The Don continued, “And I’m impressed with how you’ve been putting in time with Legs, never complaining about it. Still, you always struck me as…self-reliant.” We both watched his cigarette smoke laddering up toward the high ceiling, disappearing only halfway there. “I prefer a man who doesn’t need to rely on others. I’m that way myself.”
“Easier to get the job done alone,” I offered. “Less argument.”
He gave a loud guffaw like I’d said something worthy of one of the comedy clubs out on the Strip. “So you’re a man who knows his own mind as well? There are some men who can never make it up.”
“I go with whatever works at the time. But you know yourself, sir, that it doesn’t always end up so great when I do that.”
He leaned in and ground out the cigarette in the ashtray between us on the coffee table. When he’d mashed it into a mess of spilled tobacco, he looked up at me from under his heavy brows. “I have a friend,” he said. “A friend who has asked me for help.”
I waited, excitement and relief starting to churn in my belly. Helping out a friend? This definitely sounded like a hit.
Finally.
It wasn’t that killingexcitedme—unlike, say, Dizzy out there, who enjoyed the work in a visceral way I’d never felt. But I liked to be useful, and so far during my time with the Castellanis, the hits the Boss had ordered had been quiet, pragmatic, and above all, justified.
I’d solved more than a handful of problems for him, removing men who made Los Angeles an unpleasant place to be. Men who were upsetting the balance. Men who were beyond redemption.
“My friend is a very powerful man in this city—in thiscountry,” the Boss went on. “A man who’s not used to asking for help. So I am honored that he has come to me about this matter. You understand?” He paused to see how I was taking it, and this time, I gave a nod.
I was less sure now where this was going. And when the Boss changed tack again, I only got more puzzled.
“This friend of mine, he has a daughter. Have you heard of Anaïs Beaumont?”
This was so far from what I expected that I had to blink. “Well, uh,” I said, thinking rapidly. “She’s a Hollywood type, right? TV, maybe some movies…” My mind had blanked. “But yeah, I know the name. Sure.” My excitement had died. I wasn’t going to take out some innocent Hollywood starlet, not for all the promotions in the world. If the Boss asked for something like that, I’d have to refuse.
And then it would be Vegas all over again.
“She’s disappeared,” the Boss told me. He rubbed a hand over his eyes as though he were tired already. “This isn’t public knowledge,” he warned, holding up a finger, as though I’d been about to run outside and shout it to the world. “Though there’s been some talk around town. These social media things all the kids have these days—you know how it is. Rumors start too easily. Anyway,” he said, standing as though we were done, “I want you to find her.”
“Me?” I was startled enough that I didn’t take the social cue, and stayed seated.
“You, Jacopo. And do it fast, before the media gets hold of it. Go find out where the fuck this girl’s gotten to. It’s probably just some drug thing, you know how they are. I didn’t want to say so to my friend, because she’s the apple of his eye. But go take a look. Find her. Bring her to me, so I can make sure she’s in a fit state for her father to see her,” he added. He looked down at me, still seated. “Well?”
I shot to my feet. “Of course, Boss. Of course.”
The Boss nodded, satisfied, and crossed to a small writing desk in the corner. “Here,” he said, holding out a folded slip of paper to me. I came to collect it as he added, “A lead to start you off. And remember to keep it quiet. My friend doesn’t want this in the media—or on any other radars.”
The cops. That’s what the Boss meant. But that was another thing I’d have time to mull over later. I knew enough about this town to know that Anaïs Beaumont’s father was Edgar Beaumont, a big-name producer. Why not just call the LAPD if he was so worried about his missing daughter? They’d cover up a drug problem if they were paid enough.
I opened the note and read it: a name, and an address with a time next to it—up in the Hills, late that afternoon. “‘Miller Beaumont,’” I read out. “That’s a relative?”
“He’s the twin brother. Miller and Anaïs starred in the same show as kids. My friend suggested you start with him later today.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll start with him.”
“Okay,” the Boss said, like he was beginning to wonder if I’d been the right pick for the job.
“Boss,” I started, and hesitated. He raised one of those thick, shaggy brows. “Can I ask—why me? Apart from the Messina thing, I mean.”
“Listen, Jacopo,” he sighed, “We both know you fucked up with Alessandro. Besides that, you’ve got bad judgment and you don’t know when to quit. But you’ve got talent and you’ve gotpotential. That’s why I called in that favor with Sonny in the first place, to save your ass.”
When I’d arrived in LA, I’d been on the run. Trying to get ahead of the contract Sonny Vegas had taken out on me in retaliation for the contract I’d refused to take from him. The showgirl he’d wanted dead hadn’t done much bad in the world that I could see, and so I’d turned it down.
Worse…I’dwarnedher.
She’d skipped town, and Sonny hadn’t been happy about it, to put it mildly.
When I’d reached LA, Ciro Castellani had sent a messenger with an offer of protection. I hadn’t been in a position to refuse, so that was how, eventually, I wound up in the Family.
