Chapter 26
Enrico ended the call and leaned back in the cracked faux-leather chair, the stuffing pressing out of a split seam and stinking faintly of mildew and smoke.
He didn’t care. This was his throne, and from here he ruled.
A smug grin twisted his lips as he exhaled through his nose.
“Easiest half million I’ll ever make,” he muttered to himself, his voice rasping with smoke and whiskey.
The strip club reeked and disinfectant that never quite masked the sour odor of vomit that lingered in the carpet.
Mid-afternoon was the quietest part of the day, the stage bare, the tables sticky from the night before, but soon the floodgates would open.
Patrons would file in, panting losers looking for a fantasy, and his girls would strut out half-naked in the uniforms he’d designed himself.
The waitresses hated those uniforms—tops that clung so tight their nipples practically poked through, bottoms that rode so far up their asses it took constant tugging to keep them decent.
Which was the point. Patrons didn’t come here for decency.
They came to see flesh, to paw at women who couldn’t say no.
And Enrico liked reminding them that their misery made him richer.
Life was good. Then the thought of his daughter flickered across his mind like a shadow over the sun.
Catarina. His pretty little trophy who’d betrayed him.
He’d paraded her like a prize mare, dangling her in front of capos and soldiers, a promise of power to anyone who stayed loyal long enough.
And she’d slipped away. That sting still burned.
Oh, she’d pay for it—pay until she begged him to end it.
But not today. Today, there were still plenty of warm bodies willing to spread their legs or drop to their knees the second he crooked a finger.
“Hey Boss,” Matteo said, swaggering over and sliding into the seat across from him. The stink of cologne rolled ahead of him, old spice mixing with the sour tang of spilled whiskey and sweat.
Enrico’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you wearing?” He eyed Matteo’s lavender shirt with disgust. “You look like a damn flower girl.”
Matteo twitched the collar with exaggerated care. “I like looking sharp.”
Enrico grunted. Sharp? Sharp was a blade slipping between someone’s ribs.
This idiot looked like he was auditioning for a boy band.
Enrico smoothed the polyester blend of his own shirt—cheap but practical, black with a garish yellow stripe from his right shoulder to the hem of the shirt.
Easy to wash, easy to match with pants, and most importantly, comfortable. Comfort mattered more than fashion.
He shifted in his chair, his gut bulging over his belt, the leather squeaking beneath him. “That drop we talked about is happening. Everything’s on the move.”
Matteo perked up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Enrico’s eyes wandered as two strippers came through the door, jeans hanging off their hips, sweaters covering their torsos, bulky bags slung over their shoulders.
In less than an hour, they’d be trussed up in costumes that left nothing to the imagination—one of them, Sally, had a nurse’s outfit that looked like it was painted on, her tits spilling over the neckline. Enrico licked his lips.
“I got three boxes of our new product coming in tomorrow night,” Matteo said, sounding proud. “Everything’ll be distributed by the end of the day.”
Enrico grunted approval, cigar smoke curling around his face as more girls drifted in. The air was alive with the faint rattle of stilettos being unpacked and the clatter of makeup cases. He leaned forward, resting his hairy knuckles on the sticky table. “What’s the price on Linden Street?”
For the next half hour, the two men went over protection fees, bribes for greasy politicians and cops, the newest batch of designer drugs bubbling away in some rat-infested basement lab. Business was good, and the civilians couldn’t stop lining up for their powders and pills. Easy money.
“I think we should start a scare campaign,” Enrico muttered, puffing his cigar and watching the smoke drift upward toward the water-stained ceiling. “Loosen up the Chicago guys. Remind Romano whose streets these are.”
Matteo grinned but shook his head. “You want to poke Romano because he’s got Catarina, eh?”
The sneer that twisted Enrico’s mouth was pure venom. “You should be pissed off about Catarina’s betrayal.” His eyes glinted maliciously. “She insulted you more than me.”
Both men knew that wasn’t true, but Matteo wasn’t stupid enough to argue.
“Cat wasn’t my type,” Matteo said weakly, shrugging.
“It’s not about your type, you dumb idiot.” Enrico slammed his palm against the table, making glasses jump. “It’s about how you’re perceived. Your fiancée married another boss. Another boss! You should have dragged her back by her hair.”
“Anyone but Romano,” Matteo muttered, shaking his head quickly. “That guy’s got more soldiers than I can count.”
Enrico knew it, and the thought only sharpened his hunger. He wanted those soldiers. Wanted that empire. And he’d get it—brick by brick, corpse by corpse.
“Fine,” he spat, pushing himself to his feet.
His gut strained against his belt as he tugged his pants higher, the fabric bunching uncomfortably around his belly.
“But make sure that drop is clean. No slip-ups. Run the route, check every alley, pay off whoever you gotta pay. If it goes wrong…” His eyes narrowed to cold slits as he jabbed a finger at Matteo. “It’s your head.”