Chapter 3 - Augusto
Augusto
I watch the door for a few moments after she leaves, feeling like I’ve been knocked off balance, my thoughts lagging a step behind where they should be.
I just gave my brand new shirt to a woman I’ve never met before.
She was in distress, sure, but that wasn’t what propelled me to strip half naked in the middle of a coffee shop and give away my seven hundred dollar shirt.
Part of me wanted to listen to her yell at me all day. Her fire was like a chemical weapon, drawing me in only to obliterate my brain. But another part of me wanted to watch her stumble over her words when she realized I’d stripped off right in front of her.
When her cheeks colored, my dick woke up. Her eyes were pale blue and wide, shimmering like dewdrops, her hair bouncing with the same exasperated energy that fueled her mouth.
God, everything about her was hot.
Her body, her pout, her scrunched up nose, that mouth…
Discreetly adjusting myself, I slip the paper she shoved at my chest into my pocket without glancing at it, and turn back to the barista.
He’s wedging my fresh coffees into a tray with the focus of a man trying to diffuse a bomb, while his colleagues are mopping up the mess we created with our collision.
I slide him a ten dollar note for his trouble, then carry them out to the street.
Another, slightly less entertaining, inconvenience awaits me at the front of my vehicle.
“Yo,” I grunt.
The traffic cop looks up and his face falls. He quickly shoves his device out of sight.
Despite being one of the longer standing members of the Di Santo mob, I have one of the lesser-known faces, but traffic and law enforcement agencies know exactly who I am.
“Good day, Mr. Zanotti.”
I balance the coffees on the roof of my car to open the driver’s door. “Good day to you too.”
He scurries on to the next illegally parked vehicle as I climb in and start the engine. Just as I pull onto the street my cell phone rings. Cristiano.
“Hey. You on your way over?”
“Yes, boss.”
A groan travels down the line. He hates me calling him ‘boss,’ not least because I’m his uncle, for all intents and purposes, and nearly twice his age.
I was his father’s underboss first, then after Gianni died and Cristiano took the top job, I agreed to resume my role.
It’s a pleasure to serve him. Cristiano has grown up to be the most levelled-headed mob man I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. As such, he doesn’t dignify my jibe with a worded response.
“Good. Everything okay in Queens?”
I drive over the bridge toward the Parkway. “It’s all good. Everything we lost is back in our pockets.”
I’m referring to the recent Russian infiltration of our territories, but we never talk specifics over the phone. You never know who’s likely to be listening in.
It could well be our allies in Boston, because those kids can hack a damn brick, but it could also be the Feds. And those cretins are two-faced. In our pockets one minute, writing up reports on us the next.
“We’ve got a construction team on the deli too.”
I can almost hear him nodding. “The boys will appreciate that, I’m sure.”
Cristiano releases a tense sigh. “I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. They went too quickly and quietly.”
“Yeah,” I drawl. “I hear you. It’s almost as though they have bigger priorities, and what can be bigger than New York?”
“Exactly. They have something up their sleeve and whether it involves us or not, I need to know what it is, otherwise I can’t protect our interests.”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, we can talk when you get here. Did you get coffee?”
“I did.”
“From Captain’s?”
“Indeed.”
“Thank God,” he breathes out. “It’s all she can talk about.”
“No problem.” I hesitate. “Can I ask you a favour?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have a spare shirt I can borrow?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Long story.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing it.”
I grin and hang up. The coffee will likely be cold by the time I get to Cristiano’s, but his heavily pregnant wife won’t care. She’d consume this stuff through an IV drip if she could.
I glance across at the blouse I’d dropped onto the passenger seat. There’s plenty of time to take it to a dry cleaner on the way, but for some reason, I’m stalling.
My morning went pretty much the same way most of my mornings go. I woke at six, checked my messages, hit my basement gym, showered and headed straight out to the same coffee shop I visit every morning.
Only, this day was different.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the slip of paper. Erin—I study the hastily scribbled name—Applebaum happened. And gave me something to smile about.
Sure, I was a little preoccupied with my phone while carrying a tray of coffees on my way out of the shop, but when I looked up a split second before we collided, she was staring intently into a compact mirror with a finger half-deep in her eye socket.
It was such an obvious accident waiting to happen.
The biggest challenge wasn’t defending myself; it was trying to keep a straight face while a small-ish woman with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen and sharpest tongue I’ve ever been on the receiving end of, yelled at me in front of an entire coffee shop.
I was captivated in a single instant.
Her husky voice was deeper than I’d have expected, her perfect, pretty nose wrinkling as she gave me the third degree. And her tits beneath that wet blouse gave good bounce as she waved her hands about like a music conductor on speed.
She was so absorbed in her torrent of fury, she wasn’t aware of me shirking my jacket and removing my button-up to aid in covering her modesty.
The way her mouth contorted into a perfect ‘o’ when she realized what I’d done was priceless.
I laugh to myself. Something I haven’t done in a while. Then I frown slightly at the memory of her getting so riled up over one small blouse.
The light up ahead switches to red and I roll to a stop. Lifting the shirt, I peer at the label. It’s a high street brand but the logo is several iterations old.
This thing is vintage.
Maybe it means something to her. Then again, if it has sentimental value, why has she trusted a total stranger to get it cleaned?
What was it she’d said? She was on her way to see a lawyer? Something about a divorce? An angry daughter? Living with her mother? A gig something?
I lift the cotton to my nose and breathe it in. Aside from the overwhelming smell of latte, there’s a light scent of vanilla and coconut. I breathe in again. I really like it.
The scent brings back the memory of her blazing eyes. I haven’t seen that much anger and passion in a woman in a long time, and I’m still surprised that even in her moment of distress, I got hard.
It’s refreshing to have a conversation, however aggressive, with a woman who a) isn’t in her twenties and b) shagging one of my co-workers. I love the women my brothers have chosen, but they’re half my age and I’m done with all that.
It wasn’t too long ago I was entertaining women in the twenty to thirty age bracket—and apparently the salt, pepper and abs combination is quite the thing—but lately, they don’t sate me like they used to.
At fifty-two I’m done with the one-night stands, driving to and from the clubs, teaching tricks in bed. I’m not tired as such, I’m just… my standards are different these days.
The light turns green and I drop the shirt onto the seat. And I thought I had a lot going on.
Most people assume hardened criminals such as myself are compassionless. Especially, I suppose, the ones who fight anyone that comes along just for the kicks of patching them up afterwards.
There’s no care involved in what I do in that disused ward—it’s entirely clinical. But, contrary to popular opinion, I have a heart. I have feelings and empathy. I personally think that is what has made me a fucking good underboss the last forty years.
So, when I hear a stream of pressure flow from the mouth of someone who sounds, frankly, at the end of her tether, I can’t dismiss it as sheer amusement.
I turn off the Parkway toward the Di Santo residence and dial a number on my cell. By the time I’ve cut the call, I’m pulling through the open gates to the house, putting the entire morning reluctantly to the back of my mind.
Trilby greets me at the door, eager for her coffee. It’s decaf, of course, but she still clings to the stuff like it’s laced with opium.
I bend to peck her on the cheek. “You look radiant, sweetheart.”
She strokes a palm down my cheek. “Augie, darling, I look like shit, but you say all the right things. Come on in. Cristiano’s in his office.”
I make my way down the hall and see Cristiano’s door slightly ajar. His eyes lift as I push it open.
“Hey,” he hands me a clean shirt. “Thanks for coming over.”
I remove my jacket and pull on the shirt—we’re the same size, so thankfully, it fits. “No problem. Is Benny here?”
“On his way. I’ve told him we need to talk about the warehouses but he has something else he needs to tell us—in person.”
“Sounds ominous.”
Benito is our consigliere and though his favorite vocation is getting to the frontline and squeezing the life of people, his real job is understanding the markets, the competition, potential allies, opportunities for expansion, that kind of thing.
When he says he has information he needs to deliver in person, it’s usually something serious.
“So, there’s time to explain why you left the house half-dressed.”
I’d hoped to dodge that line of questioning. I sit in a chair opposite his and shrug. “I didn’t.”
“So, what happened?”
“A tray of coffees, an unfortunate collision and an angry female.”
“Angry female?” He grins. “Isn’t that your favorite kind?”
Yeah. It is. But for some reason I don’t want to discuss her in the office of New York’s mob boss. Not yet. I chuckle instead and leave it at that.
We talk through some of the warehouse logistics until Benny arrives, then he closes the office door and leans his back against the window, feet crossed, hands deep in his pockets.
There’s a knowing look in his eye. So I can tell before he’s even opened his mouth, the information he has is juicy.
“So?” Cristiano lifts a brow.
“I know why the Russians have gone quiet.”
I lean forward resting my elbows on my knees. “Go on.”
“Our suspicions are correct. They’re working on something big. Bigger than New York. I’m still waiting on some details, but it’s international.”
My eyes narrow. “An arms deal?”
“I don’t have that insight yet, but it’s likely. Or drugs.”
“Or humans,” Cristiano says tightly, sitting back in his leather chair.
My knuckles throb a little. “When will you know more?”
“I have someone on the inside but they’re not inner circle. They need to bide their time and butter up the right people without seeming suspicious. He thinks he’ll have something for me in the next few days.”
Cristiano stretches his arms overhead, interlinking his fingers behind his head.
“Okay. As soon as we know what it is, and how it impacts us, we’ll figure out a way to get closer. I knew they were up to something.”
“Yeah.” I flick my gaze back to Benny. “It’s not like Morozov to simply walk away.”
I sit back, letting the weight of that name settle in my chest. Morozov doesn’t retreat unless it’s strategic. Silence from a man like him doesn’t signal peace. It signals that something else has gotten his attention—for now.
We catch up on some other business, then we part ways, each of us tacitly agreeing to keep our eyes open and our mouths shut until Benny’s guy comes back with something concrete, and I head back to my car.
The first thing my gaze is drawn to is the crumpled, coffee-stained blouse.
I don’t start the engine right away. I just sit, thinking about Russians with shady ambitions and women with oceans in their eyes, and how neither ever enters your life without changing the landscape in some way.
I don’t know which one will demand more of me in the days to come.
But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.