30. Dinner
CORRADO
30
Juggling six deals during the course of a single day takes practice and stamina. One of those six is between the Russian syndicate and a government crime prevention unit, the two organizations operating at opposite ends of society.
The unit busted the syndicate’s twelve tons of trafficked “powder.” Because people at the top of both organizations are members of our Order, the bust was kept quiet, and the syndicate was offered a deal. They can choose which drug lord to turn in for the crime.
In exchange for turning in one of their own, the syndicate wants the name of the agent who worked undercover in the organization, because they damn well know that no crime prevention unit in the world could gather intelligence about the storage location holding that much product all on their own.
It was a stupid bust, if you ask me. Twelve tons, while it sounds like a lot, is nothing compared to the amount they could’ve seized had they kept quiet and bided their time working in cooperation with their undercover agent.
Now, they’ll pull the agent from the job and promise him anonymity and protection, but he’s as good as dead because once he penetrated the inner circles of the syndicate, he’s forever with the syndicate. Till death do they part.
Sure, various government agencies will offer him protection, but he’ll never walk the streets safely again. Witness protection can’t protect a snitch, because he knows too much and he’s willing to talk. Everyone knows that. Which is why Evans wants him first, which is why he gave up a piece of his design company.
The agents who aren’t afraid of the dark side? They make the best Rattles for the Order, and most of my morning is spent securing this one, making sure he survives and Evans can take him.
Now, in the afternoon, I’m in a meeting between an arms dealer and a corrupt foreign aid entity operating in parts of the world that God turned away from. My phone rings. Since there’s only one phone number I’m allowing to access me during meetings, I already know who’s calling.
The trouble is, the rules about electronics are clear; mainly, we can’t bring them into the room. We certainly can’t answer phones.
At the long table, the four men aim their weapons at my head.
On my left, the corrupt foreign aid worker says, “Don’t answer that.”
“Hello.” I pick up the call and press a finger over my mouth, shushing the protesting men. If any of them pulls the trigger, my brains will splatter all over the dark gray tapestry behind me. The fact they wouldn’t dare makes me adjust myself in my pants.
“Corrado.” Michela’s feminine voice caresses my senses. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I almost laugh at the angry faces of the grown men in front of me.
“How’s your day going?” she asks.
“It’s going my way. Yours?” I ask, and whisper to the men, “My wife is checking on me.”
The arms dealer on my right shakes his head, but while the guns are drawn, he’s not putting his down.
“Mine is going your way too, it seems,” she says, a subtle jab at my last-minute change of her job request with Evans. Last night, after the bust, he called in a favor for this meeting, and I called in mine with regards to my wife.
“Have you heard anything about my mom?”
“Not yet.” Maybe they called, but if they had, they would have left a message or called Michela. “How’s work?”
“Amazing. That’s why I’m calling, actually.” She clears her throat. “I’m wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“Say that again?” I heard her.
“I’m wondering if you would like to eat dinner. With me.”
“I would.”
“What time is good for you?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Please decide on the time.”
“Eight. And Michela?”
“Yes?”
“Use the card.” Unwilling to push these men any longer and truly risk my life, I hang up. “My phone is encrypted. Yours aren’t. This is why we have the no-electronics policy during meetings such as these.” I slide my phone out of reach on the table so everyone can see it’s off. “Where were we?”
The arms dealer puts away his piece. His partner, a short, thin woman in a sharp black suit, follows, along with one of the aid workers. The aid worker who told me not to answer my phone keeps his aimed.
Done playing, I seize his wrist and twist, causing him to drop the gun in front of me. When he reaches for it, I push it toward the arms dealer, who picks it up and aims at the worker.
With a palm at the back of the worker’s head, I slam his head on the wood and press his cheek against the surface.
“Don’t answer that?” I repeat what he said when my phone rang. “This is my table, in my hotel, and you are here at my mercy, begging me to solve your problems. Whatever I give you, you will take, and feel grateful it was my wife who called and put me in a merciful mood. Here’s what you’ll do. You will deliver the goods no later than the end of the month, every month. You will work with the dealers without exception, because it’s the only way they’ll let you bring in the medicine. There you have it. You get to live another day.” I release him. “Get out.”
The man leaves, and I sigh and crack my neck. “That’s settled, then.” I rub my shoulder and narrow my eyes. “Why are you all still here?”
The other worker reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a blue folder. Did I mention my utter dislike for blue folders? Most often, the regulatory bodies use blue as a color because most people like it, or at least don’t find it offensive. They even trust what’s inside it because of the color associated with the information.
But in reality, the folder should be red. Like fire. Don’t touch it, because once you do, you have to put it out, or it’ll burn you.
I open the damn thing, read, scrub my face, my jaw, think about how it would be easier to solve this if I bought his entire country. “You have until seven thirty. Start talking.”
Thirty minutes after nine, I walk into the apartment, and the moment I do, I stop.
The aroma of Italian food hits my empty belly like a well-navigated missile, and my stomach growls. Since I’m late, covered bowls and dishes sit on the bar waiting for me. I lift one cover.
It’s a fresh mixed salad. I pick up a spinach leaf and taste a homemade dressing of olive oil and red wine vinegar with a tang of garlic. I lick my thumb and open the large dish.
Chicken marsala.
Still steaming. Excellent. I drop the cover on it and look around.
The apartment appears empty, but Michela’s shoes by the fridge tells me she’s around. I pick up her shoes and carry them over to her door. Using the heel of the shoe, I knock before entering.
A little black dress rides up her legs and barely covers her generous ass while Michela sleeps on her left side, a pillow tucked under her cheek and another between her legs. I put the shoes by the door and then walk to the bed.
One knee on the mattress, I lean in, peeling up the hem of the dress so I can peek under it. The little bare pussy between her legs greets me. It’s quite perfect. No surprise there. My wife’s beauty stuns me in more ways than I care to admit.
I release the dress and trace a finger over the curve of her ass.
She made dinner, got all dressed up, and opted not to wear panties, probably hoping for some attention from me, but sometime after eight, she figured she’d rest her eyes. Then she fell asleep.
I sit beside her for a moment and think back at my childhood. My father went to work before the sun rose on the horizon and stayed at work late into the night. During the days when he arrived home before eight, he’d hold meetings in the study, which took up one entire wing of our home.
His wing of the house hosted the Order’s Formals or rooms where our family formally initiated families into the Order. One would never know that’s what the rooms are for, though. The staff had no idea that kings sat on the chairs they dusted or that three presidents of some of the wealthiest nations of the world were a few hours away from sitting down for a meeting with my brother. They will negotiate trade deals, which is how money is made.
At seven, right after my meeting ended, Severio called, wanting to talk about his upcoming meeting.
Because the Order is like a giant serpent with one family of three people making up the Head, the three of us must always know what each other is up to so that the Head of the Order remains orderly. This is particularly important during times of change, and cutting off parasitic families while initiating new ones we think will make us wealthier counts as change.
Chaos breeds opportunity.
It also brings out the worst in many people. It brought out the worst in Franko Monelli, whose funeral I attended during my lunch hour. Not counting a bite of the mini éclair Tanaka made me throw into my mouth and chew early this morning, I haven’t eaten all day.
I recall one of my father’s wives not letting us eat and making us wait for our father to show up for dinnertime, which he’d set at eight. Dinner was always at eight, but we never ate at eight, because Father always had more work to do.
I spent the better part of my life thinking he drove my mother out of the house.
From my pocket, I take out a pen and write on my wife’s ass cheek.