Chapter 8 Maria
Mr. Raymond was an old-world relic who had managed to etch a place for himself in this modern world. He liked to laugh and mentioned to anyone who’d listen—and just about everyone would listen, seeing as how he was our boss—that you could, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks.
I had to give it to him; he was right. At the age of sixty-nine, he was sharp, cognizant, and up to date with just about everything.
The man knew how to operate an iPhone, browse Discord, keep up with the goings-on on X and Bluesky, and was somehow able to find out what was happening in the city before everyone else.
I sat facing the stern-faced, pencil-mustached man in his office. He had several newspapers in front of him. Not just the Tribune, but also our competitors.
“No one’s been able to break that news, Thurman.
Just us. Just you and me. And for that we get a million-dollar libel suit.
Not my first, and hopefully not my last. I shall see this Jimmy Donaldson in court, and I shall wear my Sunday best, how about that?
Now you tell me something. Are you ready for your next assignment or what? ”
“This one’s gotten me in enough hot water as it is,” I said, but he wasn’t interested in that. Men like him treated hot water like their personal hot tub.
“Nonsense, Thurman,” Mr. Raymond cackled.
“That’s just another Wednesday for us. Now, I hear rumblings that you did something entirely eccentric the other night.
You entered Don Romano’s private bachelor auction and bid on his son.
Please tell me that’s true and not just some tabloid gossip they’re spreading to discredit our name. ”
I gulped. Right now, four of the don’s men stood guard outside the building.
A black GMC was parked, waiting for me. One of the guards had come up to the office with me and was standing outside the main entrance, trying to look nonchalant.
It was a bit over the top, but Elio wasn’t negotiating.
He said that this was the bare minimum. He’d even insisted on following me into the office, but I’d told him that that would be too much.
He was probably on the rooftop, taking in the sights of Brooklyn.
“It’s true,” I said. This was Mr. Raymond we were talking about, a man who sat with his back to the wall-to-wall window, his office’s walls lined with frames of awards, diplomas, and pictures with famous men.
He had the eyes of a hawk and the sensibilities of one too.
I couldn’t lie to him if I wanted. “I’m…
I don’t know what I’m doing with him, actually. ”
“If I knew you had that much money, Thurman, I’d have considered making you a partner in the Tribune,” Raymond laughed, clapping his hands. “Tell me how you did it. Because that’s a story I wanna run.”
I gave him a brief overview of things. I trusted this man almost in a familial way. I skipped the details, because those were just for me and Elio, but I told him the rest.
“So here’s what I want you to do, then, Thurman,” he said.
He’d never once in my life called me by my first name.
“I want you to give me an inside scoop of this guy’s life.
Tell me everything. We’ll make a cover story of it.
Inside the don’s manor. Time spent with the don’s son.
This is the sort of thing modern readers enjoy, your Gen-Zs and whatnot.
Deconstructing myths. You have an opportunity. ”
“I….”
“Don’t say no. Tell me you’ll think about it, and then I want a report on my desk by the end of the month,” Mr. Raymond said, then picked up the papers again, comparing their headlines.
“No,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s a real person. It would be disingenuous to do something like that.”
“You can tell him you’re doing it. You can ask his permission for all I care.
Isn’t the whole deal with the mafia that they want to become legal, appear legitimate?
I think some positive press would do wonders for his repute.
You can run it by him, but I’m not taking no for an answer,” Mr. Raymond said, his voice teetering on the verge of stern but not quite there.
“If that’s all,” I said, taking my leave.
“Good work on the reportage, Thurman. You’re one of my best,” he said, still reading his newspaper.
I was exhausted from my meeting with Mr. Raymond and now desperately needed to go home and get my stuff.
Now that I was out in the open, in the city, it struck me as really strange that I’d just straight up agreed to spend seven days with Elio.
Not that he’d done anything bad to me. Not that I didn’t want to.
It just seemed very weird that my own apartment was right there, a place I’d called home for years, and that I couldn’t stay there.
Elio stood there holding a copy of the Tribune, leaning on the GMC. He was going through the sports section when I walked up to him.
“Do your father’s auction rules say something about us having to stay at your house?” I asked.
“Why? You hate the place already?” Elio chuckled, folding the paper and opening the door for me. The guards who had been stationed were now getting in the truck behind us. Two of them got in our truck in the front.
“No, but my place is right around the block,” I said.
“So you want us to stay there?” Elio said slowly. “I’m fine with that.”
“You are?” I was surprised.
“I mean, if that’s what you want,” he said, holding my hand. “I’m no one to force you. That would be in poor taste.”
“Sweet. And your bodyguards—”
“That’s non-negotiable. They are for protection. Both yours and mine.”
“I just have the one bedroom,” I said, chuckling.
“They won’t be staying with us. They’ll be outside, changing shifts every six hours,” Elio said. He appeared flustered, almost embarrassed.
“It’s okay,” I said, placing my hand upon his hand. “I was only joking.”
“There’s some things that are tied to you because you were a don’s son. Can’t shake them off no matter how hard I try,” he said, a dark shadow casting over his face. “But then there are perks too.”
“I’m all ears.”
He turned to look at me livelily, a smug grin on his face. “We have a lunch reservation at Zing for three p.m. Now I would have never gotten that if I wasn’t as influential as I am.”
“Zing!?”
I had been hearing of this restaurant ever since I was in New York.
Not only was it supposed to be the most expensive restaurant in Manhattan, but it also had three Michelin stars, and the waiting period for your reservation was several months in advance.
Eight, to be precise. I had never known anyone who had ever eaten at Zing’s.
And yet I had driven by that place no less than a thousand times, my mouth always watering at the thought of the delicacies and delicious cuisines being made inside.
It was a family-owned business dating back nearly fifty years when Zeng Yichen, a Chinese immigrant, had moved here with nothing but a few dollars.
She had married a man, Rizwan Zeeshan, an Indian immigrant.
They had created a restaurant that served food that was neither Chinese nor Indian but a fusion of both.
Chicken Tikka Chow mein. Rajma Chawal Dumplings.
Achari Wontons. Calamari Qorma. I had read enough reviews of their restaurant to imagine the heavenly culinary experience that their restaurant must be.
And now, if I was hearing this right, Elio had reserved a table for us.
“Of course, you’ve eaten there before?”
“Does my face look like the face of someone who has eaten there before? Why? Have you?”
“I mean, I used to order weekly takeout from them,” Elio said, shrugging like it was no big deal.
I wanted to bop his head with a baseball bat.
“You know, my grandfather helped them establish a speakeasy during Prohibition. They’re not the kind of people to forget a favor. As for that matter, neither am I.”
“I’m not about to go to Zing’s in this dress,” I said, pointing at my clothes. “I gotta go home and change.”
“I’ll come with,” he said, nodding at the driver.
In another ten minutes we were at my apartment building in Brooklyn. As shitty as the place was, I was proud of it. It was a monument to my independence and self-reliance. Every piece of second-hand furniture, yard sale appliance, and thrift store linen was something I was fiercely proud of.
I led him up the narrow stairs and undid the lock of my door.
“I’m fighting the urge to say this is where the magic happens,” I said, showing him in.
“You have my permission,” Elio chuckled.
“All right, then, this way, sir; your house tour begins. That on the right is the kitchen area where I’ve also crammed a laundry machine.
There’s a terrace that looks out on the street.
You cannot see the Manhattan skyline from it.
You just see another brick wall. And then here you have my living room, which is also my workspace and general gaming, reading, and leisure area.
And that right there, that’s not the broom closet.
That’s my bedroom. How I was able to manage to get my bed and my sofa and mattress through that door, don’t ask. Even I don’t know. It was as if the—”
“Finally,” Elio said, turning around from the living room window, closing the door behind us, locking it, and then quickly holding me by my waist, pulling me in for a kiss.
The kiss was pleasant, slow, a little sweaty, but mostly sensuous. I let my mouth open and joined our tongues together. He swayed me around and then put me back on my feet, finally letting go.
“What was that all about?” I asked, blushing, flustered, but also happy.
“Security detail has been with us all day. I’ve been dying to have a moment with you. One moment. Now I’ve had it. Thank you,” Elio said, smiling at me.
“We’re alone here. As many moments as we can want,” I said, sliding onto the couch, beckoning him to sit with me.
“Got any beer in the fridge?”
Before I could tell him, he was already over there at her fridge, hunched in front of it.