18. Tito
18
TITO
T he lawyer sits across the coffee table from me at my father’s house, giving me a look that tells me he doesn’t believe what I’m saying. I don't give two fucks what he thinks. I'm not signing a plea deal for any of this bullshit. I know I'm as guilty as the court says I am, but I'm not going down as the only Ramiro in history who got caught. How those Russian bastards got this information is beyond me. They have to have someone on the inside helping them.
"Look, it's five years in minimum security, Tito. You'll basically be living at a fucking country club and?—"
"And I'm not a fucking fool, Aaron." He hates how I cut him off, but he works for me, not the other way around. I stand and loosen my tie, pacing the Persian rug Dad insists on keeping. Never in my life have I been so insulted. I'll hire a new lawyer, find one who will do what I say when I say it. This man isn't the bulldog I need. He's a puppy on a leash. "I'm not going to prison."
I hear Dad's hard sigh, a wheezing sound of displeasure with the situation. He shouldn't even be thinking about this. He's so sick he can't even get up for more than a few minutes without being winded and lying back down. This is my mess, but he's here prying into it for some reason, and I know that reason is Carlos. I definitely smell a rat.
"Tito, sit down," Dad rasps, and I look down at him. I don't want to sit down. I want to punch this shitty lawyer in his big, crooked nose and show him just how seriously I’m taking this thing of not pleading out. But I comply with a dying man's request, sitting in the hard armchair I just vacated in rage. Dad turns to Aaron and says, "He's not taking a deal…"
The tone of Dad's voice is resolute. He, like me, understands the leader of an organization the size of ours can't go to prison. With Dad's health declining, he won't make it another five months, let alone five years. Our family can't handle a change of regime under these circumstances.
"Then what?" Aaron asks, and Dad gives him a side-eye. The man has been with us for long enough to know Dad doesn't do things by the books. He's not the sort of man to mess with either, even in his weakened state. Those who are loyal to him will destroy any trace of disloyalty everywhere they go.
"I'll handle it," Dad tells the lawyer, and with a flick of the wrist, dismisses him. Aaron scowls and shakes his head, then gets up and carries his briefcase out the door. There is so much to Dad's statement, I don't know where to unpack it, but I know he won't want me to have anything to do with any of it. The goal will be clearing my name and keeping me from prison, and anything I learn about his plan to do that will make me as guilty as him.
With Aaron gone, it's just the two of us and Dad isn't afraid to tell me what he thinks. I don’t even get to take a breath before he starts in.
"You know Carlos would never have allowed this to happen. You're careless. You need redundancies. You put yourself too close to the action, and when that happens, you put yourself at risk of being connected to it. You need more layers of security between yourself and the sins you're committing. Never break the fucking law when you're breaking the law, Tito!" His gravelly voice paired with his rasping is enough to make a coughing fit start. He coughs so hard he has to sit up, and I am there to help him.
I take his hand and hoist him to an upright position on the old, tired sofa that matches his appearance. His disheveled hair sticks up at odd angles. The faded black and red bathrobe he wears over his pajamas is a bit tattered. Mom got it for him, and he can't seem to part with it. It's funny how even the hardest of men have a sentimental side to them. I'm going to miss these little things when he's gone and I’m the patriarch of the family.
Offering him his handkerchief from the table, I help to steady him so he doesn’t fall when the coughing gets so severe he's gasping for air. He'll still smoke a cigar as soon as he's done with this fit. I never could believe that.
After he calms, I help him lie down on his pillow and put his blankets back over him. He is worn out, exhausted after expending most of his energy to clear his lungs of the fluid that collects in them. I don't know what's more painful—thinking I'll go to prison for the next five years and not be able to say goodbye to my father properly or staying here and watching him fade slowly in suffering.
"You should just rest, Dad. Let Carlos see to it." I resume my spot in the armchair, and he reaches for his water, carefully sipping from the glass before putting it back on the table.
"I'll handle it…." He's still angry, and I won't change that. My only failure was trusting my men to do things in a clean way, and how my enemies learned which of my thirty-plus businesses were actively involved in money laundering, I'll never know. I still think the prosecution's case is weak, but if Dad wants to handle it, I'll let him.
"Alright," I concede, and I feel a vibration in my pocket. I pull my phone out to see Sal's number on my screen. It seems when it rains, it pours. My men know I'm meeting with my father. They know better than to interrupt me, but if they are, then it can't be good. "Yeah," I say when I swipe right to answer.
"Tito, it's not good, buddy." Sal's tone is dry, and he sounds angry or frustrated.
"What is it?" I ask, not even wanting to know. Sometimes, I think the Peralta organization is cursed, that they've put a hex over my life and my businesses. Since getting involved with Don Hector, nothing but challenges have come my way, except for Aria. She's the one good thing to come from all of this.
"The Russians are causing shit. I guess there was a brawl on the corner in front of the deli. They're claiming we're on their territory. We know we aren't. Blah, blah…" Sal rattles off a few more infractions, and while none of them seem outrageous, they are a clear attack on our territory, reputation, and authority and a very weak power grab by the Bratva.
For a moment, I sit and think about the things that have happened. My drug deal was busted up. Jasper Peralta paid for that one. My businesses are coming under scrutiny by the FED and now the Russians are moving in? There is no way in hell this is all coincidental. They are connected, and I just can't see the thread yet, but something tells me I'm not going to like where it leads when I find it and follow it.
"Alright, let's start keeping track of everything, double duty." I glance at Dad and remember his words of criticism which I decide are actually wisdom. "At least five layers deep, Sal. This doesn't blow back on me or you. Let's build that in so if shit hits the fan, we are upwind."
"Yeah, no problem, Boss." Sal hangs up, and I know I'll have to deal with this later on. If the Russians are stirring the pot now, someone put them up to it. There's a chance that they see our alliance with the Peraltas as a threat, but it's just as likely that I have a rat within my own family who wants to take me out before the throne is fully mine.
"What is it?" Dad asks, but I won't tell him.
"I think we have a rat and I'm going to find out who it is." I stand and button my coat. “Rest now, because you're going to need your energy when I return. You have more contracts to sign." I start for the door, but Dad clears his throat.
"If you see Carlos, send him to me. We need to talk."
My pace slows and I look over my shoulder. Dad can't really think Carlos would have done things better than me, can he? He won't just sign things over to my brother instead. That's not what we've discussed.
"Of course," I tell him, and as I open the door and step into the hallway, I begin to see how Carlos could be behind all of this. If his goal is to make me look foolish or get me out of the way, it's working. All he needs to do is convince Dad that I'm unfit, then he gets what he wants. It's what he's always wanted—the throne.
I march up the hallway and out the front door into the night, only to run into Carlos who is just arriving. He has a scowl on his face, forehead furrowed so deep his eyes almost look like coal. He's guilty. I can see it scribbled on every inch of his frame. I stand in his way and don't even ask a single question. My fists talk for me.
I rear back with my right hand and swing forward with a solid blow, striking him right in the face. Carlos stumbles backward and falls into a tree behind him, then slides until he's on his ass on the pavement holding his chin. "What the fuck was that for?" he grunts, and I have to stop myself from putting a foot in his gut.
"I know you're up to something, you sick fuck, and when I find out what it is, I'll kill you. Anyone who is involved with you will die too." My hand throbs, but I don't let him have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve injured myself while punching him.
"Fuck you," he snaps, and he spits out a glob of blood at my feet. "Go get fucked."
"Dad wants to see you," I tell him, but only out of respect for my father. His little game won't work. I'll see to it. And then I'll make sure he is held accountable for everything he's doing. I walk off into the night with the intention to clear my head before I go home. My wife is still mourning. She needs me to be level-headed and comforting, not this angry, raging monster. Things may be out of control, but the monster in me is good at fixing things like this.
I just need time.