Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 154525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 773(@200wpm)___ 618(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 773(@200wpm)___ 618(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
“I started to think you weren’t going to show,” Giorgio muttered around the rim of his glass.
Salvatore sighed. “Me, too.”
Only the request of Big Mike, and the rumor that Christiano Lombardi would somehow be flying in from California, encouraged Salvatore to make the trip to Giorgio’s estate on a day he would rather be doing literally anything else.
He paid differently than them.
But they all paid, nonetheless.
“Did you speak with Marco?”
“Barely.”
Giorgio eyed Salvatore from the side. “How much longer are you going to continue this?”
“How fast did you have his Jeep chopped up so what he did couldn’t be traced?” Salvatore asked back, not missing a beat.
Their quiet conversation went totally unnoticed by the rest of the table. Piles of cash fell out of bags at the seat of each Russo capo.
Big Mike, from Jersey.
The Vargas, two brothers, situated in Vegas.
Christiano—he did show up—from Cali.
Anthony Carcoli sat alone and quiet. The LaRocca arm headed in from Maine, as did his son. The two capos out of Chicago sat together nearer to the other end of the table.
And finally—
“It’s been a while, Sal,” said the man to Salvatore’s right.
“Johnny,” Salvatore replied in kind. “How’s Brooklyn?”
“Loud. Stinks. I can never see the stars. And the rats, Jesus.”
Salvatore chuckled. “Get a cat, cousin.”
The last of his remaining family, Johnny had taken over for Salvatore’s father controlling the better part of New York while sharing some territory with Anthony Carcoli. But, like everything else that followed his family’s demise, even giving the button to Johnny had been a strategic choice by Giorgio meant to control his consigliere.
Johnny nodded at the mention of a cat. “Hmm, maybe. The pizza, though, cazzo. I heard a certain someone won—”
“Enough chitchat,” Giorgio grumbled, quieting Johnny before he could bring up Francesca’s achievement. “Pay and speak up.”
Salvatore shrugged at Johnny’s passing look.
Most of the made men did what they typically would whenever tribute came up. They spent as little time in the boss’s presence as they could before dropping off their dues and heading the fuck out.
Nobody wanted a problem here.
Nobody wanted the boss to make a problem.
Only three capos remained at the table when it was all said and done. Anthony stood to pay his tribute, but Big Mike stopped him from moving an inch further with a single finger pointed in his direction.
“Not yet,” the New Jersey capo said.
“Excuse me?” Carcoli asked.
“I didn’t fuckin’ stutter.”
“Well...” Giorgio cut a cigar after pulling it from his inner jacket pocket. A sure sign they might be there for a while. “What’s this?”
“A conversation we’ll have when Christiano takes his leave,” Mike replied frankly.
At that, Christiano Lombardi pushed his chair back and stood. He plucked the black duffle bag up from the table and headed down to the boss. “I may not make the next one.”
“You made this one,” Giorgio replied.
“Ah, ah.” Christiano wagged a finger playfully. “Another man was on that privately chartered jet, not me. Allegedly.”
Anthony Carcoli and Big Mike continued their stare down.
Salvatore propped his elbow to the table and used his hand to rest his head. “Have you given any thought to the offer I made when I first visited?”
Christiano nodded. “Every day.”
“What offer?” the boss demanded.
“Enough money in the right hands would see this all pass,” Salvatore said. “If he were to, say, be arrested again on some random charge and thrown into jail for a week. Then, maybe he’s thrown in solitary. A fire breaks out. The body is destroyed. It’s happened before.”
Giorgio’s gaze skipped over the dark wood on the table as he contemplated such a thing. “That would make business a bit difficult, wouldn’t it? He can’t be a dead man who everyone sees. He won’t stay dead for long.”
“No, he’d have to stay dead,” Salvatore agreed, watching the blond, blue-eyed capo for any reaction. He didn’t give one. “Christiano, thoughts?”
“I—”
“Wouldn’t you ask for my thoughts first?” Giorgio snapped. “He’s my capo, who by the way, makes a great deal of fucking money, Sal.”
Salvatore used the motion of rubbing his temples to hide the roll of his eyes. After, he turned his gaze upon Giorgio with the patience one needed to deal with small, unruly children. “Giorgio, the business can be transferred. The assets, the profit, the men. It can all be moved over to someone else’s control. Pick someone. It’s that easy. The narcos will take some handling, but even they can be fucking bought for the right price. What do you want, the trial and the papers for the next year or two, or nothing?”
“He’s not wrong,” Christiano put in.
Giorgio huffed, glaring at nothing in particular. “I made you.”
Christiano remained steadfast. “And look what I did, huh? Look what I did with it. Isn’t that what we’re all thinking?”
Silence covered the room like a thick smog coming down on city streets. The elephant in the room grew ten times its size, but Giorgio refused to pay it any mind, apparently.