Page 2 of Captivated

“You’re right,” Damian said quietly, “I do know which tone you mean.”

“Great—stop using it.”

“Glad I could distract you long enough to prevent you from ripping the armrests off your seat, however.”

Joe blinked.

Huh.

He had removed his death grip from the armrests. At least, for now.

“I know you hate flying,” Damian murmured, staring out the port window.

He really did. More than he cared to admit. It was an unjustified fear, and just about the only thing in life that did scare the hell out him, but that didn’t make it any less real to him. Like the universe was coming around to kick Joe in the ass with a sarcastic smirk to remind him that he was just as fucking human as everybody else.

“We could have drove to New York,” Joe said. “Damn, I would have drove for you.”

Damian’s gaze drifted toward his oldest son, and he smiled a little bit. “It’s amusing.”

“What is?”

“That you feel like when another family calls—a family with bigger pull and more control than yours—that you have the option to make them wait.”

Joe stiffened a bit in his seat. “I didn’t—”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying, and you know better, son.”

Just like that, the easy banter between a father and son was lost. In its place was the unspoken code of made men, and the mafia life they were surrounded and suffocated by. It was never-ending. All the rules, the expectations, and everything else that came along with being men like them.

Usually, he didn’t mind.

Joe didn’t know anything different.

“You’re twenty-one,” Damian said, never turning his attention away from the window as he spoke, “and so I will give you a pass for putting your own wants before someone else’s. But you’re close enough to twenty-two, Joe, that I can’t keep giving you passes.”

Clearing his throat, Joe glanced down the first class aisle at the flight attendant starting to make her rounds again. She was too far away yet to hear their conversation. No doubt, his father knew that, too.

Damian knew everything.

“No offense,” Joe started to say.

“Whenever someone starts a sentence with that statement—”

“It’s usually going to offend someone. Yeah, let me talk.”

Damian waved a hand as if to silently say, Get on with it.

“No offense,” he repeated, “but you didn’t even tell me what we were coming to New York for, Dad. You just said the Marcellos needed something, but not what, or why I needed to come along. You expect me to know everything just because? I’m not a goddamn mind reader.”

“Business,” Damian said simply, “when the Marcello family calls, it always means business.”

And Joe knew … He’d grown up his whole life being told—everybody bent to the Marcellos, but they didn’t fucking bend for anybody else. So was their right being who they were, and having what they did.

No mafia organization remained on top by playing nice with others.

“No, I won’t be long, Lily,” Damian said. “I won’t miss Mon’s game.”

In the backseat beside his father, Joe ignored the buzzing of his own phone. He didn’t need to pick it up and look at it to know who it was.