23. Prime #2
It’s not even bullshit. We agreed that if we were doing this, we’d go in with a serious proposal.
Everything’s veiled in vague language, listing only the product and never putting anything incriminating in writing, but it’s a damn good show regardless.
I can tell the old crooks are impressed as Deanna clears her throat and begins to run them through the numbers.
Her part’s easy. First, we establish the foundation of my success.
This is all the legitimate side of my operation.
Deanna knows it better than anyone and she explains our debt, cashflow, and expenses while tossing in a few jokes that land better coming from a pretty face.
Meanwhile, I should mentally prepare for my part, but I’m too busy paying attention to Augustus.
It’s strange how this man has driven so much of my life.
I’m sure I’m barely beneath his notice. I’ve been nothing but a thug for a long time while he’s been living at the king of his little empire.
Even as Stellan began to take control of the city, the Fontana operation survived mainly because it keeps to itself and isn’t typically expansionist. But there are always rumors about them, about how they took a big hit when gambling was legalized, about how they’ve been struggling to pay some of their lower-level people.
It’s never a good sign when the people who do the real work aren’t getting checks.
Deanna stops talking. She steps away from the table, gesturing at me. “And now my husband Prime will take over. He can answer any of your questions.”
“Ah, come on, I’d rather keep staring at you, sweetheart.” Frankie beams to himself. Nobody else laughs.
Augustus ignores his lieutenant. “Thank you, Mrs. Spadaro. That was very helpful. Would you mind stepping out of the room now?”
Deanna looks at me. I don’t like the idea of her being out of my sight, but I don’t see how we have any choice here. I nod and she straightens.
“Of course, Mr. Fontana. I’ll be right in the hall if you need me.” She walks off, heels clacking on the floor. I make note of how many of the men leer at her ass while she leaves and vow to hurt them very badly.
When the room quiets, Fontana turns to me. “How much does your wife know about your business?”
I decide to tell him the truth. “A modest amount. She knows the big picture, but not the details.”
“Is that wise? My understanding is, your relationship with your wife isn’t exactly based on loyalty.”
“Deanna’s trustworthy. I’ve known her a long time.”
“Two years from what I can tell. Is that really long enough to know?” He waves a hand dismissively.
“No matter. I’ll take you at your word. The simple truth is, I need better distribution, and you can provide it.
You’re certainly well-managed and you have plenty of capital.
Tell me how you can make me money, Mr. Spadaro. ”
I want to bite his throat. I want to rip it out with my teeth and spit the gore in the face of his people. I’d happily drown on his blood if it meant leaving him a ruined wreck of a man.
Instead, I talk logistics. I tell them about trucks, drivers, payments, connections, friendly shipping lanes, bribed inspectors, crooked police officers.
I don’t tell them everything because that would be stupid, but I give them enough to bait the hook.
Fontana is practically salivating by the time I’m finished with my talk.
There are questions from the other lieutenants. Carbone is particularly tough on me, but I don’t flinch. I’m not making this shit up and it’s not hard to bat away any of his issues. While my motives aren’t pure, my business sure as fuck is solid.
“Thank you, Mr. Spadaro. That was very enlightening. Would you mind joining your wife in the hall while we discuss?”
“Of course. I appreciate the opportunity.”
I slip out of the room, but instead of going right toward the stairs and the waiting guards, I turn left.
I have to trust that Deanna’s safe. Fontana’s not stupid enough to hurt my damn wife; that’d guarantee a war with the Corsetti Mafia, and that’s a conflict he’d definitely lose.
I creep away toward the kitchen and stumble on a side staircase, a narrow set that winds up to the second floor.
They creak as I ascend. Fuck it feels like the whole house echoes around me. But when I reach the top, the upstairs is quiet. There’s no indication that anyone heard.
I’m going on instinct now. First step was getting away from the scrutiny of the guards.
I step into an empty guest room, the space barren except for a single bed and a desk.
I bend down and start removing specifically milled pieces of metal from my socks, the inside of my jacket, the hem of each pant leg.
They assemble easily enough, screwing and clicking together.
The final touch is a long barrel from under my left arm. That attaches to the tip of the weapon.
I test the weight of the modular gun. The silencer is unwieldy and would throw off my aim if I hadn’t practiced with it. I load a single round into the chamber and turn to find a better hiding spot.
I’m going to ambush Fontana. He’ll eventually come out of that room and when he does I’m going to put a bullet in his head.
I might not survive the encounter, but to hell with it.
I’ve lived long enough. It bothers me, knowing Deanna might be upset when I’m gone, but she’ll move on.
My money will take care of her and her family, and that has to be good enough.
There’s a noise in the hall. I stop, listening closely. A lone voice on the stairs talking excitedly into a phone. He’s keeping his voice down, but when I lean closer, I can start to make out the words.
“…tell daddy again what you’ll do when I get home? Yeah, that’s good, with your feet? You nasty bitch, you’re going to stomp on daddy’s what? Oh god yeah, daddy likes that. Tell me I deserve punishment again.”
Frankie Inzerillo comes into view. I duck back, pulse racing. He’s grunting in the phone as he bursts into the room, one hand already working at his belt. He’s half undressed, fingers shoved down to grab his dick, when he turns and we lock eyes.
He doesn’t move. His mouth falls open in surprise. I raise my gun, heart slamming in my chest. If he yells, it’s over. If I get caught Fontana will never trust me and I’ll never get another chance at this.
Frankie lowers the phone. “Prime,” he whispers. “Wait?—“