger and younger. Teenagers should not be in this thing of ours.”

Joseph snorts. “Dom is the epitome of that being a bad argument, Boss. He not only held down your business, he expanded and doubled your profit.”

It doesn’t matter it’s been almost twenty years, every time I’m reminded my son had to step up