Outtake: The Neighbor #Naz #Cross

Hey, loves! We're back for another outtake, and it is one I have wanted to write for a while. Brought on from a specific chapter in the Naz and Roz Chronicles, it's been on the back of my mind, simmering and waiting for me to write it.

So, do enjoy.

The Neighbor

Naz/Cross POV

*

"What did I tell you, kid?"

Nazio sighed, and shrugged. "I didn't mean to kick it over there. Sorry, won't do it again."

With his new soccer ball he'd gotten for easter dangling in the neighbor man's hands, way across the street where he wasn't allowed to go because his father told him not to, Nazio would say just about anything to get it back.

He didn't see what the big deal was, though.

It was just a ball.

And he really did try not to kick it into the man's yard, mostly.

He wasn't trying to be a shit.

He just sometimes was.

Or, that's what his grandpapa Calisto said.

"No, I think I'll keep your ball for a couple of days. It'll teach you a lesson about respect."

Naz's brow dipped.

His father talked about respect all the damn time. Like how they had to respect people's positions around them, or even about his ma, too. She's a wife, Naz, no fucking excuses, you give a wife respect, got it?

A lot of the times when it came down to something simple, his father would settle the issue with the statement of it's the respect of the matter.

Naz was pretty sure he understood respect.

Or the respect that counted for him.

It probably wasn't the same kind of respect that this man meant.

"Aw, come on, please can I have my ball back?"

"So you can kick it right back into my front yard again? Don't think so, kid."

The guy turned to walk away.

Naz glared. "Fine, fuck right off, then."

His dad said that a lot too.

Naz figured out how to say it right.

And finally, he had a time to say it.

Maybe the wrong time, though, if the way the neighbor spun back around on his heels was any indication. "What did you just say to me?"

Well, that was the thing here.

Naz knew it was wrong.

But he'd made a choice, so he kind of had to stick it out.

The pride, and all.

His grandpapa said it was a Donati thing.

His other grandpapa said a good doe of it came from the Marcello side of him, too.

Naz just figured he didn't know any better.

Or his brain was wired wrong.

Because he didn't care a bit when he said, "I said, fuck right off, then."

And that was how Nazio found himself being marched up his driveway by the neighbor while the man muttered on about disrespectful little shits and all this Donati trash. The guy was mad, and Naz just wished he'd stop squeezing his shoulder so hard.

Naz felt the change in atmosphere the moment his father opened the front door. At his young five years, he still knew when his father felt some kind of way. He'd seen in the smallest of ways how his father could change his mask from the same man who tucked him into bed to the man that had pistol-whipped an enforcer that thought to smack Naz in the back of the head for not walking fast enough for his tastes. And with blood still staining his white silk shirt, and dotting his knuckles, Cross then took Naz across the street for his favorite gelato while he watched his men clean up the mess from a city bench.

And apparently, seeing his kid standing on his front porch with the neighbor's grip a little too tight on his shoulder, and his mouth already open to bitch about Naz ... well, that was enough to make his father flip his switch in a blink.

"Your--"

That was all the man got out of his mouth before Cross reached for his wrist, flinging it off Naz at the same time he snapped, "Get your fucking hand off my kid before I rip your shoulder from its socket."

The neighbor held his ground, not showing fear, but smart enough to know he shouldn't put his hand back on Naz again. "Well, I guess I know where he gets his mouth from, huh?"

Noise came from within the house, but Naz couldn't discern the sound of that when his attention was entirely caught by the sight of his father, who towered over the neighbor by a good three inches, come out of the doorway all at once, his form lining up chest to chest with the man.

And there was Naz.

All three and a half feet of him.

Staring up at the two men knowing this wasn't good.

And all it took was the idiot opening the door with a bad expression and his hand on Cross's son.

"What did he get from me?"

The neighbor swallowed.

The house turned quiet.

"He was throwing that ball again, and I warned him. Your kid--"

"Naz, come here."

The arms of his godfather were quick to grab Naz from the side, drag him in behind his father, and then into the house. Although, Zeke didn't close the door. Down the long hallway, his mother peeked her head around the corner, Catherine's eyebrow lifting a bit as though she were wondering if she was going to have to clean blood up today.

His ma had a look for everything.

Got that from her ma, he noticed.

In his short moment of being distracted by the sight of his mother, Naz seemed to miss the fact that the neighbor had rushed to justify his reasoning for being on their front porch.

Zeke didn't seem to notice Naz turning around to see his father cock his head to the side when he muttered, "My kid told you what?"

"I shouldn't have to say it again."

"Oh," Cross said, laughing darkly under his breath, "but you really should."

The neighbor cleared his throat. "As I said, he told me to 'fuck right off, then.'"

Zeke's hands on Naz's shoulders flexed, but not painfully. He heard the choked laugh that came out of his godfather, too.

"And if I understood you right," Cross said, "he told you that because you wouldn't give his ball back. And he's five, so you know he's not listening to anything but when someone tells him food is on the table. For whatever reason, that was enough to tell your brain it was okay to put your hands on my son--and we know you know who the fuck I am--and march him right to my front fucking door, huh? Like I said, if I understood you right."

"Listen, I'll throw the ball back over, but you better keep it on your side of the street. It was just a lesson for him, that's all."

"Oh, you will? And what, I should thank you for that, yeah?"

"You know what," the neighbor muttered, seemingly growing a second set of balls in the span of seconds, "fuck it, no, you're not getting the ball back. You don't own this suburb, Donati. I don't care who you are."

Cross turned his head to the side just enough for them to see the way he grinned, and it felt entirely wicked. "No, you keep the ball, man."

"What--"

"I said what I fucking said. Keep the ball."

Cross stepped backward with two fast strides, came within the house, grabbed the door, and slammed its shut. Down the hallway, his mother made a high noise under her breath that sounded both amused and anxious at the same time.

"What the fuck was that?" Zeke asked. "The fucking balls on that asshole, I swear. No respect at all."

"Get your jacket."

Naz glanced up at his dad. "What?"

"Get your jacket on, we've got business to do."

Zeke's hands squeezed Naz's shoulders. "What does that mean?"

Cross smirked, his stare darting to Zeke as he shrugged. "Means we're going to have some fun. Naz, get your damn jacket."

He didn't need to be told again, swinging out of his godfather's grip to jump and swipe his jacket off its hook. His father already had the front door and was reaching for Naz's jacket to help him slip it over his arms.

Zeke didn't even ask more questions, simply followed along with a call to Catherine, "Give my wife a ring for me, would you? I'll keep these two out of trouble."

Naz heard his mother's snort before Zeke shut the door.

*

Cross POV

"What in the hell are you doing?"

Cross nodded down at his son, who had stopped himself from picking the next ball out of the mesh bag at the sound of the neighbor's shout. Naz didn't question his father--ever. Anyone else, and he would give them hell when it came right down to it, but not his father.

He pulled the next ball out of the bag, and whipped it across the street just as the neighbor came stomping down the pathway beside his driveway.

Cross rocked back on the swinging bench, half amused by the way Zeke turned his head sideways to hide his smirk at the neighbor's indignant ranting. He lifted the cigar to his lips, and pulled in a thick drag as the man glared at Cross's five-year-old son still whipping balls onto his property across the street.

"What is he doing?"

Still, Cross said nothing.

Beside him, Zeke shook his head. "Gets shriller the madder he gets."

"Cute, huh?"

"Tell him to stop right now, Donati!"

Cross smiled. "That'll be a no."

"What--there's fifteen balls in my yard!"

"Yeah, there's another bag in the SUV, so we've got another forty, at least, to go."

"Are ... are you serious?"

"Next time, guess you'll just throw him back his ball and shut your fucking face, right?"

The man across the street huffed.

Naz kept throwing the balls.

Cross just smiled.

"Fuck this," the guy muttered, 'I'm calling the cops."

Now that?

That had Cross roaring.

With laughter, that was.

Zeke, too.

God.

This was going to be a good day.

And a good lesson for Naz.

About his father.

Himself.

This life.

And business.

He controlled everything.

No one controlled him.

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