Chapter 22
ROWAN
Giacomo’s, 8:00 p.m. That’s what my father arranges. I get there five minutes early, ask the host for the table reserved under Rossi. He leads me to a booth set for three in a quiet corner tucked away in the back. I don’t like crowds, but I dislike the location of this table more. There’s a brick wall to my right, a tall, dark, solid wood partition to my left. It’s too secluded and cage-like. Deal with it.
Alfonso likes to make people wait. It’s a power move he and I both have in our repertoire. I don’t care; he can make it. He does have the power in this situation. I’ve pissed him off, jeopardized his potential for enterprise growth and, worse, hurt his daughter’s feelings as well as her pride. While I have no fucks to give about his business, I do have guilt about upsetting Elisa.
I take the liberty of ordering a bottle of chianti for the table and pour myself a glass as I wait: 8:05, 8:10, 8:15. He arrives right on time, in other words fashionably late, with Elisa in tow. He’s in a gray suit, no tie. No tie is good: He’s not so angry as to view this as an official business meeting, more a casual meal with an associate. Gray is also good: It can’t hide bloodstains so he probably, hopefully, isn’t itching to put a bullet in my head or anywhere else.
Elisa is in an unfussy black cocktail dress, hair down, makeup understated. Pretty, as always. It’s not that I don’t find her attractive—I do. Maybe we could’ve happened organically if our parents would’ve allowed for it, but being forced, pressured… It was never going to work. Neither love nor connection can be compelled into existence.
I stand up. “Alfonso, Elisa, thank you both for coming.” The handshake originated in ancient Greece circa the fifth century BC. Its purpose was to prove to acquaintances, new and old, that you were unarmed and had affable intentions. That’s what it means tonight in twenty-first-century Boston, inside this hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant; I come in peace, please don’t fucking gut me like a fish.
He shakes my hand. Practiced as I am at remaining emotionless to the outside world, internally I’m relieved. We all take our seats. I pour him and Elisa a glass of wine, take a huge gulp of mine, then begin. “I owe you both an apology and I mean it, sincerely. I apologize. I meant no disrespect to either of you.”
“Not another word,” Alfonso says, signaling stop with his hand. “I’m too hungry to talk. First, we eat. Then we see if this is reparable.” He motions the waiter over without so much as a glance at the menu. As he listens to the night’s specials, Elisa looks at me.
“Gnocchi, right?” she asks with a wounded half-smile.
“El, I’m…” No. I’m sorry isn’t good enough. She deserves an explanation. “Sometimes you meet someone you didn’t see coming and the draw is undeniable, too powerful to walk away from, no matter what’s at stake. That’s what happened between Juliet Calloway and me.”
“I’m not upset that you’re with someone else. I’m upset that you didn’t respect me enough to be honest about it. You let me have more-than-friendly feelings for you when you never felt the same for me.”
“I care about you, I do. But you’re right, that isn’t how you treat someone you care about.”
“No, it’s not.” She shifts her focus to the waiter, gives him her order, and mine. “I get it, though. Love is like shit—it happens.”
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. “You should put that on a t-shirt. It’ll sell like hotcakes, I’m telling ya.”
She gives me a wink. I’m happy to receive it.
“Everything cleared up between you?” Alfonso asks his daughter.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
“Good.” He picks up his glass of wine, swills it, and takes a sip. After he swallows, he raises an eyebrow at me. “It would’ve been a real shame if I had to whack you. We’ll sort out the rest after dinner.”
The meal is finished; the plates are cleared away. Alfonso orders each of us a shot of sambuca and a serving of tiramisu. I sure as fuck am not going to tell him that I can’t stomach the black licorice flavor of anise, so I shoot the shot as God intended—faster than a racehorse that has to take a piss. It’s awful, but it’s alcohol, and I could use the liquid courage for the gamble I’m about to take.
“Impressive. Would you like another one?” Elisa slides her shot closer to me.
“No, thanks. What I’d like to do is pitch you a business proposal, Alfonso.”
He throws his hands up. “Why not? Hit me with it.”
“You and my father have an alliance you wanted to solidify via a marriage between Elisa and me. A nice, easy arrangement for the two of you, but this isn’t medieval times. Women have agency. We make our own money, we own property, we can inherit wealth, we choose who we marry, and most of us do it for love. I’m not in love with Elisa. I wish I were, she’s smart and funny and beautiful, it’s that something extra that’s missing. We’ve been friends since we were kids and that’s always how it was gonna go for us. I think she might tell you the same thing.” I consult her.
She nods. “I’d say that’s about right.”
“There it is. So, no, I’m sorry, we can’t consolidate power through marriage. I have something better to offer you. Total control of Boston.”
Elisa goes, “What?”
Alfonso leans closer, rests his elbows on the table, and folds his hands. “Total control? How?”
“It’s simple, really. I want out. For good. When I take over the family business from my father, I’m taking it strictly legit. I’m going to keep the marina and the yacht club, but everything else my father possesses has to go—the import, export, and domestic businesses, and the service provider contacts for those businesses. If you want them, I’ll sell them to you for a reasonable price. Then you’ll have all of his assets, none of the competition.”
“This is going to happen in my lifetime? And what about Pat Calloway? He’s a pain in the ass.”
“It’s going to happen sooner than you imagine. And Patrick Calloway is not going to continue to be a problem for anyone much longer.”
“Mmm. The way things have gone to shit so quickly I figured your father would be getting rid of him soon.”
Or they’ll be getting rid of one another. “I don’t know what he has in store for Calloway. I told him I have no interest in any more violence, only the money side of things. In the meantime, until the business changes hands, all you have to do is continue to be our ally. You can’t tell me you don’t like the idea of being the King of Boston. There’s never been an Italian running the underground here. I’m offering you the opportunity to be the first.”
Pandering to his vanity and his proud heritage, he’s almost sold. I know what’s coming out of his mouth next. “How much is it going to cost me?”
“I went over the books this morning. The total value of our current inventory is twenty mil. I’ll give it to you for ten. And when the time comes, I’ll make sure our service providers are aware of the change in regime.”
“Callum knows about all this?”
“He knows I’m going to steer the ship in a different direction, and since I’m his only heir he doesn’t have much choice. As far as I’m concerned, I’m being considerate of him by informing him of the future plans for my business. You tell me, once he steps down and I’m the admiral, will it matter what my father thinks?”
“No, it won’t.”
“Then I take it we have a deal?”
“You’re a savvy businesswoman. Your dad taught you well. Yeah, we have a deal.” We shake on it, which is as close to a written contract as we dare to get in our trade. No tangible evidence. I can’t wait for the day when I can leave a paper trail and not worry about getting thrown in jail for it.
“Wait a second.” Elisa scrunches her nose at her father. “Does this mean I can’t have the Lamborghini you promised me as a wedding present?”
Alfonso pats her hand. “You’ll still get your Lambo, bambina.”
Well, shit, I didn’t realize our nuptials were worth a Lamborghini to him. I should’ve driven up my selling price. “We actually have a Huracán on standby—sky blue, black spoiler. The original buyer backed out.”
A low chortle leaches from Alfonso and crescendos to full-blown maniacal glee. He resembles an unhinged Santa Claus, round belly jiggling as he caws. “The benefits of this arrangement keep piling on.”
They do, indeed. Sweet freedom is whispering in my ear.