9. Cassio
Numbers stared back at me causing my head to spin, I’d been looking at them for the past two hours and still nothing seemed to get into my brain. It was early Saturday, the club was closed for now, but the crew was already working hard to get it ready for opening hours. I skimmed through some of the files, in case something else caught my attention, but honestly, nothing would. Numbers had never been my strength, but they were one of the many evils of this job.
Pulling my chair back with a loud sigh, I stood and stretched my back like an old man and cracked my neck, working at the small knots that had formed over the last few hours. I checked my phone, it was still ten o’clock, and the day already showed signs of being a monotonous one.
Mobsters lived a pretty calm life, all things considered. Most of the time, my job consisted of looking at our numbers, brokering deals with fellow mobsters, and attending boring meetings to discuss more deals with fellow mobsters. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d pulled out my gun and used it. The poor thing was gathering dust these days.
Aside from the war with the Russians, everything was flowing as it should. Which I couldn’t complain about, but it gave me ulcers. I knew they were planning something and sitting here looking at numbers wasn’t going to help me.
I had Luciano and some of his men look into the spy situation, but until now, he hadn’t come up with a single lead. The Russians were still attacking and stealing our cargo, and there was nothing I could do but shoot them on the spot, like the rats they were. I ran my thumb under my lip as annoyance coursed through my veins.
Was it that hard to find a spy? Volpe, as the fucker liked to be called. The situation was under control until now, but eventually, I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret anymore. I would have to tell my underbosses and then all hell would break loose. A spy was the worst kind of traitor, one the Outfit would gladly dismember and feed to the vultures.
A knock on my door pulled me from my thoughts and I turned from where I was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window—watching the club from above.
“Come in,” I shouted, my head starting to pound with the beginnings of a headache.
Donato Manci walked into my office wearing one of his old Brioni suits. He was the stereotypical mobster, with a generous Italian nose, balding head and healthy build. The man was so fat, I wondered how he still managed to walk.
“Cassio, come stai?” I had been good until he arrived.
“Bene,” I grunted out. “What do you need?”
It was rare that he visited me here, we usually talked via phone or video calls. He wasn’t ailing or anything, he was just a lazy fucker. I didn’t mind, the more he stayed away from my business, the better things flowed.
Donato and I butted heads almost always and it was tiring. He knew I hated him, and I had a feeling he hated me, too, but he was loyal to the Outfit—which meant he had to be loyal to me.
He pulled one of the chairs before my desk and sat his heavy self on it, the poor thing groaned. “I don’t have all day, Donato.” I made myself clear I wasn’t interested in talking.
I had work to do, work I hadn’t been able to do because I couldn’t help thinking about his daughter.
“I’ve heard the Russians attacked another one of our cargos,” he said.
“Yes.” There was no point in lying.
“They are growing bolder.” Donato shook his head. “When is our next shipment coming? We should?—”
“Donato,” I stopped him. “I’m sure you haven’t come here to discuss that, so let’s cut to the chase.”
Although he was my consigliere and these were the things we should be talking about, I knew he hadn’t come here for this. We had had a meeting three days ago. He knew when our next shipment was, and when the next one after that was coming. He wanted something and he was testing the waters first.
“Have you heard my daughter is back in town?” The change in subject took me by surprise, but I had time to hide it.
“I might have.” The same way I might have been dreaming about what it would be like to have her around my cock, screaming my name… “Why?”
He didn’t show any kind of emotion, but his eyes were shimmering with subdued rage. “She refuses to come home.”
“Some widows live on their own,” I reminded him. “It’s not law that they return home.” And I wouldn’t blame her for not doing so.
He gritted his teeth, and he was beginning to vibrate. “And what a shame that is,” he spat. “Francesca is my daughter, therefore mine to deal with.”
“So why are you here?” I ran my thumb under my lower lip, wondering what his head would look like with a bullet in it.
Donato looked at the door and then back at me. He seemed to ponder whatever he had to say, and I realized he was scared to do so. “You know I treat you like son, that I trust you above all,” Donato said looking deep into my eyes.
“I know,” I said despite knowing it was all a scene.
Donato took a deep breath and finally confessed. “Francesca is sick, she has been for a while.” The words slipped from his mouth and despite being momentarily shocked, I could hear the malice in his voice. Something wasn’t right.
“Sick?” I asked unbelieving.
“That’s why Paolo and I had a falling out. He never cared for my daughter as he should have.”
I almost fell back laughing, but instead, managed to keep quiet. He was right about one thing, Paolo never cared for her as he should have, but neither had Donato, and I couldn’t understand why all of a sudden, his fatherly instincts were kicking in.
“She needs to come home, Cassio, so we can treat her.” He sounded almost worried, which almost struck a chord in my heart, but then I knew he was playing at something here.
“Did you know Paolo had her taking pills, all kinds of them?” Donato said. “He had a friend who prescribed her these drugs. I tried to stop it, but Paolo wouldn’t let me talk to my daughter.”
Donato went on and on, rambling about Francesca’s life in Indianapolis, and it baffled me how much I hadn’t known. Then again, why would I? I had promised myself to forget her, and although that hadn’t happened, I did my best to ignore her existence. Regret pooled in my stomach, making me nauseous. If what Donato was saying was true, then I had to do something.
“Did you know her husband was embezzling money from us?” Once more I was hooked. Why hadn’t I heard of that before? “The money she’s living on is my money.”
I didn’t fail to notice that he said mine instead of ours. In the Outfit, when a man died without leaving male heirs behind, the money always returned to our coffers. It was the way, always had been. That was why most widows returned to their parents’ houses to be married again.
It made sense now why Donato wanted his daughter to go home. It had nothing to do with her being sick. Donato couldn’t fool me, I knew he was going to show his true colors eventually, and he did. He wanted her money. Donato wasn’t a poor man, but then again, he didn’t have to be in order to be greedy. Too much power bred ambition—the kind that usually led a man to an early grave.
“We should question her, send Luciano,” he ordered me again.
I clenched my jaw trying to rein in the anger. “And do what, Donato?” I threw at him. Did he really want our enforcer to beat his daughter up because of an assumption?
Albeit it was a very serious one, I didn’t beat women, not even those who annoyed the fuck out of me. I had never been that man. I wasn’t like my consigliere or Francesca’s late husband.
“We are not the Bratva. We don’t go after women.” I made myself crystal clear. Each word punctuated with determination.
If Donato touched a single finger on Francesca, he would lose that finger.
“So, you won’t send anyone after her?” His nostrils flared.
“I’ll deal with it.”
What are you doing, Cassio?
A cold shiver raced down my back, what was I supposed to do with her? The money wasn’t hers to begin with, but if I took it from her, then Francesca would be forced to go back to her father’s, and that… I wasn’t sure I could put her through that.
“I’ll deal with it,” I said again, convincing myself there was an explanation for all of this. The money had to have come from somewhere.
“Paolo was killed,” Donato said after a beat of silence.
I managed last minute to hide my surprise. “And how would you know that?”
“Because the fucker was in league with the Bratva,” he said calmly like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Where do you think all his money came from?”
Drugs.
Donato must have read my mind because he said. “Where do you think he got all those drugs from? He dealt with both us and the Russians.”
“Those are serious accusations, Donato.” I pointed. “A dead man cannot defend himself.”
He shrugged like it meant nothing. “The money must have come from somewhere.”
I stared Donato down until he looked away, and still I looked. What was his play here? Why accuse a dead man of treason? Why did he want his daughter so much?
Money.
I knew that, but why did Donato need the money if he was already the second richest family in the Outfit—behind mine?
“There is one more thing,”
I groaned inwardly. “Yes.”
“I intend for Francesca to be married as soon as her mourning period is over. She should not be on her own.”
My guts twisted so painfully that I was forced to shift in my chair. “Marry her?” The words sounded pathetically weak.
He nodded. “I already have someone in mind, the deal is still on hold, but she will be married by the end of the year.”
“That is before her mourning period is over.” I pointed, fists clenched and jaws tight.
“A few months here and there won’t make a difference.” Donato shrugged.
This was the one thing I couldn’t stop him from doing. As Capo, I had power over many things, but not this. I couldn’t intervene in family business, not even if I desired to.
“If she’s sick as you pointed out, then maybe you should wait.” I sounded desperate and it made me angry at myself.
“Francesca needs a man in her life, someone to lead her and tell her what to do. Alone, she will only self-destruct.”
He wasn’t wrong there. Francesca had always been a people’s person. Always flourished when she was around others, but her marriage to Paolo had broken her. What would happen if she married again, to a man just as vile as the first?
“Are you seeking my blessing?” I tried to keep my voice calm. If he was, he wouldn’t find it here.
Donato pondered it for a while, then shook his head. “I only thought it would be the right thing to do, warn my Capo,” he explained.
“Who is she to be married to?” I asked out of curiosity.
Donato smiled. “I’d rather not ruin the surprise.”
I could order him to say the name of the man who was going to marry Francesca before the year was over, but I felt awfully sick and wanted this conversation to end. So instead of looking further into it, I reminded myself that Francesca was not mine. That she hated me and would never want anything to do with me— not after I broke her heart. So, I let the subject go.
Donato left my office leaving those thoughts marinating in my head, and they started to give me indigestion. I couldn’t stop analyzing every angle.
I knew Paolo and Donato had become estranged over the years. That had been one of the reasons Francesca never visited Chicago. Something had drawn them apart, and I needed to figure out what it was. And there was only one person who could help me with that. The one person I had promised to not see again, and the one person I was desperately wanting to.
Instead of leaving my office and doing something crazy, I called my brother. This time, Vitelli picked up on the third ring.
“I want Paolo’s bank statement and everything he has invested in in the last few years,” I told Vitelli.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he teased.
I took a deep sigh. “Just send it to my phone when you have it.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“And tomorrow is Monday and the day after is Tuesday. I’m aware of the days in a week.”
“You want them now?”
“Yes, and you’re already late.”I traced my fingers against the edge of the table.
“This smells like trouble.” It didn’t smell, it was trouble.
“Move your ass, Vitelli, I’m already late, and I plan to solve this now.”
“It’s Sunday,” he pointed out again. “Can’t you at least wait— fine, I’ll send it to your email,” he grunted.
“And, Vitelli, keep this between us. I don’t want people to know about it.” I could practically hear all the unasked questions in his head.
“What is this about, Cassio? What happened Friday, you almost had a coronary when you saw Gianluca touching Francesca.”
“Goodbye, Vitelli,” I said simply, eliciting a sigh of frustration from him.
“What’s going on between you and Francesca Manci?” How was my brother so perceptive?
“Not that I owe you any explanations, but there is nothing between us, she’s a potential loose end, and I don’t like loose ends. I want to make sure she won’t be a problem in the future.”
“She a Manci, her middle name is trouble.”
And you can’t be more right about that. Francesca had trouble written all over her in big bold neon letters.