My brother and best friend are standing in front of my desk with coffee when I walk in to join them.
“Where’d you go off to alone this morning? Big Tony said you refused a ride,” Rocco asks.
Gunnar tilts his head, reaches over, and swipes something off my light blue dress shirt. “Is that… cat hair?” His eyes narrow with worry. “Did you visit the shelter this morning? Are you cuddling cats again?”
Rocco and Gunnar glance at each other and sigh, saying simultaneously, “Lennon.”
I glance down and pull a few hairs from my shirt.
Fuck, I should’ve changed.
Rocco snorts. “Leave him alone. It’s the only pussy he’s getting.”
“Too soon.” Gunnar smirks.
My gaze flicks up to my brother, but it has no heat. “Are you done?”
“Sure, big bro,” he chuckles, lifting his cup to his mouth to hide a grin.
Shaking my head, I pull two chairs around to the back of my desk so we can all view the monitor and wait for the call to come in.
Visiting the shelter this morning was an impulsive attempt to feel closer to Lennon. I donated ten thousand dollars to them—partly as a bribe to keep quiet about me choosing a yellow and white kitten with bright green eyes to spend time with in a private room. I have a reputation to uphold. Cuddling cats would severely undermine it.
The memory of the day a fifteen-year-old Lennon found a stray kitten and roped me into helping her take care of it is now fresh in my mind. I mostly watched in awe for weeks as she nursed the tiny, sick creature—with green goo oozing from its eyes and nose—back to health and then found it a home.
The visits to animal shelters to spend time with a cat began after Lennon left me. Began as a way to still feel connected to her. And maybe convince myself that some of the light she gifted me still existed somewhere within me.
The conference call connects and yanks me out of the past.
We listen to the Commission’s thoughts for a good fifteen minutes as they each speak their piece.
The bottom line is, they want to bring Santino Zerilli into the loop.
“I’m not comfortable sharing this information with Zerilli yet, to be honest,” I say.
“Why not?” Joey Amato grunts around a fat cigar.
I have to be careful here. “Let’s just say I’m a bit skeptical that he couldn’t get this proof himself. It’s not like the Bratva were discreet.”
“Spell it out for us, Alessandro,” Sonny D’Angelo commands.
I rub the side of my jaw and lean forward. “There’s a lot of money in trafficking. Taking a cut for turning a blind eye would be a big temptation.”
There’s a few beats of silence and then my father speaks. “Son, that’s a pretty serious accusation. You’re talking about treason.”
“I’m aware.” I keep my tone subdued to give the accusation the weight it deserves.
“Cazzo,” Amato’s curse comes out with a stream of cigar smoke. “We’ll keep it to ourselves for now. You need to get proof one way or the other. And quick. Understand?”
I nod.
We catch up on a few other housekeeping items and end the call.
I let my head fall back on the leather chair and stare at the ceiling.
“Well, that was interesting,” Rocco says.
“Yeah. How the fuck am I going to get proof Zerilli is allowing the Bratva to traffic in our territory? It’s also possible I could bewrong. He could just be too sick to do the job. But my gut says otherwise.”
