Chapter Ten
Devious
A week goes by, and a guard opens up the steel door. Matteo stands up from the glass desk. He offers his hand, and I shake it, patting him on the back.
“Devious. Sit,” he says. There is a hint of an Italian accent in his voice. The last time I was here, he didn’t have pictures of his wife, Jasmine, or his daughter, Luna, on his desk. The office is industrial style, clean and neat, with a wet bar sitting next to the window overlooking the empty dance floor. I sit in the metal chair across from him and have my three bodyguards stand behind me.
He opens a leather case of expensive cigars and offers me one. “What brings you to my side of the fence?”
I shake my head, then cross my leg over my thigh. “First things first. Congratulations on the newborn. How is Jasmine?”
They got married last year, and he’s been with her for three years.
“She’s good, thanks to you. Her health is doing a lot better. She can’t thank you enough for the heart.” His smile is genuine. “You want a glass of whiskey?”
Matteo asked me to find Jasmine a heart on the black market. She almost died two years ago from heart failure. To end the feud between both our famiglias , I bought the heart for him.
I nod. “Bourbon.”
He gets up from the desk, strolls to the minibar, and grabs two crystal glasses. The sound of the whiskey being poured fills the silence. He gives me my drink, and I down the brown liquor, letting the beverage burn my throat.
“Congratulations on the wedding,” he murmurs, crossing his right foot over his left before sipping his drink. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Jasmine was in the hospital giving birth to Luna.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I understand.”
He runs his thick fingers over his shaved head. “So again. Why are you here? You don’t visit unless you need something.”
Matteo is built like a bodybuilder, and tattoos cover his body. Even his bald head has a tattoo of a skull in flames. He’s known as the Skull King.
“You do business with the Irish mob?” I ask.
Matteo doesn’t have an alliance with any of the mafias. He’s an association. But he does have one with us. If there’s anything he needs, I won’t hesitate to help him.
His eyes widen before he downs the rest of his whiskey. “They brought a shipment of cocaine from me.”
He shouldn’t be working with the enemy. Despite the fact we share the same blood, his loyalty should be with his famiglia , but I don’t have the right to be angry because it was Draco who slaughtered his parents. It’s a miracle we’re sitting in the same room, having a casual conversation. My blood fucking boils, but I don’t let it show.
“He doesn’t make his own coke?”
“Not anymore. He’s going broke. He doesn’t buy my pure coke. He buys the synthetic kind and sells it to the boys in the hood.”
“Tell me when his shipment arrives so I can follow him. I’ll pay you.”
He grabs his cigar and lights it. “The rumors are true. You do want to kill Cashel, yeah?”
My eyes venture to the bar on the dance floor where a bartender wipes down the mahogany wood. “I’m going to chop his head off and feed it to the pigs,” I say casually.
Relief washes over his face. “I’m kind of glad my famiglia is not part of the mob anymore. I run my illegal stuff on my own.”
“You need to be with your famiglia . I’ll make you an underboss, and if anyone wants to bring up the past, I’ll have them killed. My word is law.”
I mean every word. If anyone ever brings up the past, I’ll have them murdered Jigsaw style. I want the past to stay in the past, and we’ll start over. Draco is dead, so there is no reason for us to be at each other’s throats.
He rubs his hands together. “Two things wrong with your statement,” he says. “I don’t like to take orders from anyone, and your word is not law here. I’m the Skull King.”
He’s lucky I like him and need something from him because if he were in my territory and disrespected me, I would have put a bullet through his head.
“Are you going to tell me about his shipment?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
He nods, puffs on his cigar, then flicks ashes in the ashtray. A cloud of white smoke lingers in the air. I beckon one of my soldiers with the briefcase of money, and he slides it to Matteo. Matteo opens it, beams at the fresh, crisp hundred-dollar bills, and slides it back to me.
“You don’t have to pay me. I owe you for what you did for my wife.” He scratches his chin. “His packages will arrive on Thursday at midnight. A few of my men will be there. Don’t kill any of them.”
I stand up from the chair, smoothing out my tie. “Thank you.”
“No problem. You should have dinner with me and Jasmine. Bring your wife,” he says, with a smile on his face.
I nod. “Let me know and we’ll come.”
If I can get Roselyn to behave, then I’ll bring her.
“I’ll give you a call soon.”