Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Listen, boss,” Marcello starts, changing the subject. “I gotta tell you, I’ve been hearing things.”
“What kind of things?” I ask, only giving him half of my attention. I’m supposed to have a meeting with one of my capos in about half an hour, and I can’t find the note he sent me about a rival gang.
While the rest of the world has moved into the digital age, I’m still operating on paper in some aspects of the business. It’s too risky to trust everything to text, knowing that the feds could be listening in. I don’t know what kind of access they have to my personal devices, and even though I go through burner phones like they’re toilet paper, you can never be too sure. If something’s important, I have my men write it down on a piece of paper and hand it to me. Then, depending on the nature of the information, I shred it or keep it. My desk is full of documents from my accountants, lawyers, and capos. I could have sworn I saw that list just a few minutes ago.
“Boss,” Marcello interrupts me.
“What?” I snap.
“I confirmed that Carlo Andretti’s trying to poach some of our men,” Marcello announces, hands behind his back like a good lieutenant.
“Did you get any closer to figuring out who?” I demand.
“My source didn’t say,” Marcello replies.
“Find out,” I order.
“Yes, sir,” Marcello says, not moving from his spot. “I’m hearing lots of disquieting things,” Marcello rushes on. “Like the Andretti family framing other bosses for murder.”
“Is that what you think happened to Paliotta?” I demand. “He was an idiot. He got himself into his own situation.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Marcello insists.
“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him.
I glance down at my desk once more and find what I’m looking for underneath an investment statement. I thought I dismissed Marcello, but he’s still there. So I look back up, waiting patiently for him to tell me what’s on his mind.
“How much do you know about this tutor?” Marcello asks.
“Enough,” I say.
“Have you done a background check?” he wonders.
“Yes!” I declare, pointing to the door.
“It’s just that—” he starts again, as if I’m off-base like some third grader who just decided to steal his first pack of cigarettes.
“I know,” I assure him. “She’s got an Italian name. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Odds are, she’s just a gold-digger.”
“I’d feel better if—” Marcello starts again, pissing me off.
“Find out who Andretti is poaching!” I demand.
“Yes, boss,” Marcello says, backing off.
He leaves me alone with my thoughts, and suddenly, I feel exhausted. I sit back in my chair, my thoughts drifting to the past. I’m getting too old for this. If I were any kind of regular Joe, I might be thinking about retirement. But there’s only one real way out of the family business, and that’s in a body bag.
At least I’m not doing the wet work by myself anymore. I paid my dues and came up through the ranks. I keep my fingers in enough pies to make sure everyone knows that I’m paying attention. But I don’t muscle men on the streets anymore. Those days are past.
I remember the last time I got my hands dirty. It was on Alessia’s deathbed. She closed her eyes for the last time, and the damned heart rate monitor flatlined.
It was the worst sound I’d ever heard, so definitive. My wife, my love, the mother of my only child, was dead. My rage had me grabbing the doctor by the collar of his sterile coat and slamming him into the wall. My bodyguards stood outside, making sure no one could get in while I went to town on the man’s face.
When the haze finally passed, Giovanni led me to a chair. I spent the rest of the night sobbing my eyes out, unwilling to let anyone touch my wife.
Later on, we paid the doctor for his trouble. I didn’t keep tabs on him, but I think he moved to a different city and had some facial reconstructive surgery. Poor bastard. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I’m not like that anymore, although I cultivate the appearance of a man who could fly off the handle at any moment. At the top of my game, I’m no fool. I know managing people is a combination of positive and negative motivations. I’ve got to offer bonuses, but I’ve also got to make it clear that crossing me is something no one wants to do. In La Cosa Nostra, the negative motivations are severe.
I glance out the window, wondering about this tutor of Frankie’s. Could she be a plant, sent here to frame me for murder? Or worse, to steal some of my men? I highly doubt it, but anything’s possible. I’m going to have to check her out for myself to get a feel for her. I’m a good judge of character if I can get into a room with someone.