1
CAMILLE
“You’re going to get yourself killed, Camille,” Leo scolds. He has a knack for scolding me without making me angry, as only a best friend can do.
“Maybe,” I shrug. “But we both know that’s part of mafia life.”
“Well, you’re more at risk than I am, because you’re on your own.”
I roll my eyes at him because it’s the same thing he’s always telling me. I’ve heard it a thousand times, enough that I can pretend to be him and get the speech exactly right. I throw my shoulders back and push out my chest to pretend to be a guy. Fortunately, Leo is small for a guy, and at 25 only a few years older than me, so the impersonation isn’t that far of a stretch. Now, if I had to impersonate his older brother, Gabriel, that would be more difficult, because not only is Gabriel several years older but also sizably more muscular (and a lot more handsome, but I would never tell Leo that). “I’m Leonardo Adami and I think I know everything,” I taunt as I try to keep a straight face.
“Grow up,” he frowns, obviously not amused by my antics. “You need to take things more seriously, Camille. Or someday you’re going to find yourself on the other end of a gun.”
“Hopefully the shooting end.”
“You know that’s not what that means,” he says as he gets ready to leave my apartment. “Being an independent is too risky. You can’t be a lone wolf in New York City.”
“Okay, I’ll be careful,” I promise. It’s mostly an empty promise since I have a habitual tendency to make reckless decisions, but it helps to ease his worrying a little, at least superficially. “Now get going before your brother blames me for your tardiness.”
I give Leo a hug before he leaves. His hugs always linger longer than mine, as if he’s afraid it will be the last time he sees me. But honestly, I feel like he’s exaggerating the danger. Everyone who’s part of a crime family has a precarious relationship with living on the edge, and I’m no different than anyone else, including Leo.
Obviously, I would prefer to be in aborgata—myborgata, the one I should be running. But that all went sideways the day I found out that my head had been filled with lies. They were beautiful lies, I’ll give my parents that much at least, but lies nonetheless. They always told me that I could be anything I had the desire and ambition to be, even if it meant beingcapoof my father’sborgataone day. But right after my parents were killed, leaving theirborgataripe for the taking, my attempts to step into my lineage were thwarted. The entire crew whom I had grown and worked alongside of all squashed my attempts to step into leadership. No borgata was going to install a femalecapo, not even mine.
I put up a good fight. I insisted that I wascapoand tried to buck the system, but the rules were too entrenched in misogynistic oversight, and even my own father’s crew wouldn’t allow me to take power. If my father had been alive to see it, heads would have rolled. He and my mother governed theborgataas a team. But since neither are still alive, I’m left here to my own devices without the support of my father’s crew or any of my extended family who survived them. Out of sheer frustration alone, I left Hell’s Kitchen and moved into Tribeca, cutting ties with what was left of my ownborgataand speaking to no one who remained of my family. Thus, the basis of Leo’s incessant worrying.
Living a life as an unprotected “lone wolf” isn’t so bad. I get to do what I want, when I want, and take the jobs I want without having to answer to anyone or share my earnings. The biggest reward of all, of course, is the freedom. I’d rather be on my own and all alone in the world than not be in charge of my own future. My parents raised me to be much too independent to bow my head and take orders from anyone else. They instilled a fiery spirit in me that matured into a rather stubborn and untamable rebel. I laugh to myself at the thought, because I’m not sure whether my mother would be proud or mortified by what I’ve become here in my early twenties.
I walk a few steps in my little studio apartment to cross the space to the bathroom, and stand in front of the mirror as I pull my long dark hair up into a tight ponytail. I stare back at myself with the same dark eyes my father had, and see parts of my mother in my angular features and creamy olive complexion. I should be able to lead our family’sborgata. But at least I’m not entirely alone.
Leo has been my best friend ever since I can remember. He worked in the kitchen of one of my father’s restaurants as a kid, all the way up until his high school years. I can remember having food fights with him when there were no adults around, throwing onion peels at each other until we both needed to go and wash the smell of it out of our skin. And when I flew the coop and left Hell’s Kitchen, so did Leo. Even though he’s technically part of his older brother’sborgata, the Adamis, and was never really a Greco, it always felt like he was family. Leo and I have had a sibling-like platonic relationship for years, and even though I’m living an “unprotected life” as an independent, I know he always has my back. Besides, I’d rather be on my own than not in charge of my future. I’d rather die than be confined to taking orders from someone else. I don’t think I’m going to get killed doing the kind of work that I do, though. It’s not as if I’m a big-time drug runner.
I walk into my bedroom and lift my T-shirt over my head, then pull my sweatpants down over my thin frame. A lot of the women in my family were curvaceous and thick-thighed, but I guess that’s just another way I’m an anomaly. I’m much too thin and angular to fit the mold of my aunts and cousins. After a moment or two of rooting around in my closet, my hand emerges with a pair of black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. Black is my go-to color, especially when I’m working. Acting as a hired hand, running mafia errands for whoever tosses me the most cash, is the bread and butter of being an independent. Sure, Leo’s warned me repeatedly that it’s not a good idea, and that without an affiliation I’m going to wind up on the wrong side of a gun. But I’ve shrugged him off for months now, because the bottom line is that I need to pay the rent.
I finish getting dressed, chug a sparkling water, and then head out, making sure to lock up my apartment tight before I go on my next job. I have a system in place, one meant to protect everyone involved and to ensure that I don’t run into problems with payment. Step one of that system is a little-used Mailboxes USA store on a forgotten corner of Duane Street. I open the box numbered 167, and a voice on the other side of the wall says, “You’re late.”
“I had to do my hair,” I say cavalierly. “You wouldn’t want your runner looking like a street urchin, would you?”
“I don’t give a fuck what you look like. I was told you were the best, and I’d assume that means you’re on time.”
The man’s voice is gravely and clearly agitated. I can’t see him through the wall of mailboxes, which is exactly how it’s supposed to work. I rented out both of the boxes that butt up against each other here, #167 and then #283 on the other side, then the first thing I did was discreetly remove the wall separating their backs. Clients slide the paper with the job written on it through the hole, along with my payment. Then, the job gets done.
“It’s precisely because Iamthe best that I don’t need to concern myself with such small things as being a few minutes late to pick up a job. I have a perfect track record with no loose ends left behind.”
“I should hope so,” he grumbles. “Loose ends and failed jobs mean bad news for you.”
My patience is starting to wane. “Do you have a job for me or not?”
“I do.”
“And you know my rate?”
“I do.”
“Then slide it through,” I say, ready to get on with it.
The rule is, no questions asked. Whatever the job is, I’ll do it, as long as my rate is adhered to, and payment is upfront in cash. I’ve had some jobs as small as keeping someone’s grandmotherly old moll out of trouble from a spat with a neighboring crime family, to running stolen goods and delivering bribe money. Obviously, the bigger, more important jobs are usually handled internally within the variousborgateand not farmed out to independent contractors, but that’s fine with me because it allows me to keep my head down and still get paid decently.
I wait and listen as the sound of rustling paper echoes through the small metal box, then I see an envelope get pushed through. The first thing I do when taking any job is count the cash before leaving. I open the envelope and am shocked to see the amount, not because it’s inadequate but because it’s much more than my going rate. Instantly, warning bells go off in my head.
