Chapter 2
That boy is mine.
I’d called my brothers, Rocco and Tomaso, in a group call.
They were both elsewhere, dealing with their businesses and the whole operation, making sure the Bianchi’s claws spread as far as they could scratch, digging far and deep into Boston and clawing back territories my father had let other families take.
“So?” Tomaso asked. “What’s the new guy like?”
“Obedient,” I said, as I sat at my desk, thumbing through all the receipts he’d clipped together. They were all ghost payments, heavily inflated for services and products. He hadn’t said a word about it, or maybe he hadn’t wanted to. “But we’ll see, it’s his first day.”
Rocco snickered. “I’ll break him for you, if you need me to.” I clenched my teeth. I knew what he’d meant by that. He wanted to play with my new toy, and he wanted to use a knife, something I didn’t think this one would like.
“No,” I said. “He’s mine. Get your own. Or don’t.
I need an assistant. You two fuckers don’t.
” I sighed and swiveled around in the chair.
Our father’s chair. I half wanted to piss in it then smash it through the window and hope it landed in the harbor.
“I’ve got the job of dealing with all this fucking paperwork shit. ”
“We have accountants for that,” Tomaso said.
“And we got that two million of fresh money in,” Rocco added with the smack of his lips. “I think we should expand Tales.”
“No,” I said. “We’re not making any decisions. We’re not making dad’s mistakes. He was trying to leave a shit stain; we’re leaving a legacy.” And I hated that the legacy would be in our father’s name, but despite him, our family name and line was strong.
Isaiah arrived at the glass door with my coffee in hand, and he bowed his head as he walked quickly toward me. “I hope I’m not late,” he said, placing the cup and saucer on the table.
“Brothers,” I said to them. “I’ll call you back. Someone . . . didn’t knock.” I hung up before they could respond.
He went bright red in the face, staring at me with his big eyes. “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry,” he said, hands shaking as he placed the cup on the desk, almost spilling the coffee.
“You’ve got to understand something, Isaiah,” I said to him. “I’m not a scary guy; there’s no need to look upset. This is your first day, and you’re learning, but I need you to learn fast. I need you to understand the business quickly.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “I’ll know for the future. I promise.”
“Good. I’m assuming it’s the good coffee. Freshly ground beans. Black. No sugar.”
He nodded to each one. “Freshly ground, used the machine fine. It should be as you wanted. If not, I’ll go back and I’ll make it again. I’ll make it as many times as you need me to until I get it right.”
Relaxing in my comfy office chair, I thought about how he was already so thoughtfully trained.
As I opened my mouth, a light tut came off my tongue.
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” I said. “Now, my schedule. I’m busy.
I’m always busy. If this office line rings, you answer it.
You tell whoever it is on the other end that I’m busy. ”
His obedient head wobble was so precise. I hoped he was taking it all in. “Yes, sir.”
I opened the desk drawer and pulled out an old phone—nothing fancy, it was a bit of a brick.
“Here’s a phone that receives redirected calls from this line,” I said, sliding it across my desk to him.
“Answer it when it rings. If it’s for me, I’m busy.
If it’s from me, I expect you to be right where I need you, when I need you. Understood?”
“Twenty-four hours,” he said.
“It’s a demanding job,” I told him.
“I’m ready to serve.” He took the phone.
“I’m ready to impress you, sir.” He gave me a bow.
He was performing for me. Maybe he’d go further than the last guy, or the one before that.
But I wanted to know just how far he’d go, how much he’d play if I asked him to.
“Is there anything else I need to know, and is there anything you need me to do for you now?”
A waved a hand at him. “Stand outside until I call you in. On your feet. No sitting.”
Isaiah turned to leave on a sharp one-eighty.
“Study my official calendar,” I told him, pushing a slip of paper across to him.
He turned again, his face stern as if he was trying to impress me with his lack of emotion.
But he had them, big ones, bubbling beneath the surface.
How much could I test them before he burst?
“This is where I am and where I’ve been.
If anyone asks, you were there too. Understood? ”
He left the office and I was alone again.
Nobody told me how lonely it was at the top.
I couldn’t go out and get my hands dirty anymore.
If I died, the entire operation would go into freefall—well, one of my brothers would step in, but that wouldn’t stop nearby families trying their best to come and sweep a nice little parcel of town as their own.
I was really switching things up. My lieutenants were on the ground floor, making this place look operational.
They had their guns and they were more than able to keep anyone away who tried to get to me.
There had been a time when my father attempted to legitimize this business by filling it with corporations and people—and they’d paid well—but that made it easier access for anyone trying to reach the top floor.
As I tasted the coffee, I watched boats come and go from the harbor. It was nice coffee, and I savored every sip of it. He was something special, I could tell.
* * *
The next morning it was 9:02 a.m. when Isaiah knocked on the office door with my coffee.
“I said nine a.m.”
He was dressed in the same shirt I’d gifted him yesterday; it was just the perfect amount of tight to show off his slender body. “I’m sorry, I apologize, I—there—I’m—”
I snapped my fingers at the desk. “Don’t make excuses. Acknowledge. Fix it.”
“Yes. It won’t happen again.” He bowed his head at me like I was a royal. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Have you studied the calendar?” I asked.
“Yes,” he offered with a big smile. “You’re very busy.”
“Good. I’ll send you the real calendar,” I said, reaching into the second desk drawer. There were many new phones in there, and I handed him one. “Passcode is four six two nine one three, remember it. And don’t use this phone for anything else. It connects to my iCloud.”
He nodded. “Okay. Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing. New shirts. The darker the better.”
His lips moved as if to repeat what I’d told him.
There was a reason I favored the darker shades, it’s because they hid a sin of stains, and a whole lot of blood when it came down to it.
* * *
It was 8:00 a.m., and I was sitting in the back of the Benz outside the apartment building Isaiah lived in.
I’d already waited in this spot for five minutes with my driver, Ronnie, a hard guy, one of my associates who was still trying to earn a spot and rank amongst the family.
Since my father’s passing, a lot of people had left—mostly his advisors, the type of men who held the same beliefs my father did, knowing I’d have them whacked if they tried any of that homophobic bullshit on me.
It was 8:09 a.m. when Isaiah walked out of the apartment building. His shirt was untucked on one side, with the tucked side coming out of his fly. I watched for a moment, shaking my head.
“Should I tell him, sir?” Ronnie asked.
“No.” I opened the door at the curbside. “Isaiah.” My voice was sharp. He snapped to attention.
“No, no.” His words were soft, but I heard. “Sir, I thought we were—”
“We were what?” I asked, shrugging. “Because clearly your thoughts aren’t your friends.”
“You said we were meeting at the office, at half past.”
I pushed out my chest, my shirt holding on by a mere button, and folded my arms over it. “I changed my mind. And I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.”
“You . . . you . . .” He stepped toward me, his laces untied.
I’d been good at masking my emotions, but the mask was a snarl—and maybe that wasn’t a good mask to some. “Do you always look this . . . messy?”
“Please don’t fire me.”
I snapped my fingers, just so I could see him straighten up at the sound.
“I’m not firing you, Isaiah. I’m trying to make you into something.
” I stepped closer. “If you want this job, you must show me you want it, every single day. You must . . . take initiative. You must strive for success.” I scrunched up a hand into a fist and placed it at his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat on the back of my hand. “Do you want this job?”
“Yes.” His voice was a squeak. “Yes.”
I zipped his fly up with my other hand then proceeded to tuck his shirt into his trousers. “There,” I whispered to him. “You’re looking much better.”
“Thank you,” he whispered back.
“Now get in the car.”
He obeyed, no questions, and he climbed into the passenger seat and sat there, facing forward, quiet. He clearly really wanted this job. I sat in the space beside him, my hand on his lap. I leaned in close, testing the waters, and whispered in his ear, “Good boy.”
* * *
I’d been testing the waters with my new assistant for days now. Picking him up, taking him to businesses across the city, letting him know we owned those places. It wasn’t enough for him just to see the places, he had to understand how we operated, and how I operated.
It was just after 8:30 a.m. and we were together, heading to a construction site. They were getting ready to pour concrete, and I love a bit of a cliché.
“Have you been getting many calls?” I asked on the drive over.
“No, not really,” he said. “Maybe two a day. I tell everyone the same thing. You’re busy.”
“Good boy,” I whispered. I’d called him that a few times now, watching the way his body responded to me in miniscule shivers. There was something there, and I’d been so patient for so long, waiting for my dad to die. I just wanted to fuck any submissive man with a pulse, wherever I goddamn wanted.
“Sir,” he whispered, the breath hitching in the back of his throat.
“Yes.” I placed my hand on his thigh.
“The other phone,” he said, almost panicking. “I’ve only looked at the calendar.”
I faced him, head on, staring into his eyes as if I was searching for his soul. “You haven’t even looked at the images or my notes?”
A light twitch, almost a flinch. I knew he had, or at least I hoped he had.
There were photos on there—my dick for starters, from a lot of angles.
My notes weren’t deep, just a tally of all the “good boys” I’d given him.
And he must’ve seen those, or else why was he being so much more put together and obedient for me?
“I promise I haven’t done more than look at the calendar,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
I squeezed my hand on his knee. “Good boy.” And I swore I heard the lightest pant from the back of his throat. Maybe he was the one. Maybe he could handle this life. “Well, are you ready to see concrete poured?”
He nodded and smiled, looking straight ahead, trying his best not to look me in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
Today wasn’t just any old concrete pouring job.
At the construction site for a new apartment building, they’d just finished laying down new rebar, pipes, tubing, everything that went into running a smooth apartment complex at the ground level.
Today was also about showing Isaiah just what we did here at Bianchi Construction.
It was a short drive, and when we pulled up, the driver got out to open my door, and Isaiah scooted out after me.
It was a cool day. Fall was coming. The front of the complex was covered up with tall, thick walls of metal, rusted and a worn yellow color like the side of a shipping container.
Sammy, one of my lieutenants, pushed the metal, which was on a hinge, and welcomed me in.
“Hey, boss,” he greeted me. “We got the rat.”
“Rat,” Isaiah mumbled in a breath by my side.
“Sammy, meet Isaiah, my new assistant,” I said. “And I hope you haven’t killed it yet. I want to know if there are more. I can’t have it scurrying off and bringing more back with it.”
Through the opening in the metal, we made our way through a darkened opening into a space lit by harsh construction lights. Half the room was dug up, the other half on a slope down into it. On the ground, a burlap sack covered a large lump. I stepped forward.
“Take it off him,” I said.
“Him,” Isaiah’s soft voice came again.
I glanced at him, raising my brows. “This is what we do here,” I said. “To rats.”
He nodded, wetting his lips and clinging to the strap of his messenger bag across his torso. “Okay.”
Sammy pulled the sack away from a man I’d seen before, someone who’d been trying to infiltrate the family, the business. “Peter Stanley.”
The man shivered. His suit was tattered, tarnished, and torn from the treatment the men on site had given him. He begged for his life too, using every clichéd phrase I’d heard before.
I repeated his name softly, taking my Glock 19 from its underarm holster. I pulled it back, loaded, and aimed it right for him. “Who do you work for? Cordello? Morrell?” I cocked my head, looking him square in the eyes. “Feds?”
“He hasn’t said a name,” Sammy told me. “I think it’s Cordello, but I could be wrong.”
“Cordello,” I said, looking down at Peter, pointing the gun right at his forehead. “You know you’re going to die here. There’s no way out.”
“What did he do?” Isaiah spoke up, and out of turn.
I turned and huffed, my focus now on my assistant who I thought had been trained well enough to stay quiet in moments like this.
“Three of our men were killed because of a rat. That rat,” I said, snapping at him.
“One of them was just a kid. Seventeen. I promised his mom I’d find the people responsible. ”
“Him?” he asked.
“No more questions,” I told him. He lolled his head, and for a moment I felt bad for my tone. “I’ll answer them later.”
He nodded.
Peter eventually gave up who he was working for—the Cordello family.
They operated close by, and if I had anything to do with it and the new direction this family, my family, was taking, they’d be sorry.
I told Isaiah to turn away before I shot Peter.
I enjoyed teasing his innocence, so as long as he knew what I’d done, that was all that mattered.
And I hoped it would make him feel more obedient to me.