Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sienna
The present
Taking a seat across from Saint—now my lawyer since I called in my favor—I ask him, “How bad is it?”
He shifts in his seat. “Extremely bad.”
“You could’ve sugarcoated it,” I inform him crossly.
“There is no sugarcoating it. The hotel is indebted to the tune of a million dollars.”
My jaw falls open. “How is that possible? Hotel D’Amico has been in Michele’s family for two generations. They bought the dirt with cash, for crying out loud!”
“Your husband took out a personal loan with the hotel as collateral,” he explains.
“For what purpose?” I demand.
“It appears he was robbing Peter to pay Paul. The Garden District house. The Jackson Square condo. The cars and staff. The suits and designer watches. The—”
“Prostitutes and cocaine?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I was going to sugarcoat that part.”
“You realize I’m the madam of those prostitutes; very little shocks me. Let’s hear all of it.” I wave my hand.
“Mr. D’Amico’s substantial gambling debt at the casino. Credit card debt on three different cards.” He rattles off the amounts. “Medical debt for his veneers, a facelift, and,” he pauses, looking uncomfortable.
“Out with it.” I sigh.
“A penis enhancement.”
“Penis enhancement?” I knew about the veneers and the facelift, but the penis enhancement is a shock. “There’s a doctor who will polish a turd?”
He chokes out a laugh, but quickly composes himself, clearing his throat. “And us lawyers get a bad rap. Bottom line is your financial situation is dire.”
“But doesn’t this all magically disappear since Michele’s dead?” I try.
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Saint informs me. “Creditors will file liens; if the estate doesn’t have enough cash to pay the debts, creditors will force the sale of the hotel and the real property. The cars, they’ll simply repossess.”
“What you’re telling me is I endured nearly a decade of hell only to become jobless, homeless, and penniless? This is bullshit!” I grit.
Saint holds up his hands. “What I suggest is going through the properties, seeing if you can find any hidden cash or other valuables. We can then go to the various creditors with settlement offers in an effort to keep the real properties.”
“The Jackson Square condo and the Garden District house, I don’t care about, but I’m not losing the hotel.”
“That might not be an option, Mrs. D—”
“Jenkins,” I correct him. “Ms. Jenkins.”
“Ms. Jenkins. For the time being, I’d suggest letting go of the household staff. You can’t afford to keep them.”
“Alright.” I nod resolutely. “But the penis enhancement claim, I’ll see that doctor in court.” Because nothing about Michele’s penis was enhanced, and I’ll gladly swear to that under oath.
Fabien
The present
“Calvani, you have a visitor,” the CO shouts.
My face remains neutral as I jump through the hoops: a pat down, a secured door, another pat down, another secured door. Al’s here to tell me the devastating news about our brother’s untimely death.
I can’t wait.
Entering the visitation room, I lock eyes with Angelo.
That slippery motherfucking snake.
“You shouldn’t have dressed up for me.” My brother’s in a tuxedo; another power play.
I take a seat, my expression one of boredom, all the while, I envision hopping over the table and ripping his trachea out with my bare hands.
“You wanted my attention. You’ve got it,” he says with the same level of disinterest.
“No clue what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
I didn’t want your attention; I wanted your head on a pike in the middle of Jackson Square. “But hey, can you get me a bag of chips?” I jerk mine to the vending machine.
“So you didn’t send me a message last night?” Angelo presses.
“Nope,” I say, popping the p. “Out of phone credit for the month.” Which isn’t a lie, now that I can contact Al. Or at least, I was able to contact Al. No doubt Angelo will put a stop to that. “Can you add some cash to my account?”
“I could.” He smirks.
“You get off on this, don’t you, little brother?” I say through my teeth.
Angelo tents his fingers. “Tell me, Fabien, what are your plans when you’re released next month?”
It’s my turn to smirk. “I expect to be welcomed back with open arms, like I never left.”
“Here’s the problem,” he says with faux-sympathy dripping from each word.
“You’ll be a convicted felon on parole, and you won’t be able to associate with other felons.
All the businesses you previously oversaw now have a felon manager, as I’m a big believer in ending recidivism.
Part of my philanthropic mission.” He flicks an invisible piece of lint off his tux.
Throwing myself forward in my chair, I whisper-hiss, “I expect my seat at the table, you pretentious little shit.” And philanthropic mission, my ass.
Guarantee he hired ex-cons to keep me out of the family business.
I don’t bother telling him his little plan won’t work; I’ll have completed one hundred percent of my time, so no parole necessary for this soon-to-be-ex-con.
“Your seat’s ready and waiting. Our seafood company in Shreveport needs a night manager,” he whisper-hisses back.
Like the bullshit it is, his offer gets swatted away. “Fire whoever needs to be fired. I’m coming back to New Orleans.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands, not with ten years missing from your CV,” he tells me dismissively.
I fall back in my chair, sizing my brother up. “Mr. Ivy League always dropping the fancy terms. Oh, that’s right, though. You don’t have a degree. Too busy playing boss.”
“That’s enough,” he says in a bored tone, but I can tell my shot hit the mark.
“If Mama were alive, she’d be disgusted with the way you’re acting,” I continue my verbal offensive. “Like keeping Al from me—”
“This conversation is over.” He jolts out of his seat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Always nice to catch up with you, big brother.”
“And I’ll be catching up with you, little brother, in,” I glance at the clock on the wall, “44,640 minutes.”
“I plan on making each of those minutes as boss count,” he replies smugly before strolling out.
Angelo’s arrogance will be his downfall, that I fucking vow.
I’m escorted back to general pop, where I go in search of Kirksey. Finding him in the yard, the men surrounding him make themselves scarce when they see me.
“Your message didn’t get delivered,” I grit through my teeth.
“Let’s take a walk,” Kirksey says, and we move along the track, away from any potential listening ears. “The recipient got lucky; my delivery boy’s still on the job,” he assures me of his hitman.
“Make sure the recipient’s luck runs out.”
I’m getting my seat at the table, and I’ll use Angelo’s severed head as my footstool.