6. Salvatore
SALVATORE
I massage my cock, watching the sun set over Central Park. Trees turn to shadows, and as the sun sinks closer to the horizon, the light turns golden.
Ophelia Bennett’s angelic face is the first thing I see when I shut my eyes, those wide, expressive features pushing me close to climax.
Her lips curled into the most precious ‘O’ shape earlier when I proposed our arrangement.
She said she needed some time to think, rushing out of my office flustered, her cheeks redder than the blood streaked across my desk.
She’ll be accepting my offer in no time. I know a dare devil when I see one.
“Vecio,” announces Robert, entering my property without knocking.
I turn around, cock in hand, so fucking close to coming.
Rob glances down pointedly at my cock. “Did your assistant show you her pussy again?”
“You have a very wild imagination.”
“Clearly not as wild as yours,” says Robert, gesturing to my crotch as he passes by, taking a look through the window. “How times change. One day you’re scrounging around at the very bottom, the next you’re standing at the very top of the world with your cock out.”
“Hard work gets you far,” I grunt, putting my dick away and zipping my pants.
“Killing gets you far,” corrects Robert, turning away from the window to face me.
“I assume Wilson has been taken care of?”
“Yes,” says Robert, helping himself to the decanter in the center of the table, pouring himself a generous glass of wine. “We’ll announce his tragic death to the rest of the company tomorrow first thing, holding a funeral.”
“Count me out.”
“It may work in your favor to attend, appearance wise. With Crows lingering in the city, we need to act preventatively, giving the public no reason to suspect you in any way.”
“I won’t be attending the man’s funeral when he has the nerve to bite the hand that has been consistently feeding him for seven years.”
“I understand,” says Robert, sitting at the table, his face illuminated in the candle chandelier hanging above.
An hour later, men enter the penthouse in a staggered fashion, helping themselves to wine at the table, treating my penthouse like an observatory as they wander around, watching the sunset.
I’ve called Billionaire's Row home for five years, living the same lucrative life I used to resent others having, back when I was young. Chandeliers are highly unnecessary, so are decanters, but having these items in my house serves as a reminder of how hard I have worked over the past few decades.
“This meeting is now in session,” I call, taking a seat at the head of the table as men gather around. “We have much to discuss, gentlemen, and very little time to do it.”
“Somewhere else you need to be?” Robert flashes me a wink.
I flash him a glare and return my attention to the table. “Some of you might be familiar with the Crows.”
“Rest in peace to Renato Vieri,” snorts one of my men. “He took his legacy to the grave with him.”
“There is no legacy in recruiting homeless boys,” chimes in another.
“Unfortunately, I disagree,” I say, taking a sip of wine, setting it down on the white tablecloth.
“A salesman at Moretti Global has been assassinated today after talking about our business, sticking his nose in things that are way above his paygrade.” I examine the red wine, admiring the thick, crimson consistency.
“This particular gentleman also mentioned the Crows.”
A few of my men rise, intrigued, arching their brows, keen to hear more.
I stroke my lip, deep in thought. Their eager reaction highlights the fact that organization was never fully put to bed.
Renato Vieri has indeed created a lasting legacy.
Men can forget, but broken boys cling onto the trauma forever, never fully letting go of the past.
“Well,” says one of them, urging me to continue. “What was said?”
“Bits and pieces,” I reply, taking another sip of wine. “The salesman mentioned something in passing about a self-storage unit in Queens, the unit containing Crow information.”
“How would the salesman know about this?”
“You can hazard a guess,” I say, glancing around the table. “You say the organization ended with the leader, but the past never fully disappears.”
“People are still clinging onto fragments,” continues Robert, taking a long sip of wine.
“Salvatore and I have hired an informant to look into the Queens storage unit. We bought the unit before anyone else could get their hands on it, but before the informant could open the thing up, he was attacked by somebody else on the scene.”
“He stumbled into my office this morning with bad attitude and a broken nose.”
“Did he see who attacked him?” asks one of the men.
“No, his face was fully covered.”
“Perhaps it was the salesman.”
“He was already dead by this point,” explains Robert.
I swill wine around in the glass, the wooden chair creaking as I sit back, assessing my men. “The attack has put things into perspective for us, gentlemen.”
“We have enemies.”
“We always have fucking enemies.”
“Enemies are usually harmless, but the Crows could be a threat.”
“The Crows were a bunch of worthless lost boys.”
I clench my jaw, focusing on business. “Yes, and those lost boys are now powerful men.”
“Way to shit on the don,” sidenotes one of the men at the far end of the table, elbowing his friend. “Matteo was a Crow.”
“As was Robert,” I add, signaling across the table.
The younger man’s face turns, flicking his gaze between each of us in concern.
“Somebody wants to reestablish the Crows, to make the organization powerful again,” I say.
“All due respect, Don, why does this concern us?”
“Moretti Global is the biggest investment firm in the entire East Coast,” explains Robert, sensing I’m slowly losing the will to live with these questions.
“If someone leaks Matteo’s previous involvement with the Crows, his rags to riches story will be exposed and people will learn how he truly built his success,” he explains.
“Secrets are easy to hide when there are no cracks. As soon as one forms, we’re already past the point of no return as more cracks form, causing a chain reaction, more leaks, more secrets revealed, until we’re left without a pot to piss in. ”
“We must act ahead of ourselves,” I say. “And we’ll start by dismantling the person who wants to make the Crows powerful again.”
“You think this person will take you down in the process?”
“I know how the Crows operate, how they use boys as weapons, capitalizing on their hardship and manipulating it into resentment.”
“Shit, Salvatore,” exclaims one of my men.
“You killed someone when you were working for the Crows,” states one of the men.
“I have killed many while working for the organization, too many to count. Among them was someone in power, a biased politician in immigrant affairs.”
“Richard Campbell? He reportedly died of a heart attack twenty-five years ago, according to the coroner who assessed his dead body.”
“Like I said, gents, the Crows' influence in this city should not be underestimated.”
“And these new recruits are targeting the Morettis?”
“They will be, if not already,” I say, pinning Robert a look in regard to his earlier comment. “Two different forms of power cannot exist in the same city.”
“They can if they come to a truce.”
“Impossible,” I respond. “We’re not laying our weapons down for the Crows.”
“I think you misunderstood me,” says the man. “Perhaps a Crow-Moretti collaboration could be on the cards.”
“For a while, until the Crows use our loyalty, stealing our cards for their own benefit, becoming even more powerful.” I finish the wine and rise from behind the table.
“These young boys hold a lot of hatred toward people like me. We need to strike before this mystery bastard finds himself an army. We’ll find out who this man is and eliminate him immediately.
In the meantime, if you hear any employees discussing anything mafia related, shut it down immediately and report them to me. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Yes, sir,” says some of the men, finishing off their wine and rising from the table.
“Our regular business will still continue,” I add, wrapping up the meeting.
I crack open the front door, seeing my gentlemen out. Shutting the door behind them, I see Robert pinning me a glare across the room, sipping the last of his wine.
“Ophelia has seen your tattoo,” he points out.
“Many women have seen my tattoo.”
Robert is still unconvinced, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he places the wine glass down on the table, grabbing his suit jacket from the couch. “Ophelia is not like most women, and you know it, which is why you chose to cross a boundary and sleep with your executive assistant."
“I assure you, Rob, Miss Bennett is the same as the rest of her kind.”
“Right,” says Robert, seeing himself to the door. “Which is why you hired her for the position.”