Chapter 15 How’s That For Timing?
Chapter fifteen
How’s That For Timing?
Marco
“AJ, brother, you all good?” All my senses are immediately on high alert.
When we last spoke, he told me he was lying low because the rival mob family, the Rizzos, got wind of his intention to buy La Rosa, an upscale cocktail bar struggling under current management.
The problem—it’s in the neighborhood where the Rizzos control most of the nightlife and drug trade.
It’s the investment opportunity AJ approached me about right after I kissed Sophia at Bella Donna’s birthday event—it felt like a sign.
I’m superstitious like that. It’s also the same one that’s got Patrick’s knickers in a knot.
Sure, AJ may be varying shades of gray, but the deal is legit.
Raf’s check of the contract determined as much, despite his reservations about my business partner.
I trust my gut though, and regardless of his Mafia ties, AJ is a guy I would trust with my life.
He knows the only business I want to be involved in is the above-board type, and he respects that.
So much so he wants to be a silent partner, except somehow the Rizzos got wind of his involvement and are making that a little difficult.
“I need a huge favor,” he says firmly and calmly, disregarding pleasantries. “Remember my cousin Chiara, from the job you took with our family a few years back in Sicily?”
“How could I forget? We watched your father’s house for weeks on end. I still haven’t caught up on all the sleep I lost from the round-the-clock surveillance.”
Chuckling, he quips cooly, “Well we weren’t taking chances on her doing a runner—she’s as unpredictable as a tornado.”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to tell me that unpredictable tornado is headed my way?”
“Bingo. I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he says mockingly, before snapping back to business mode.
“She’s flying to New York tomorrow on the family’s private jet.
She just turned twenty-four and recently graduated so this trip is a celebration of both.
She’s specifically coming to attend the art exhibition of the photographer she recently interned for.
Natalia someone. She flat out refused to be chaperoned by my dad or any of his ‘fat, salumi-breathed cronies’ quote, unquote,” he deadpans.
“I need you to pick her up and then basically be her private driver-slash-shadow while she’s here.
I’d do it myself, but I’m still trying to sort this shit out with the Rizzos.
I don’t want her to be dragged into it or more specifically, for her to stick her nose into it.
She fucking loves to meddle,” he mutters.
“Not to mention she’s hellbent on doing the exact opposite of what my dad thinks is best for her.
So I’ve done the good cousin thing and convinced my father I would look after her so she could come.
But I just don’t have the fucking patience to deal with the drama. ”
“Great, so you’ll just hand the drama to me. Believe me, I’ve got plenty of it to go around myself already.”
He whistles lowly. “Yeah, that picture’s a framer. Your girl sure wears the well-fucked look perfectly.”
“Brother, I know you probably sleep with a gun under your pillow, but don’t fucking speak about my girl like that again,” I growl. “It’s bad enough I’ve got to deal with Arty Bartholomew Jones sniffing around and watching her dad fawn over him like the sun shines out of his ass.”
“More like the snot dribbles out of his nose with all the coke that guy does.”
“Fucking right,” I agree before steering us back to the job at hand.
“What’s Chiara’s contact number? I’ll add it to our encrypted surveillance cloud so I can monitor and intercept who she’s interacting with here in New York. Make sure we’re ahead of any problems we might come across.”
“I’ll text you all the information you need. Ahhh, one more thing I should probably tell you…” he trails off.
I groan, not sure where this is heading, but given the way this night has gone so far, I anticipate more news that will fuck with my quickly souring mood.
“You’re her driver, but don’t mention being hired to be her security.
She’s fiercely adamant about her independence being her right or some shit, and unlike my father, I’m not above humoring her.
As my father has spent the last few years discovering, she’s got the face of an angel, the personality of a spitfire, and she’s as cunning as a fox. ”
“Just fucking perfect,” I scoff, but AJ ignores it.
“That’s sorted then. Info incoming. Let’s meet at Joey’s for a coffee and a slice after she gets in tomorrow.”
The line goes dead, and I check the time on my watch and realize I’ve been gone for almost fifteen minutes.
At the rate Patrick’s going with operation marry off my daughter, I’ll walk in to find a wedding planner in my seat organizing the finer details of Sophia and Arty’s big day.
My blood pressure spikes at the thought, and I make my way back to the dinner from hell.
When I return to the dining room, Sophia is all laughs and smiles.
Every single one falls short of her eyes.
She’s been my subject of study for more years than anyone realizes, so I know it’s a charade solely for the benefit of pleasing people.
With one glance I spot her tells. Picking the skin at the side of her thumb with her ring finger.
The continuous bounce of her right leg beneath her chair.
The straight set of her shoulders and rigid spine that could be attributed to good posture from years of deportment.
I know better. The deepened sway of her lower back from the way her vertebrae hovers off the back of the chair and the way her ass pushes into the seat like she needs the pressure to anchor herself to the spot tell me she’d rather be anywhere than here.
I gently place a hand on her shoulder and ever so slightly guide her back to the backrest. She looks up at me, relief flooding her eyes.
I let my hand linger there and feel her shoulders soften slightly as some of the tension falls away.
The connection, though brief, also works to appease this new need buzzing in my body to have a part of me touching her in some way all the time.
And, more importantly, to stop me from punching Arty’s wolfish smile off his face.
I retake my seat next to her in time to hear Arty respond to whatever conversation was taking place in my absence.
“Of course, Patrick. I’d be more than happy to make introductions to my inner circle,” says Arty with far too much enthusiasm for my liking.
“We should organize a drink sometime this week, Sophia.” Not a question.
A statement like it’s a done deal. Over my dead body.
My fingers strangle the cutlery I picked up to eat with, and I now consider using the knife to commit a violent crime instead.
“In fact, you should also accompany me to the exclusive Natalia Hirsch photography exhibition happening next weekend. Tickets are like hen’s teeth, but I managed to pull some strings; it would be an honor to have the stunning daughter of Patrick Princi on my arm as my plus-one.”
“That would be right up Sophia’s alley! Photography is her little hobby,” Patrick exclaims, chest puffed out proud as a peacock at Arty’s ass-licking comment, while also speaking for Sophia once again.
I don’t know what gets my blood boiling more, Arty implying taking her as his date is a given, or her father minimizing her love for photography to a “little hobby.”
“It’s more than a little hobby. Sophia’s photography is awesome,” chimes in Luca.
“I mean, if the lawyer thing doesn’t work out, sis, you’d make one hell of a photographer.”
Oh boy, he went there. Nothing gets Patrick on a rant quicker than the suggestion of a career in anything that’s not law.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffs Patrick. “There’s no money in the arts, not to mention what a waste that would be of good brains and a Harvard law degree. Besides, Sophia is going to make an excellent lawyer. Just like me and Raf, she graduated top of her class.”
“It never ceases to amaze me that you simply ignore evidence to the contrary,” pipes up Sebastian, his voice calm and even, but his expression dark. It surprises me that he’s inserting himself into a confrontational situation.
“Did it escape you that you have one son who literally gets paid an ungodly amount to race a fast car professionally, and another who has made multiple rich lists for an establishment he built from the ground up with a following the world over?”
I guess Sebastian got over the little law-bros love-in happening before us.
“Well, well, well. Look who finally grew some balls,” goads Luca, grinning as he picks up his beer and stares down the ticking time bomb at the other end.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Raf next to me, wiping his mouth and throwing his napkin to the table. Stoic and more serious than his younger brothers, he has zero tolerance for family drama. As the eldest he’ll most likely be the one to deal with the fallout of the impending explosion.
“That’s enough. It’s New Year’s Day, and you all know the rules.
No talking law or pole position or bar on the holidays,” scolds Sienna playfully, doing her best to stop this train wreck of a dinner from completely crashing and burning.
“Arty, I’d like to say this is not the norm, but lying is not my strong suit. They’re a competitive lot here.”
“A little competition never hurt anyone, Mrs. Princi.” Arty’s tone is cordial, but his icy stare is trained on me. Try me, motherfucker.
My phone pings with a new notification in my bespoke messaging app. I pull up the messages from AJ, including pick-up times, hotel details, and four tickets to the Natalia Hirsch exhibition.
Perfect timing, brother.