Chapter 2
ETTORE
“Mara Keene is the clear frontrunner,” Livia tells me over the phone. I’m in my office, sipping a glass of whiskey before I meet with the jackals. So much work, all the damn time. “Sylvie loved her. She had such a bright idea.”
I smile, wishing I had more time for her. I do my best. Don’t I? Focus, man.
“She waited near the door for each applicant to see how they’d interact with her.”
“That’s a big thing for a shy girl.”
“I wouldn’t say Sylvie is shy, exactly,” Livia chimes.
I clench my jaw. I want to correct Livia, tell her not to explain my own daughter to me. But the fact is, Livia spends more time with her than I do. There’s always something to do. Somewhere to be. Not to mention there are always wolves at the door, desperate to tear into me and take my crown.
“Mara is of a lower class than the other applicants.”
“I thought you were taking interviews from everyone,” I reply.
“That was the plan, but I suppose some of them felt intimidated.”
“By my wealth, or my name?”
“I can’t comment on that, sir.”
“Livia—how many times?”
“We’re talking in an official capacity.”
“It makes me feel like a tyrant.” A knock at my office door interrupts us. I raise my voice. “What?”
“Ettore,” Mark, my underboss, calls. “They’re early.”
“Well, they can wait.”
Showing up early is a power play. They think they can force me to drop everything just because they can’t keep a schedule. Presumptuous pricks.
“Livia,” I say. “Pick whoever you think is best. Whoever will do the best for Sylvie. She needs someone who sees her, Livia, understand?”
I almost expect Livia to say, Is that because you don’t see her as often as you should? With that sir tacked onto the end, most likely.
“I’ll pick Mara then. She said that herself. When she was Sylvie’s age, she wanted to be seen.”
I swallow a confusing lump. “She said that? Okay, good.”
“But be warned, she’s cute as a button. I don’t want her to distract you.”
“Excuse me?”
Livia’s voice falters. “I was only jesting, Ettore.”
“We’re hiring her for Sylvie. Who cares how cute she is? I’ve never understood that phrase. Cute as a button. What’s cute about a goddamn button?”
“Very well, sir. Consider the matter done. Anything else?”
I want to tell her I’m sorry, but she hangs up before I get the chance to answer her question. I massage the bridge of my eyebrows, checking the time. There’s half an hour until the meeting is supposed to begin.
These displays of power might look small, yet in this life, all things are insignificant, and mobsters are among the most sensitive people around.
I turn to my desk and slowly sift through my email, reviewing the resumes Livia sent over.
A twinge of guilt hits me as I realize I haven’t opened this email before
I find Mara Keene’s file, open it, then click the link that takes me to her professional page.
Livia wasn’t wrong.
There is something about her. Soft-looking auburn hair, wide, green-grayish eyes, wise beyond her years. A full mouth, fixed in a professional smile. But there’s something else about it. A twitch at the corners.
Her knowing look makes me eager to uncover the joke.
The image cuts off her shoulders, and I desperately want to know what the rest of her looks like.
Her eyes are captivating, no mistake there. There’s something haunted about them. But hopeful too.
We’ve got the same goal for my daughter, for her to be seen. That’s all that matters.
I close the laptop and stride across the room. Mara lingers in my mind until I open the door and nod to the assembled mafiosos. “Gentlemen.”
I turn, returning to my chair. My underboss, Mark, walks in first, adjusting his suit jacket. His corporate attire doesn’t quite suit his twice-broken nose and violent demeanor.
Five men follow. Ruggero Calvi, pushing seventy, the only other man wearing a crisp suit. He’s the boss of the Calvi Family, his eyes almost black, like he’s seen too much to ever let any light in. Bastian Calvi comes in next, wearing a leather jacket, fidgety and baby-faced. He’s Ruggero’s nephew.
Then there’s the leader of Ruggero’s biggest crew, Dante Orsini, hawk-nosed, with the soft speech and empty expression. He always rubs me the wrong way. Two of Dante’s men, thugs really, Piero and Ugo, flank his shoulders.
“Any more of you waiting out there for me?” I say, smirking at Ruggero.
Ruggero smiles thinly. “Dante here was scared about walking into the inferno.”
I almost laugh at his referencing of the book. Dante narrows his eyes, taking out a cigarette. “I’m not scared of no fire.”
“You can’t smoke in here,” Mark says from behind me. Dante laughs, but Mark cuts in. “Don’t light that cigarette, friend.”
When Dante takes his lighter out anyway, I feel Mark move behind me. I raise my hand. Just an inch or two. It’s enough for him to get the message.
Ruggero turns to Dante. He says nothing, just looks at him.
Dante huffs, tosses the unlit cigarette on the floor, then walks over to the window.
His goons are sitting on the far side of the room, staring like they’re impressive.
Being a boss is hard sometimes. In my younger years, I would’ve cracked their skulls.
“My apologies, Ettore,” Ruggero says. “Wild men often make the best earners.”
I nod. “I can appreciate that. So, why did you want to see me?”
“I’d like to formalize our alliance. Again. Reinforce it really.” Ruggero leans forward, moving slowly. He’s not taking care of his health, and it shows. His nephew leans forward as if ready to catch him. “I know you were devastated by Vera’s death.”
That’s not exactly the word I’d use, but I’m not going to get into all that now.
“But we had something there. A connection.”
My late wife was a cousin associated with the Calvi Family.
She wasn’t a big player, but there was enough of a connection there to make peace easier.
Until she died in a car crash that’s always seemed suspicious to me.
In our world, people don’t die for no reason.
There’s always someone somewhere sharpening their blade.
I nod for him to go on.
“I have a daughter who has expressed interest—”
“I’m afraid I’m not ready to have this conversation,” I interject.
Dante turns from the window. “Still grieving? Where’s your black suit? Where are your sunglasses?”
“You’ve been told once,” Bastian Calvi snaps.
Dante huffs. “This is the life. Me personally, if I were given the chance…” Even Dante isn’t stupid enough to openly express attraction to his boss’s daughter. Instead of finishing his statement he sulks, glaring out the window.
“That’s it, Ettore?” Ruggero says. “No discussion? Are you courting someone?”
This is none of his business. Except it is. The mob takes more than a pound of flesh. They take the whole thing.
“We’re working fine as it is,” I say.
Ruggero stares at me for a long moment. It’s hard to gauge what he’s thinking. Dante’s goons exchange a glance like they expect a scene out of a Western to break out. Behind me, I feel Mark aching for it. The release of violence.
“Very well.” Ruggero stands slowly. “Please, pass on my best wishes to your family. To that lovely daughter of yours. Does she know how important she is? How important it is, having your name?”
Dante laughs darkly.
Ruggero waves a hand at his nephew, and Bastian immediately flies across the room and backhands Dante across the mouth.
“You’re a big man, now?” Bastian bellows, smacking him again.
Ruggero walks slowly across the room, not even bothering to look at them.
“Get out of here before Ettore has your scalp. Laughing when the bosses are talking? Idiot.” Bastian nods in my direction as Dante follows after Ruggero.
“Ettore, he’s a fool. It won’t happen again. ”
“Just leave,” I grit out, my temper simmering. In my mind, this room is filled with blood.
Once they’re all gone, I pick up Dante’s cigarette and crush it in my hand.
“Some show, eh?” Mark says.
“Snakes,” I growl. “You hear that shit? Hinting that he’s going to marry my daughter off to some Calvi bastard. She turns eight in a few weeks. Animals.”
“You think that’s what Ruggero meant?”
“Don’t you?” I ask.
“Hard to tell with him. Got those ghost eyes. That mask for a face. I don’t know. That Dante’s a real piece of work, though. If you ever need him handled, let me do that personally.”
I drop the crushed cigarette in the trash and return to my desk. “This was easier when we were younger.”
“When all we had to worry about was what bones to break?” Mark whistles. “Can’t argue with that.”