Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Angelo
“Mr. Calvani!” My lawyer’s chest heaves as he reaches me.
“This better be good, Mr. Bennett.” I scan the room in search of my mystery woman, but I don’t see her.
She thinks she has me at a disadvantage? I can’t wait to prove her wrong.
“The woman you were with, uh, I don’t know how to say this...”
“Spit it out,” I snap impatiently as we exit the ballroom. Glancing down the hallway, left and right, there’s no sign of her.
“She robbed me.”
“I’m sorry?” I sputter.
“Chatted me up at the bar and stole my ring.” He taps his empty index finger. “Right off my finger. You might want to check your belongings.”
I pat myself down, realizing she’s stolen my watch. Pissed or impressed, I’m not sure which one.
“Here’s the kicker: she stole the envelope out of my back pocket. I’m about to walk into that meeting with nothing,” he whispers.
Pissed it is.
I call Maks. “Did a woman just leave?”
“Sure. Lots of women just left.”
“Suspect’s early twenties. Approximately five feet, seven inches with heels. Golden brown hair pinned up. Black strapless dress?—”
“Amazing tits,” Bennett interjects, and I consider killing him and stringing his useless corpse from the ballroom chandelier.
“I haven’t seen any women matching that description, boss,” Maks says.
“Meet me out front,” I command, ending the call. Turning to Bennett, I tell him, “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll have the cash. Delay the meeting.”
“I’ll try my best.”
I grab him by his grubby neck, lifting him to his tiptoes. “Your negligence cost me $50,000, Mr. Bennett, so I’m going to need more than your best from hereon out.”
“Understood, Mr. Calvani.” He wheezes.
I release my hold with a shove, storming out of the building.
Maks pulls up to the curb and hops out, opening my door for me, and I slide in.
Waiting until he’s behind the wheel, I tell him, “A pickpocket stole the new mayor’s ‘welcome gift’ from Bennett.
Take me to my office at The Boardroom . I need to raid the safe. ”
“The tits comment makes more sense now. Bennett, the fucking idiot.” Maks pulls out into traffic, making our way out of the French Quarter, and I don’t tell him about my own idiocy.
And yes, her breasts were amazing.
We get caught behind a car at a red light, and I tap my foot impatiently.
Maks looks into the rearview, his eyes going wide. “Get down!”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bullets spray the back windshield, and I dive to the floorboard, pulling my gun from my ankle holster. The glass is bullet-resistant, but there are only so many direct hits it can withstand.
“Fuck this.” I partially roll down my window and hang out my gun, unloading the clip at the SUV behind us.
“Boss, what are you doing? Get the fuck down!” Maks punches the gas as we drive with half the vehicle on the sidewalk to maneuver around the car in front of us.
Tires screech and a horn blares as Maks runs the light, us missing being sideswiped by mere inches.
There’s a pileup at the intersection as we drive out of sight.
I’m already on the phone, my hands shaking with rage. “Lock down the apartment and get Al in the panic room now,” I order her bodyguard, hanging up.
Scrolling through my contacts, I call my cousin Nic. “How much cash do you have on hand?”
“Who is this?” He says in an exaggerated Italian accent.
“Nic, you pain in the ass, this is serious!”
“Sorry, boss. How much you need?”
“Fifty thousand.” If someone doesn’t want this meeting to happen, I’m going to make damn sure it happens.
“Yeah, I can scrape together that much.”
“Good. Deliver it to my lawyer, Bennett.” I give him the address. “I’ll pay you back?—”
“Plus a ten percent delivery fee.”
“I could kill you.”
“But then who’d be your banker and delivery boy?” he points out.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Plus a ten percent delivery fee. Get moving.” I end the call.
“Where to, boss? Safe house?” Maks asks.
I shake my head. “The big house.”
“You shouldn’t have dressed up for me.” Fabien joins me in the visitation room, escorted by a prison guard.
Still wearing my tux from last night, I need a shower and a few hours of sleep, but this is more important. Waiting until the guard moves to his position by the door, I turn to my brother. “You wanted my attention. You’ve got it.”
“No clue what you’re talking about. But hey, can you get me a bag of chips?” He jerks his head to the vending machine.
“So you didn’t send me a message last night?” I press, watching him like a hawk.
“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Out of phone credit for the month. Can you add some cash to my account?”
“I could.” I smirk, but internally, my mind’s reeling. While I pride myself on reading people, I can’t tell if Fabien’s lying. Then again, if I were so damn good at reading people, the little pickpocket wouldn’t have absconded with 50k and my watch.
Not to mention my fucking pride.
He sneers at me. “You get off on this, don’t you, little brother?”
“Tell me, Fabien, what are your plans when you’re released next month?” I change the subject.
It’s his turn to smirk. “I expect to be welcomed back with open arms, like I never left.”
“Here’s the problem,” I say with mock sympathy.
“You’ll be a convicted felon on parole, and you won’t be able to associate with other felons.
All the family operations you previously oversaw now have a felon manager, as I’m a big believer in ending recidivism.
Part of my philanthropic mission.” And I’ve worked too damn hard to clean up the Calvani name for my brother to fuck it all up when he’s released.
Fabien leans forward and whisper-hisses, “I expect my seat at the table, you pretentious little shit.”
“Your seat’s ready and waiting. Calvani Seafood’s processing plant in Shreveport needs a night manager,” I whisper-hiss back.
It’s not that I particularly want Fabien in charge of our drug-running operation, but odds are, he’ll get killed by a Cajun with a shotgun while trolling the bayou. Happened to our last “night manager.”
He waves his hand like he’s in charge, and it fucking pisses me off. “Fire whoever needs to be fired. I’m coming back to New Orleans.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands, not with ten years missing from your CV,” I tell him dismissively.
He falls back in his chair. “Mr. Ivy League, always dropping the fancy terms. Oh, that’s right, though. You don’t have a degree. Too busy playing boss.”
“That’s enough,” I say in a bored tone, even though I want to hop over the table and pound Fabien’s head into it.
“If Mama were alive, she’d be disgusted with the way you’re acting,” he grits through his teeth. “Like keeping Al from me?—”
“This conversation is over.” I push back from the table and rise. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Always nice to catch up with you, big brother.”
“And I’ll be catching up with you, little brother, in,” he glances at the clock on the wall, “44,640 minutes.”
“I plan on making each of those minutes as boss count,” I promise him.
I’m escorted out, where Maks and a convoy of armored vehicles greet me.
Climbing into the SUV we switched out for the shot-up town car, I tell Maks, “Get the phone records, visitor’s logs, and commissary activity for Fabien over the past six months. I want you combing through it. If Fabien’s behind the attempted hit, he has to be working with someone on the outside.”
Maks eyes me in the rearview. “Boss, have you thought about suiciding him and being done with it?”
I release an annoyed sound from the back of my throat. “I’ve more than thought about it. The problem is, I swore to my mama I wouldn’t kill Fabien unless he gave me a reason. Bring me that reason.”