“HOW’S THE Skip’s pet doing today?”

“Did the big boss send the little boss to work in the slums with the rest of us today?”

“Oh, too good to look at us, Tom?”

“Sure he is, Randy. Little underboss-in-waiting hates getting his hands dirty, ain’t that so, Tom?”

Tommaso Rossi’s greatest enemies had always been boredom, and a severe lack of patience when it came to other people. He was easily distracted, but as quickly as his attention could be caught, it was lost. Add that into the fact he didn’t like to wait for anything, and it could be a bad combination for a man like him.

He blamed these characteristics of his on his father, Tommas Rossi. The man had given Tom both his name and his restless nature.

It helped that Tom’s father had also given him a decent drive to get shit done when it needed to be done. His father, an Italian crime boss for the Chicago Outfit, handed down the wisdom that blunt honesty was a better gift than lies. Deceit would do nothing for his end-game except make him untrustworthy in the eyes of others. A man in the mafia wouldn’t benefit from having a stain like being a liar on his back.

Tom worked hard. Constantly. Another lesson from his dad. His last name afforded him a certain amount of respect for some situations in their criminal organization, but it also meant fuck all if he hadn’t earned it.

That’s why when Adriano Conti’s crew members tossed insults and ribbed him with their comments as he strolled through the warehouse, Tom didn’t even look at the young guys. Stupid, useless fuckers. Replaceable foot soldiers.

He knew it.

They knew it.

Their words meant less than shit beneath his thousand dollar Italian leather shoes. They weren’t going anywhere at the end of the day.

Except maybe jail.

Tom didn’t have much issue with letting the comments roll off his shoulders on any other day. He was a secondary Capo working under Adriano—his uncle. Adriano had been Tom’s mentor—one of many—for longer than he cared to remember. Before he knew how to drive. Years before he’d ever gotten his dick wet properly. Men like Adriano had been the ones to teach Tom the business—the family.

A long time.

It was Adriano’s warnings and reminders from years gone by that Tom heard in the back of his head when the comments and ribbing started. The foot soldiers for Adriano’s crew had been coming for Tom on this level since before he was a teen.

It’s your rite of passage, Tommaso. We all dealt with that nonsense, too. There’ll come a time when they won’t even be able to look you in the eye.

Fact was, Tom got the insults worse than anyone else ever had, and he didn’t need Adriano or his father to tell him the truth. To the foot soldiers in the crew, Tom was nothing more than a spoiled, secondary Capo, underboss-in-training, and the son of a boss. That was it.

He couldn’t be like them. They couldn’t be like him.

“You can’t say hi today, Tom?”

Out of all the voices following him, Tom did care to acknowledge that one. One of his oldest friends—Lou.

Over his shoulder, Tom waved a hand in response. For now, that was the best he could do for his friend. It was better they didn’t seem too friendly while the other foot soldiers were around. No need for Tom to go causing Lou any problems on his side of things.

They all had fucking masks to wear, after all.

Lou was one of the only soldiers in Adriano Conti’s crew that didn’t treat Tom like shit whenever he had to be in the same vicinity. He was the only one that didn’t try to push every single one of Tom’s buttons just to see if he could get him to react.

He swore it was a game for them.

Tom let Adriano’s office door slam shut harder than he intended to. The space was empty. The Conti Capo hadn’t even showed up yet, but he made damn sure to tell Tom to roll his ass out of bed before eight.

Sinking into a torn leather chair, Tom scrubbed a hand down his face.

Once it doesn’t bother you anymore, they’ll back off. Don’t let them see it gets on your nerves, Tom, his father used to say.

Tom didn’t know how much more unaffected he could seem than avoiding all eye contact, refusing to speak, and demanding respect when he was in charge. He no longer engaged the insults and teasing unless he absolutely had to, and never with violence.

It wasn’t his place as only a secondary Capo.

He’d fucking hoped that by twenty-one years old—essentially the same or close to the same age as those guys out on the main warehouse floor—they would have at least tried to make room for him. They didn’t have to like him. He didn’t ask for anything except a little bit of respect and peace to himself.

Tom let out a heavy sigh, and scrubbed a hand down his unshaved jaw. Mostly, he made a conscious effort to rid his mind of the useless feelings. They wouldn’t do him any good.

A few minutes later, Adriano strolled into the office. The older man—and father of three girls—barely acknowledged Tom at all as he ended a phone call.

“Yeah, Lissa, I’ll grab you some Chinese tonight … yeah, that, too. Bye.”

Alessa—or Lissa, to only a select few in Adriano’s family—was Tom’s aunt. His mother’s only sister. Actually, Alessa was his mother’s only living family besides her kids and in-laws.

They didn’t talk a lot about it. Nobody did.

Everybody that grew up in the Chicago Outfit had come to a silent understand over the years that The Chicago War between the four families within the organization had done enough damage. It had taken enough people. There was no reason to pay it lip service, too.

“You look like shit,” Adriano said.

The guy didn’t even look at Tom when he said it. Tall, broad-shouldered, and built in a way that spoke of his football years, Adriano Conti was not a man to be messed with. He also didn’t indulge whine-fests from any-fucking-body.

Tom included.

“It’s nothing,” Tom said.

“You sure?”

“You wanted me to handle something today, didn’t you? Here I am. Let’s get to that, Adriano.”

“No uncle for me today?”

Tom scoffed “Like that would help my fucking case, right.”

Adriano lifted a brow, and then his gaze drifted to the closed door. “The guys were quiet when I came in.”

“As they should be for their Capo.”

“But not for you.”

Tom clenched his teeth in an effort to stay quiet. All it did was make his jaw tight, and his uncle didn’t miss it.

“Just … don’t bother,” Tom told him with a subtle shake of his head. “It’s like high school with those idiots out there. People all say the same things to me about it. Ignore them. Don’t let them bother you. If somebody says something to them, it only makes it worse.”

“You’re usually better at brushing them off, Tom.”

He didn’t need Adriano pointing that out to him. He was quite aware that his irritation levels were climbing higher by the day.

It brought him back to his biggest enemies.

Boredom.

Patience.

Tom didn’t know what he was bored with—work, Chicago, the same old shit every day, or what. He didn’t know what would fix his boredom. It should have been simple. If he wanted something, he went out and got it. He just didn’t know what it was he wanted.

His lack of give-a-damn was seriously starting to mess with his patience, though. It showed every single time he had to force himself not to put his fist through one of those idiots’ heads.

Tom’s father had the patience of a saint.

His mother? An angel.

Tom?

Less than zero at the moment.

“You know what,” Adriano said, “I can handle this myself today, Tom. Take the day off. Go do something else for a while.”

“I can do what—”

“It’s not your choice to make. I don’t need you here in a bad mood, and halfway to kicking somebody’s ass. Two boosted trucks are supposed to keep those fools busy. I’ll put Lou in charge of watching them.”

“Lou’s good,” Tom said with a nod.

“Yeah, I know. One fool, I might not mind letting get somewhere in this business of ours.” Adriano flicked his hand toward the door. “Get. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Tom pushed up from the chair and exited the office without a goodbye. Adriano wouldn’t want one, anyway. He made it halfway across the warehouse, nearly to the front entrance doors, when another insult came hurling his way.

He didn’t even know what the guy said.

He barely heard it well enough.

Tommaso should have let it go.

It took a single spin of his shoes against the cement floor, and five long strides before his fist crashed into the guy’s face. Jake, or some equally generic name that could be forgotten. The crunch of bone smashed against Tom’s knuckles.

Something akin to relief settled through Tom. The teasing feeling skimmed along his now bruised and bloody knuckles, but it didn’t reach where he needed it the most. It still wasn’t enough. He reared back and punched the guy again.

All the while, Tom never said a word. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t have shit to say, just a damn point to make.

They thought he was some weak-ass rich fuck who couldn’t go toe-to-toe with them on anything, certainly not on the streets.

Tom had news for them.

He fixed his jacket as he walked away, but a form caught his eye in the office doorway. Adriano leaned against the doorjamb, and shook his head once.

“Go see the boss,” he heard his uncle say. “A day off will not be enough, Tom.”

What in the hell was that supposed to mean?