Chapter 19
Enrico was getting twitchy, his nerves stretched so tight it felt like sparks were crawling under his skin. His plan to take down Salvatore Romano wasn’t moving fast enough. Hell, it wasn’t moving at all.
That useless slut—Diane, or whatever the hell her name was—had stopped checking in.
He’d ordered her to send him daily updates.
Daily. For five days after he’d sent her off to Chicago—five thousand of his dollars in her purse, mind you—she’d reported in.
She’d landed a job at some strip club near Romano’s house.
Near, but not close enough, in his mind. More than ten miles away. Ten miles!
He’d texted back, ordering her to fix it, to get closer. Her reply? That she’d adopted a dog and was walking it past Romano’s place several times a day.
A dog.
Enrico had nearly thrown his phone through the wall.
What the fuck was she doing with a dog? How in the hell was walking a mutt supposed to lure Romano out of his fortress?
The man didn’t have a dog. He’d told her that.
He’d ordered her to ditch the leash and find a way into Romano’s house, his circle, his bed.
Her next brilliant update? Shopping. She was buying groceries at the store closest to his mansion, waiting for him to “just show up.”
Shopping.
Enrico’s vision had gone red. Romano was worth billions.
Billions! Even counting only the legitimate businesses the IRS knew about, the man was wealthier than Enrico could ever imagine.
Did that stupid bitch really think a billionaire, a crime boss who was constantly surrounded by a team of bodyguards, did his own damn grocery shopping?
He’d texted her back, telling her to stop being stupid and start following Romano, figure out where he went. That at least had gotten him a list of Romano’s daily outings—useless crap, all of it. Nothing that got her closer.
Enrico’s fist slammed against the glass table, making the chrome legs rattle. She wasn’t getting the job done. He needed a new plan. A real plan.
Maybe Matteo could come up with something.
But then he remembered—Matteo had already lost the girl, his fiancée, like an idiot.
And truth be told, Matteo wasn’t built for creativity.
Brutality, sure. The bastard could beat soldiers and associates into line, keep the vendors paying their “protection” on time. But brains? No.
Enrico’s lip curled. No one around him had brains. That was the damn problem.
“Hey, boss.”
A new guy. Some ass with broad shoulders and a stupid smirk walked in, tossing a bag of cash from the protection runs on the table. “Collections came in a little light this week. But we’ve got a new shipment of product coming in. Supposed to be strong stuff. Real kick.”
Enrico’s mood eased just a fraction, his shoulders loosening at the news. He smiled, wolfish. “Good. Our special customers deserve a little variety, eh?”
The guy nodded, smiling like he’d just been patted on the head. “Absolutely, boss.”
Enrico stared. The way the guy kept nodding, he looked like an idiot bobblehead doll. Irritation burned in his gut again.
But maybe—just maybe—this guy had more than sawdust between his ears.
“So…” Enrico leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. “What’s your name?”
“Raffy, boss. Raffy Lupo.”
Tall. Muscles stacked like bricks and handsome. At least, the ladies would probably label him handsome. And yet, something about the guy grated on Enrico. Still, there was a flicker in his eyes—maybe intelligence, maybe not. Not many men with muscles like that had a great deal of intelligence.
“You think you can be more useful than some stage bimbo who flaunts her boobs for cash?” Enrico demanded.
Raffy blinked, then shrugged. “Sure, boss. I work directly for Matty. Whatever you need.”
Enrico sneered. “Matty.” The babyish nickname disgusted him—but then Enrico smirked. “Yeah, that works.” He leaned forward on his elbows, voice turning cold. “Tell me, Raffy—what do you know about Salvatore Romano?”
The guy hesitated, then said, “Head of the Chicago group? He’s a good guy.”
Enrico rolled his eyes. “He’s not a good guy, you idiot! He’s in the way of my expansion plans.” He leaned back again, the leather chair squeaking as his bulk shifted. “I want him gone. Figure out a way to get rid of him and I’ll make sure you get a good reward.”
Raffy’s eyes widened so much it looked like they might pop out of his thick skull. “Really, boss?” he asked, his deep voice a shade too eager, too slow. He even licked his lips, like a kid offered extra dessert.
“Really,” Enrico smirked. This was too easy. Muscles like that always came with a hollow head. “But we didn’t have this conversation. Get it?”
“Got it!” Raffy bobbed his head so hard it looked painful, then the idiot broke into a grin so goofy Enrico almost laughed out loud. “I’m on it, boss. I’ll come up with a real good plan. Just wait and see!”
He gave a half-salute that made him look like he’d learned it from a cartoon, then lumbered out of the office with heavy steps.
Enrico waited until the door closed before snickering. “Hell, what an idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head. “All brawn, no brains. Perfect.” He leaned back further, the chair groaning again, and smirked. “Matteo might be a pain in my ass, but at least he’s not that stupid.”
He pulled a Cuban cigar out of the box at the corner of his desk, savoring the smooth weight of it in his hand.
“There’s gotta be another heir to my empire somewhere in this mess,” he muttered as he clipped the end, lit it, and puffed until the smoke caught.
Circles drifted upward, blurring the chandelier’s light.
That was the thing about Enrico Bianchi—he didn’t need sharp men around him.
Sharp men were dangerous. Sharp men challenged you.
He preferred muscle that followed orders without thinking.
And Raffy Lupo? That big, dumb ox looked like he could lift a car with his bare hands.
A guy like that didn’t need a brain. Just muscles, loyalty, and the ability to scare the crap out of people on sight.
He puffed again, chuckling at the smoke rings.
Enrico wasn’t like those other mafia bosses branching out into real estate or restaurants, trying to look respectable.
Nah. Legit business bored him. Enrico liked the old ways—the brutal ways.
Drugs. Guns. Whores. Protection. Sex, dreams, and retribution—that’s how a man built power.
The thought of the new shipment of drugs tugged at him.
Back in the day, he’d try them himself. But too many of these designer drugs were addictive, even deadly.
Now he let the customers test them first. If they liked the high, they’d come crawling back with cash in hand.
If they dropped dead? He’d find another supplier.
Capitalism at its most honest, he thought with a sneer.
“Damn, I miss the good old days,” he sighed, puffing again, remembering when he used to go door-to-door, breaking kneecaps, collecting money, grabbing a quick release at a strip club, then running trucks filled with illegal goods through the night.
No subtlety. No pretending. Just fear, blood, and cash.
That was the kind of world Raffy Lupo fit into perfectly.