5. Nico
CHAPTER 5
NICO
The exclusive lounge above Palazzo my family owns envelops me in its dim embrace as I step inside. Plush leather couches lurk in shadowy corners, while the sleek bar gleams like a knife's edge in the low light. I know I need to concentrate on the important matters, but my mind keeps on drifting back to the auction a few days ago. Vlad Solovey's voice rings through the air as he outbid me for that damn Ferrari was a revelation. I hadn't expected competition, least of all from him—a man with no name I'd met in LA.
It was supposed to be a simple night of fun.
"Padrino," a voice drags me to the present as Costa calls me quietly. "They are here."
When my own right-hand man has to state the obvious for me—it's bad.
Worse than I thought.
But I snap back out of my daydreaming and will myself to focus on the two Armenians lounging in front of me.
Vartan's perpetual scowl greets me from one of the couches. His boss's son Arman is seated beside him with an unreadable expression.
I approach with measured steps, feeling Costa's watchful presence right behind.
"Gentlemen," I say smoothly, lowering myself onto the couch across from them. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."
My gaze locks with Vartan's, steady despite the churning in my gut. Old man is probably in his sixties, just like the head of the Armenian syndicate in Vegas. God, I'd give anything to be on a sun-soaked California beach right now instead of this den of ancient vipers. But duty chains me here.
"Nicola," Vartan grits out. "I would say it is nice to see you, but under the circumstances… I'm sure you understand."
Arman nods slightly. "We were... intrigued by your request."
"I'm sure you were," I reply, allowing a hint of a smile to touch my lips. "I have a proposition that I believe will benefit us all."
Vartan's eyes narrow. "Is that so? And what makes you think we're interested in your propositions, boy?"
The 'boy' stings, but I don't let it show. Instead, I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees. "Because, Vartan, I'm offering you something that could change the game for both our families."
The dim light casts shadows across Vartan's weathered face, deepening the lines of suspicion carved there. I can almost taste the tension in the air, thick as the cigar smoke curling lazily from an ashtray nearby.
"How come Tony doesn't want to send one of his sons and instead sends a youngster?"
"Let me reassure you my age doesn't matter."
Vartan lets out a frustrated chuckle.
"Go on," Arman urges, his voice smoother than Vartan's, but no less guarded.
I take a breath, aware of Costa's silent support. Should things go wrong, he will be there, ready to take on Vartan's guys hiding in the corners of the room. "We've recently secured a new connection in Brazil," I begin. "High-quality product. I'm prepared to offer you a stake in the operation."
Vartan scoffs, but I catch a flicker of interest in Arman's eyes. Good. David's son might be easier to sway than David's right-hand man.
"And why would do you think we would want to get involved?" Vartan growls. "We have our own businesses to attend to."
I lean back. "Because the potential profits make your current ventures look like pocket change. And because, gentlemen, in this world, it's adapt or die."
The words are suspended in the air, heavy with indication. I watch Vartan's jaw clench, knowing I've struck a nerve. The old guard versus the new.
"You speak boldly for someone so young," Vartan muses, obvious irritation coloring his tone.
I shrug, the silk of my shirt whispering with the movement. "Like I said age is just a number. Results are what matter."
Vartan's scowl deepens, if that's even possible. "And what results can you guarantee, boy?"
"We both know in our line of work there are no guarantees. But I can offer you a chance to be part of something bigger, something that will bring real money."
As I speak, my mind drifts briefly to Vlad again. I wonder what he'd make of this tableau, of me playing the role I was born for but never wanted. The thought is like ashes in my mouth, bitter and choking.
But I push it aside. There's no room for sentiment here, not when the stakes are this high.
I lean back, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of nonchalance despite the tension in my gut. " Signori , I understand your frustration. Roberto's actions were... regrettable, to say the least."
Vartan's eyes narrow again. "Regrettable? That little shit took our money and pissed it away. His casino pipe dreams are just that. Dreams. My question to you, boy, is when do we get our investment back?"
I hold up a placating hand. "I assure you, the Morelli family takes its debts seriously. However, the sum Roberto borrowed is... substantial. We can't simply produce it overnight. That is why I am offering a stake in the Brazilian deal."
"Why should we trust you'll make good on his promises?" Vartan asks.
A fair question. I consider my words carefully, acutely aware of old men's dogs waiting to spring into action.
"Because, unlike my cousin, I understand the value of partnerships," I finally say. "And my proposition is mutually beneficial."
Vartan scoffs. "We've heard that before."
I don't voice my suspicion that Roberto may have promised them more than just repayment–perhaps a share in his elusive casino. Instead, I press on.
"The Morelli offers an opportunity that could dwarf your current... inconvenience with Roberto. It won't be immediate cash, but the potential returns could make Roberto's debt look like pocket change."
Arman's eyebrows raise slightly. Good. I've piqued his interest.
"Go on," he says, dismissing Vartan's disapproving glare.
"That's not what I asked for," Vartan screeches. "I want our money back, not some vague promise of future profits."
"I hear you." Then I turn my attention to Arman, sensing the David's son is more receptive to the idea. "Mr. Avagyan, what's your opinion on this? We're talking about a long-term operation. It's a chance to not only settle the debt but forge a lasting partnership between our families."
Arman's eyes are filled with interest, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of the couch. "I'm considering it," he says, something a lot like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He is so easy to persuade. "In fact, I'd be interested in making this a permanent arrangement."
My heartbeat fastens, but I keep my expression neutral. "I'm authorized to commit to a five-year deal."
"Seven," Vartan interjects, his voice sharp.
Arman shoots him a look.
Vartan's face is a mask of skepticism. "And what about the risks? The drug market is volatile. If we get caught, the consequences would be... severe."
I nod, acknowledging his concerns. "We've developed a comprehensive risk mitigation strategy. Our transportation methods are discreet, utilizing a network of trusted contacts across multiple countries. We've got people in law enforcement, customs, and politicians on our payroll."
The tension in the room thickens. I can feel Costa's eyes boring into my back, silently urging me to close this deal so we could both get out of here.
"Something can always go wrong," Vartan grumbles.
"Then we have contingency plans," I assure him, my voice steady despite the churning in my gut.
The discussion intensifies, voices rising and falling like waves against a rocky shore. We debate percentages, timelines, and fail-safes. It's a delicate dance, each step potentially leading to ruin or riches.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we reach a compromise.
"Five years," I say, "with the option to renegotiate after that. You get ten percent."
Arman nods. "Agreed." I can almost see it written all over his face—easy money. He is getting way more than he loaned Roberto. All he has to do is sit back and watch the green roll in.
Vartan's expression remains stony, but he gives a curt nod of assent. No matter how much power he holds in David Avagyan's organization, Arman is both David's son and heir. His approval solidifies the arrangement.
Still, I rise to my feet, extending my hand to Vartan. Gotta respect the elders. His grip is like iron, crushing my fingers as we shake. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into mine. For a moment, I see the ruthless killer beneath the polished exterior. And I can understand why my father and he have been friends. If concept of friendship is even possible for people like them.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Morelli," Vartan says, his voice devoid of said pleasure.
I force a smile. "Likewise."
Turning to Arman, I offer my hand. His shake is firm but less aggressive, his smile more genuine. "Looking forward to our partnership."
"As am I," I reply, thinking that I can't wait for the old man who came with him to kick the bucket.
As they leave along with their entourage, the tension in the room dissipates. I relax back onto the leather couch.
Costa approaches, a glass of whiskey in hand. "Well done, Padrino ," he murmurs, passing me the drink.
I take a long swig, relishing the searing heat. "We're in bed with yet another devil now," I mutter. "Because of that stupido , Roberto."
"Better the devil we know," Costa replies.
I nod, my mind already racing ahead. We've bought time, saved Roberto's ass, and potentially opened up a nasty can of worms. Being indebted to the Armenians for five whole years is bad. But it's either that or Uncle Tony loses one of his sons.
As I stare into the amber depths of my whiskey, a face flashes in my mind. Vlad Solovey. I wonder if he'll show up tonight. The thought sends an anticipatory shiver down my spine.
"What now?" Costa asks.
I drain my glass and stand. "Now, I'm going to have another drink downstairs and you'll wait for me outside."