Page 24 of Black Sheep
Which girls tried to sneak into our room—all of them.
Every time I made my report, Dom would say the same thing.“Good. Call me again next week. Stay out of trouble, kid.”
Never once did he ask me about my grades, my life at school, or anything personal. The whole time, I asked myself why the fuck he cared so goddamned much about Creighton and nothing about me. Even Cav and Eden got relatively better, and slightly less negligent, treatment.
I’ve always been the expendable one. The least in favor. And I always told myself I didn’t give a fuck, because Dominic Casso’s opinion of me would never affect the man I became. Who I am, everything I’ve done, is in spite of him, not because of him.
When I fell out of favor with Creighton, a large part of me assumed that was it. Dom would finally take me out with the trash where he’s made it so apparent I belong. It hasn’t happened yet, but that’s not to say it couldn’t happen anytime.
So, why do I keep working for him? Because at the end of the day, I can’t shake the need to prove myself. It’s fucking pathetic, but it’s the truth.
As soon as I grip the ornate brass handle of the building—too nice twenty years ago, but it perfectly fits in with the gentrification that has swept the area since—Primo nods at me from inside the entrance.
“Boss said you were coming. Figured you’d be early, like usual,” the big man says with his hand resting casually on the gun tucked beneath his suit jacket. He’s a carbon copy of his brother Tempo, one of Dom’s other trusted bodyguards.
“How’s it going, man? Did you catch the replay of the Mets game? Hell of a seventh inning.” I make small talk with the guys, not because I give a shit about baseball, but because it’s expected.
“Nah, Boss didn’t head home until after three, so I didn’t catch shit. But I’ll make sure to check SportsCenter after I’m off. Head on up, Mr. Freeman. I’m sure he knows you’re here.”
I punch the call button for the elevator.
You’d think we’d have a few more minutes to shoot the shit because the equipment would be slow as hell in a building like this, but Dom replaced the elevators in every building he owned with high-end models a few years ago, when things started to get bloody again with the Rossettis. Only the most trusted of Dom’s people know about the hidden elevators that offer a second escape route in each building.
Once in the car, I’m taken straight up to the top, and Pietro is waiting to give me a chin lift as I step out.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Freeman. He should be ready for you.”
“Thanks.”
Pietro, Primo, Tempo, and Umberto are Dom’s equivalent of the Secret Service. They might look big and slow, but they’re actually smarter than you’d guess. They’re Italian boys who played football and graduated from college, courtesy of the same scholarship I got—Dom Casso’s checkbook.
One thing is absolutely certain, though; their loyalty is to the death, and two of the four have already taken bullets for him. One of them is always with Dom, and there’s always someone watching the brownstone despite its crazy security setup.
Pietro opens the door that leads to hell’s waiting room, or at least that’s what I’ve always called it. Because inside, your life always hangs in the balance, and I’m pretty sure every man who hasn’t made it out alive had a one-way ticket to dance with the devil.
A woman in her sixties with perfectly coifed gray hair and a brown-and-pink dress sits at the desk outside the unadorned wood door that leads to Dom’s office. With her glasses hanging around her neck on a beaded chain, she’s always reminded me of a librarian who wouldn’t hesitate to shush you if you got too rowdy. But behind that grandmotherly exterior is the heart of a warrior and the tenacity of a bulldog. I’ve watched her pull a gun and use it, to protect herself and her boss.
“Marta. You’re looking as lovely as ever.”
Her cheeks turn rosier as I stride toward her. “Mr. Freeman. It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”
“How are the grandkids?”
“Getting so big. I wish they came with a pause button so I could enjoy it more before they turn into mouthy little brats who I’ll have to threaten with visits from the boss.”
I’ve always liked Marta, and I’ve often wondered if in her younger years she was one of Dom’s original mistresses. Highly unlikely, given the fact that she’s had gray hair and has worked for him for as long as I can remember, but you never know around here. In the Casso organization, it’s not whether you’ve got skeletons in your closet, but how well you hid them to avoid being haunted.
I’m doing just fine with mine, but that could change at any moment. Dominic Casso likes to keep us all on our toes.
As soon as I step inside, my footsteps muffled by the thickly padded green carpet that’s regularly replaced due to stubborn bloodstains, I’m greeted with the sight of Dom flipping through an account book at his desk. Light pours in through the bulletproof glass that I’m still surprised he hasn’t bricked over, because he’s always worried someone’s going to take him out in his own home. When he looks up, his steel-gray hair stays put in its exact style. It’s been holding on stubbornly for years, as if it’s scared to do him the indignity of falling out and leaving him bald.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
When I speak, he slaps the book shut and looks up.
“Always early,” he says in lieu of a greeting I wasn’t expecting anyway. His dark gaze, nearly black, sweeps over me. “You’d think I wouldn’t start wondering what the fuck is going on until you started rolling up late, but no. I’m wondering what the fuck is going on, because you’re getting in my way.”
Dom doesn’t invite me to sit, which he never does, so I stand between the door and the worn brown leather guest chairs. Staying on my feet makes it easier to dodge flying objects and bullets, which aren’t out of the realm of possibility, because I know exactly what he wants to talk about today.
