Chapter 4
FRANCISCO
The older I get, the more my job resembles that of a CEO.
I’m behind my desk more often than not, talking to people who only bring me problems. I remember the good old days when I was out on the streets.
And then I met the girl who stole my heart and made me the happiest man alive by agreeing to marry me.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Alessia. Sure, I’ve been with other women since then; I’m not a saint. But late at night and even throughout the day sometimes, when the burden of my position gets to be too much, I think about her.
If she were still alive, who knows. Maybe I would have retired somewhere and let Marcello or Giovanni handle things for me.
Lord knows the two of them are chest-deep in the whole mess.
I like to keep my inner circle close, and I know the two of them like I know the back of my hand.
They’re good men, good, loyal men. I wonder again if I’m making a mistake by being so hands-on with the business.
“Frankie’s tutor is upstairs with him,” Marcello informs me.
“Good,” I say, not really paying attention.
“She’s a looker,” Marcello says.
I shake my head, knowing exactly what my son is up to. He’s hired a pretty girl off the street to be his tutor, knowing that as soon as she sees this mansion, she’ll take her clothes off and hop into his bed.
“I wish he would just pick up a prostitute and drop this whole law school thing,” Marcello says.
“And what would he do then?” I snap. “He doesn’t have the heart for the family business.”
Marcello shifts uncomfortably. He’s walking a tight line, insulting my son.
We know each other pretty well, but I can see the calculations running through his mind.
He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and risk me coming down on him hard.
I appreciate the circumspection. Frankie’s my son, and I can complain about him all I want, but no one else is allowed to say anything.
“Listen, boss,” Marcello starts, changing the subject. “I gotta tell you, I’ve been hearing things.”
“What kind of things?” I ask, only giving him half of my attention. I’m supposed to have a meeting with one of my capos in about half an hour, and I can’t find the note he sent me about a rival gang.
While the rest of the world has moved into the digital age, I’m still operating on paper in some aspects of the business.
It’s too risky to trust everything to text, knowing that the feds could be listening in.
I don’t know what kind of access they have to my personal devices, and even though I go through burner phones like they’re toilet paper, you can never be too sure.
If something’s important, I have my men write it down on a piece of paper and hand it to me.
Then, depending on the nature of the information, I shred it or keep it.
My desk is full of documents from my accountants, lawyers, and capos.
I could have sworn I saw that list just a few minutes ago.
“Boss,” Marcello interrupts me.
“What?” I snap.
“I confirmed that Carlo Andretti’s trying to poach some of our men,” Marcello announces, hands behind his back like a good lieutenant.
“Did you get any closer to figuring out who?” I demand.
“My source didn’t say,” Marcello replies.
“Find out,” I order.
“Yes, sir,” Marcello says, not moving from his spot. “I’m hearing lots of disquieting things,” Marcello rushes on. “Like the Andretti family framing other bosses for murder.”
“Is that what you think happened to Paliotta?” I demand. “He was an idiot. He got himself into his own situation.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Marcello insists.
“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him.
I glance down at my desk once more and find what I’m looking for underneath an investment statement. I thought I dismissed Marcello, but he’s still there. So I look back up, waiting patiently for him to tell me what’s on his mind.
“How much do you know about this tutor?” Marcello asks.
“Enough,” I say.
“Have you done a background check?” he wonders.
“Yes!” I declare, pointing to the door.
“It’s just that—” he starts again, as if I’m off-base like some third grader who just decided to steal his first pack of cigarettes.
“I know,” I assure him. “She’s got an Italian name. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Odds are, she’s just a gold-digger.”
“I’d feel better if—” Marcello starts again, pissing me off.
“Find out who Andretti is poaching!” I demand.
“Yes, boss,” Marcello says, backing off.
He leaves me alone with my thoughts, and suddenly, I feel exhausted.
I sit back in my chair, my thoughts drifting to the past. I’m getting too old for this.
If I were any kind of regular Joe, I might be thinking about retirement.
But there’s only one real way out of the family business, and that’s in a body bag.
At least I’m not doing the wet work by myself anymore. I paid my dues and came up through the ranks. I keep my fingers in enough pies to make sure everyone knows that I’m paying attention. But I don’t muscle men on the streets anymore. Those days are past.
I remember the last time I got my hands dirty. It was on Alessia’s deathbed. She closed her eyes for the last time, and the damned heart rate monitor flatlined.
It was the worst sound I’d ever heard, so definitive.
My wife, my love, the mother of my only child, was dead.
My rage had me grabbing the doctor by the collar of his sterile coat and slamming him into the wall.
My bodyguards stood outside, making sure no one could get in while I went to town on the man’s face.
When the haze finally passed, Giovanni led me to a chair. I spent the rest of the night sobbing my eyes out, unwilling to let anyone touch my wife.
Later on, we paid the doctor for his trouble. I didn’t keep tabs on him, but I think he moved to a different city and had some facial reconstructive surgery. Poor bastard. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I’m not like that anymore, although I cultivate the appearance of a man who could fly off the handle at any moment.
At the top of my game, I’m no fool. I know managing people is a combination of positive and negative motivations.
I’ve got to offer bonuses, but I’ve also got to make it clear that crossing me is something no one wants to do.
In La Cosa Nostra, the negative motivations are severe.
I glance out the window, wondering about this tutor of Frankie’s.
Could she be a plant, sent here to frame me for murder?
Or worse, to steal some of my men? I highly doubt it, but anything’s possible.
I’m going to have to check her out for myself to get a feel for her.
I’m a good judge of character if I can get into a room with someone.
The girl has an Italian name, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She could be one of the few Italian Americans without a cousin or an uncle in the business. Still, odds are she knows someone who knows someone. That means it would be worth my while to find out who she knows.
I wouldn’t put it past Frankie to bring a spy into my house by accident. After all, he met this girl on the street. What if the meeting wasn’t quite as serendipitous as it seemed? What if she maneuvered her way into the coffee shop or wherever on purpose just to run into my son?
I’m starting to get paranoid now, and I don’t like it. In my opinion, everybody’s looking for something. It’s easy to assume that this girl is just looking for a meal ticket, but just as easy to think she’s working on someone else’s dime.
Marcello is right. I need to figure out who she is before I let this thing go any further. With any luck, she’s just a highly paid tutor who’s pretty to look at but not much else. But if Marcello’s suspicions are correct, she could be the beginning of the end for my family.