Chapter 6 #2
“Vincenzo.” He says the name like it’s a joke. “Yeah, the old man’s definitely the guy to lecture me about mafia ethics.”
I don’t take the bait. Just wait.
Lorenzo drains the rest of his whiskey, sets the glass down more gently on my desk, and stands. Adjusts his jacket. Fidgets with his cigar. Looks everywhere but at me.
“Will he even be there tomorrow?”
I frown. “Tomorrow?”
“The neutral gala? Where all the city’s finest hypocrites pretend to give a shit about sick kids?” He stares at me. “Don’t fucking tell me you forgot.”
Tomorrow.
The gala is tomorrow.
I knew that. I’ve known for weeks. It’s been on the calendar, circled in red, with notes about attendees and strategic objectives and all the careful planning I do for every major event.
And yet, somewhere in the past few days, it slipped completely from my mind.
“Of course I didn’t forget.”
I sound like myself. In control. Unshakable.
I’m full of shit.
“You forgot.” Lorenzo’s grin returns. “Holy shit. Raffaele D’Amico forgot a meeting.”
“I didn’t—”
“The man who remembers every handshake, every insult, every number on every ledger going back a decade—that guy forgot the biggest sit-down of the quarter.” He shakes his head slowly. “Must be one hell of a distraction.”
“Hey, sweetheart.” He snatches up his empty glass and raises it toward Bea without looking away from me. “Top me off, will you?”
I hear her move from her desk. There’s the clink of the bottle. She enters my peripheral vision, pouring whiskey into Lorenzo’s glass while he watches me with that insufferable grin.
“You know what’s funny?” Lorenzo takes the refilled glass but addresses Bea now, not me. “Five years I’ve been running muscle for this guy. Five years. You wanna know what I’ve seen in that time?”
Bea doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t leave either.
“I’ve seen Nico throw tantrums over nothing.
Seen Victor Jr. smile while planning to gut someone.
Seen the old man check out completely after his wife died.
” He takes a long sip, eyes still on her.
“But him?” He jerks his chin toward me. “The constant. No drama. No distractions. No slip-ups. That’s why I always bet on him over Nico. ”
His eyes shift back to me.
“Guess even constants can change. Right, boss?”
“Get out, Lorenzo.”
“Going, going.” He pauses at the threshold, looks back. “But boss? Whatever’s got you distracted”—his eyes drift meaningfully toward the outer office—“might want to handle that before tomorrow. Lot of eyes at these things. Lot of people looking for cracks.”
The door closes behind him.
Silence fills the office.
I stare at the calendar on my desk. Tomorrow. The gala is tomorrow, and I forgot.
That’s never happened before. Not once in fifteen years of managing the Conti organization’s legitimate face. I don’t forget meetings. I don’t lose track of dates. My mind is a machine—organized, precise, relentless.
What the hell?
“Raffaele?”
Bea’s standing in the doorway. There’s no sign that she heard any of what Lorenzo implied, though I know she did.
“The Hartwell briefs still need reviewing before the filing deadline. And the Martinez documents require your signature before—”
“I know.”
“Should I reschedule your evening appointments, or—”
“No.” The word comes out too quickly. I catch myself, moderate my tone. “We’ll finish tonight. The work takes priority.”
She nods. Returns to her desk.
The work takes priority.
That’s what I tell myself. But the gala is tomorrow. Vincenzo expects me there. If I don’t show, Nico will be representing the family. Making decisions. Speaking for the Contis.
Nico. Representing the family.
A week ago, that thought would have sent me out the door immediately, damage control protocols spinning through my head. Plans to contain whatever mess he’d inevitably make.
Now I’m choosing to stay late. With her.
Lorenzo’s words echo: Whatever’s got you distracted.
I know the answer. I’ve known it for days, maybe longer. I’ve just been refusing to look at it directly, as if avoiding acknowledgment might make it less true.
It doesn’t.
I turn back to the Hartwell briefs. Force myself to focus on the words, the clauses, the carefully constructed legal architecture that keeps this organization running.
The work takes priority. It always has.
But for the first time in fifteen years, I’m not sure that’s true anymore.
The evening drags.
Bea works at her desk while I go through documents, the space between us filled with the quiet rhythm of keys, paper, and pen. Controlled. Routine.
On the surface, nothing’s different.
That’s the problem.
I catch myself watching her when she isn’t paying attention. I notice small things. The way her focus sharpens when she’s working. The absent motion of pushing her hair back. The steady pace of her hands across the keyboard.
Unnecessary details. Noted anyway.
At ten, she stands, stretches, and starts gathering her things.
I keep my attention on the file in front of me. I haven’t read a word of it in twenty minutes.
“The Hartwell files are ready for signature,” she says. “I’ll leave them on your desk.”
“Fine.”
She pauses near the door.
I don’t look up.
“Anything else, Raffaele?”
There is.
I don’t say it.
“No.”
A beat.
Then she leaves.
Her footsteps fade down the hallway. The elevator chimes. Doors slide shut.
Quiet again.
I sit back, the paperwork in front of me untouched, my focus nowhere near it.
Tomorrow is the gala. Morenos, Contis, half the city pretending to care about charity while they measure each other for weaknesses.
I should be thinking about that.
Instead, the angle of her voice when she pushes back fills my mind. The way she looks at me like she’s already decided something I haven’t caught up to yet.
I close the file.
This is becoming a problem.
One I don’t fully understand.
And don’t entirely intend to solve.