Chapter 20
Alessandro
Big Tony is at the wheel, with Gunnar and I in the backseat as we pull up to the Zerilli house for the supposed family dinner.
There’s no way I’m going into the lion’s den alone.
I don’t trust these fuckers. If Zerilli has any inkling we’ve been sniffing around the Bratva girls hustling at the Viper Room, I’m walking into a trap.
His waterfront property is surrounded by a wall and gate. Big Tony’s window glides down, and he presses the intercom button. “We’re here.”
The rod iron gate opens, and we drive through lush tropical landscaping filled with pygmy date palms and birds of paradise plants, around a circular brick drive with a decorative fountain burbling in the middle. We pull up to the front of the two-story, ten-million-dollar Mediterranean mansion.
Guards peruse the property while two loiter on the stairs in camo pants, black T-shirts, and sunglasses. Semi-automatics hang from their shoulders. They watch silently as Gunnar and I exit the Range Rover.
“Let me know if there’s any trouble.” Big Tony’s gruff voice floats from the open driver-side window. “I’ll be here.”
I give him a nod of acknowledgment, and then Gunnar and I climb the wide marble stairs. The guards frisk us, their jaws clenched. They seem pretty uptight for a leisurely Sunday dinner.
“So much for family trust, eh fellas?” I quip.
Once Santino Zerilli is gone, it’s going to take some sorting out to make sure these guys are loyal to me and not Milo. New York said they don’t want Milo taking over Zerilli’s businesses. I wonder how that’s going to work? He’s not just going to step aside. I could have a coup on my hands.
They ignore me. One of them leads us up and opens the door. Another guard is standing inside. His gaze sweeps over us and then he motions for us to follow him.
I’m surprised at the modern décor as Zerilli seems like the old-fashioned Tuscan farmhouse kinda guy.
But here we are, walking over white marble floors, past an open kitchen with sleek black cabinets and chrome everything.
There’s a great room with black leather furniture and a gas fireplace.
The whole back wall is glass doors with a stunning view of Old Tampa Bay.
I wonder how much of this is paid for by girls like we rescued last night. My fists clench.
To our left is a long, smoked glass table where a woman in a maid uniform is busy laying out covered dishes.
Santino uses a cane to rise from a plush armchair. “Ah, welcome to our home.” He snaps his fingers at his youngest daughter, Catena. “Get our guests a scotch, mia cara.”
As the nineteen-year-old puts down her book and nods a greeting at us, I narrow my eyes at Santino. Something’s wrong. Something besides him being in his final months on earth.
His gate is slow and careful, like he’s nursing an injury as he approaches us, and when he’s close enough to shake my hand, I see a fresh bruise forming on his cheekbone and jaw.
Milo strides into the living room with Giada behind him. “Hey, fuckers.” He grins at us.
Palmiro appears from a room off the kitchen, her tiny figure clad in a black dress. She clicks her tongue. “Language, Emilio. I signori non parlano così.”
I smirk at Emilio. No one would mistake him for a gentleman, but it seems Palmiro has the patience of a saint.
He rolls his eyes but walks over and smacks a kiss on the top of her head and apologizes. “Mi dispiace.”
Santino holds a hand over his ribs as he steps away. A definite sign that someone worked him over. Who would be bold enough or stupid enough to work over a Italian mafia boss? Only one group comes to mind.
The Bratva.
“Hello, fiancé,” Giada purrs as she stands too close and runs her palms down my chest. Her eyes are glittering with satisfaction. “Did you see the article about us in the paper this morning?”
I grab her hands and pull them off me, dropping them at her side. “I have a name, Giada. And no, I don’t give a shit what some rag says about us.”
She folds her arms, her nostrils flaring. “You may not, fiancé.” She leans forward and whispers. “But I bet that little slut you can’t keep your hands off of will.”
Luckily for her, her little sister has impeccable timing. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and say something I shouldn’t, Catena shoves a tumbler of scotch in my hand with a knowing smirk. The girl has always been quiet, but I swear she’s the only one who sees the big picture.
I knock my glass against Gunnar’s in a toast. My gaze flicks to Giada as I slam the drink and hand the glass back to Catena. “I’ll need another.”
Catena chuckles and Giada rolls her eyes and sashays over to the kitchen.
“Dinner is ready,” Palmiro calls. “Please, everyone, come sit.”
Santino takes his place at the head of the table with a noticeable wince. I’m seated to his left, Giada beside me and Milo across from me. They’ve put Gunnar next to Catena at the other end.
Palmiro recites the Benedicite prayer, crosses herself, and then motions to the table full of food. “Please help yourselves.”
Milo catches my eye as he shovels a large helping of lasagna onto his plate. “Getting excited about the big day, Sandro? Or should I say future brother-in-law.” He smirks.
The heat from all the eyes suddenly on me is palpable. I let the corners of my mouth turn up in what I hope is a smile. “I’m not sure excited is the word I’d use. Not a big fan of extravagant affairs.”
“Oh.” Giada places her hand on my thigh and squeezes. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Tampa Style magazine is going to do a behind-the-scenes spread on the wedding. They’ll have their photographers follow us as we get ready. We’re going to be on the front cover.”
“Jesus,” Milo snorts, shooting me a look that resembles pity.
“That’s nice, cara.” Santino grunts and winces as he reaches up to accept the bowl of Capri salad Milo passes to him.
That gives me an opening. “You okay, Santino?” I let my gaze run over the bruise on his cheek. “Looks like you’re in some pain.”
He leans back and eyes me. “We’ll talk after dinner. In my office.” I catch the flicker of anger in his eyes before he tempers it. “No business at the table.”
Dinner goes relatively smoothly. No one got stabbed, except for Milo in my mind. He really enjoys pushing my buttons. And Giada eventually got bored with trying to get under my skin. At least the food was good.
It’s just Santino and me in his office now.
The scent of leather polish and sweet cigar smoke clings to the air.
In front of the window sits a heavy Baroque mahogany desk.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves take up the far-left wall.
An unlit fireplace sits in the middle. I imagine he has to turn the air-conditioning on high to use it.
We’re seated there, in burgundy leather armchairs across from each other, and he’s got an unlit cigar, rolling it between his fingers, bags under his eyes, and a weary bend to his shoulders.
I have one ankle crossed over my knee, hands clasped together and silently watch him. Waiting.
Finally, he sighs and nods to himself, making eye contact. “Do you know anything about a Bratva whorehouse burning down with thirteen men inside?”
So that’s what this is about. The Bratva must’ve blamed him. That was fast. “Yes.”
His eyes widen in disbelief and his face darkens with emotional storm clouds. “Jesus Christ, Sandro. That was you? What the fuck were you thinking?”
My eyes narrow. The emotions flitting over his face are interesting. Anger yes, but also fear. “I was thinking that it’d be a good message for the Russian pricks that we won’t tolerate trafficking in our city.” I cock my head. “Problem?”
“This is my city, too, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m not dead yet. And I don’t appreciate you taking it upon yourself to start a fucking war with the Bratva without consulting me. You know that’s what you did, right? They will retaliate.”
I see the fear overcome his anger. “Is that what they told you?”
“Yes.” He swallows. “I got the message from Oleg himself this morning.”
I’m getting the picture now. “By message, you mean a few cracked ribs?”
He sighs. “Yeah, that kind of message.”
I need to know if his son is in on this. If so, he’s a dead man, too. “Does Emilio know?” I let the question hang in the air.
“About you burning down the Bratva’s property and killing their men?
No.” He doesn’t take the bait. But then he seems to decide something.
“The syndicate is right. Emilio doesn’t have what it takes to lead.
I don’t bring him in on big decisions.” He rubs his forehead and seems to forget I’m in the room for a moment.
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do. If I don’t let Emilio take the reins of my businesses when I’m gone, I’m leaving nothing.
Everything I have built will be absorbed by your family when you marry Giada.
I will have no legacy to leave to my grandchildren.
It will become your legacy. I will be erased. ” He glances up. “No offense.”
This surprises me, but I keep my expression neutral. “Tell me, Santino. Why did you meet with Oleg alone? Why not call me first and ask for me to go with you?” I already know why. They have a secret alliance. But I want to hear how he’s going to explain it.
He uses anger to deflect. “How the fuck was I supposed to know what I was walking into? That you’d burned down one of their properties with their men inside?”
“Technically, the men were dead before we burned down the house.” I fight a smile at his indignant, wide-eyed stare. “You’re right. I apologize. Next time, I’ll let you know before we strike.” No, I won’t.
His eyes widen with incredulity. “Did you hear what I said about starting a war?”
I shrug. “If it’s war they want, it’s war they’ll get.”
He stiffens. “Are you fucking serious? War will tear this city apart. And that’ll bring more heat than a few trafficked women.”
He’s right. New York would not appreciate me starting a war.
I see the panic in his eyes. He doesn’t care about the city.
His source of side income, his deal with the Bratva for a cut of their skin trade is in jeopardy.
I’m sure of it. What he doesn’t know is, because of his betrayal, his shortened life span is about to get shorter.
When Gunnar and I hop back into the Range Rover, I immediately pull up the Tampa Times website on my phone. It’s on the front page, the photo Giada set up. Heat prickles under my skin. It looks like we are in a loving embrace.
“Fuck.”
I just hope Lennon doesn’t see this. Knowing I’m engaged is one thing. Seeing me sucking face with said fiancé five minutes after making her come is another.