“Inside every man lives a dog. Our job is teaching that beast obedience.” Jacob presses his veal-leather Oxford into Jimmy’s knee, holding the man’s hair like reins on a broken horse, his other hand fluttering derisively before your face. “Focus, principessa mia. Yes, yes, you’re fond of dogs. Instead of arguing semantics, how about you wiggle those appendages and show me a proper fist?”

Jacob only calls you that to scorn you, which is always. On this crisp spring morning, you’re both busy training one of your father’s junket boys, a reckless fool who handed out credit like candy.

Born into a crime family, you grew up nearly ordinary until your father, Teo, capo di tutti capi, fell ill and summoned you home. He said the easy days were finished: either you rose to lead, or the family fell to ruin. Then he entrusted you to the shadow haunting his steps: Jacob, the infamous Mutt, your childhood playmate, lifelong tormentor, best friend, worst enemy, and now your future consigliere.

On that fateful day Jacob gave you his oath in all solemnity, as if it could erase his lifetime of indecency.

You don’t have to strain to remember how, as a scrawny orphan freshly brought under your father’s roof, he crashed a motorcycle—with you on it—into the river and cajoled you into taking the blame. Nor is it hard to recall the frat party where he introduced the toilet bowl to your ex’s teeth; or the “simple road trip” that became a cross-country manhunt...

“You call that a fist? Might as well swing an artichoke.” Jacob tosses his lighter at you, the metal piece heavy in your palm. “Hold tight. Now give it another shot.”

United front, you remind yourself. With the lighter gripped firmly, you tighten your fist, pivot your torso, and swing again.

“Atta girl. That’ll do nicely.” Jacob drops the dazed man limply to the floor and strolls out, calm as Sunday mass. A dull, dull ache blooms across your knuckles like a spring breeze, and his rare approval across your heart.

“Now let’s go grab some breakfast.”