“All right,” he says with a gigantic sigh.
I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me. Not only does he have more money than I would ever make in three lifetimes, but he’s easily distracted. If I had to guess, I’d say that he’s never worked a day in his life. No wonder he doesn’t get along with his dad. Whoever the father is, his work ethic is obvious. For someone to have amassed such a great fortune in a single lifetime, he must be driven. I wonder who he is, and what life is like on a daily basis under his roof. With any luck, I’ll be out of here quickly, and I’ll never have to find out. I’m seriously starting to reconsider this side gig, no matter how well it pays.
CHAPTER 4
FRANCISCO
The older I get, the more my job resembles that of a CEO. I’m behind my desk more often than not, talking to people who only bring me problems. I remember the good old days when I was out on the streets. And then I met the girl who stole my heart and made me the happiest man alive by agreeing to marry me.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Alessia. Sure, I’ve been with other women since then; I’m not a saint. But late at night and even throughout the day sometimes, when the burden of my position gets to be too much, I think about her.
If she were still alive, who knows. Maybe I would have retired somewhere and let Marcello or Giovanni handle things for me. Lord knows the two of them are chest-deep in the whole mess. I like to keep my inner circle close, and I know the two of them like I know the back of my hand. They’re good men, good, loyal men. I wonder again if I’m making a mistake by being so hands-on with the business.
“Frankie’s tutor is upstairs with him,” Marcello informs me.
“Good,” I say, not really paying attention.
“She’s a looker,” Marcello says.
I shake my head, knowing exactly what my son is up to. He’s hired a pretty girl off the street to be his tutor, knowing that as soon as she sees this mansion, she’ll take her clothes off and hop into his bed.
“I wish he would just pick up a prostitute and drop this whole law school thing,” Marcello says.
“And what would he do then?” I snap. “He doesn’t have the heart for the family business.”
Marcello shifts uncomfortably. He’s walking a tight line, insulting my son. We know each other pretty well, but I can see the calculations running through his mind. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and risk me coming down on him hard. I appreciate the circumspection. Frankie’s my son, and I can complain about him all I want, but no one else is allowed to say anything.
“Listen, boss,” Marcello starts, changing the subject. “I gotta tell you, I’ve been hearing things.”
“What kind of things?” I ask, only giving him half of my attention. I’m supposed to have a meeting with one of my capos in about half an hour, and I can’t find the note he sent me about a rival gang.
While the rest of the world has moved into the digital age, I’m still operating on paper in some aspects of the business. It’s too risky to trust everything to text, knowing that the feds could be listening in. I don’t know what kind of access they have to my personal devices, and even though I go through burnerphones like they’re toilet paper, you can never be too sure. If something’s important, I have my men write it down on a piece of paper and hand it to me. Then, depending on the nature of the information, I shred it or keep it. My desk is full of documents from my accountants, lawyers, and capos. I could have sworn I saw that list just a few minutes ago.
“Boss,” Marcello interrupts me.
“What?” I snap.
“I confirmed that Carlo Andretti’s trying to poach some of our men,” Marcello announces, hands behind his back like a good lieutenant.
“Did you get any closer to figuring out who?” I demand.
“My source didn’t say,” Marcello replies.
“Find out,” I order.
“Yes, sir,” Marcello says, not moving from his spot. “I’m hearing lots of disquieting things,” Marcello rushes on. “Like the Andretti family framing other bosses for murder.”
“Is that what you think happened to Paliotta?” I demand. “He was an idiot. He got himself into his own situation.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Marcello insists.
“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him.
I glance down at my desk once more and find what I’m looking for underneath an investment statement. I thought I dismissed Marcello, but he’s still there. So I look back up, waiting patiently for him to tell me what’s on his mind.
“How much do you know about this tutor?” Marcello asks.
“Enough,” I say.
