I saw him one time, staring at me from the doorway of the basement of his family home. I was lying on the cold, steel floor of the cage I ended up calling home for seven months, soaking in a pool of my own blood and urine. Every inch of my skin was aching and throbbing, and my scalp was stinging where Carlo had torn clumps of my hair out the night before. I couldn’t move a muscle or force my vocal cords to work to plead with the man at the door for help.
By then, I knew no one was coming to my aid.
All I could do was stare at the man with the worried frown as he silently watched me. Then he turned on the leather soles of his dress shoes, and I heard the distinct clacking sound as he retreated, taking the stairs as fast as possible so he could get away from me.
I never saw him again, and it was at least two months later when Leo and Mateo rescued me.
My heart is racing, my palms are clammy, and blood is pounding in my ears as I exchange words with him. He smiles, showing no hint of recognition, which is a relief but only a minor one.
“Take a seat.” Ben pulls a chair out for me, but before I can sit, Don Maltese clears his throat.
“She should be checked for weapons.” His lips kick up at the corner. “I volunteer as tribute.” His greedy old-man gaze roams the length of my body with zero shame as a couple of the others shuffle awkwardly in their seats. I guess the apple hasn’t fallen too far from the tree with his son.
Ben levels a harsh glare at his colleague. “I will not dignify that comment with a reply, only to apologize for your ungentlemanly conduct.” Ben turns to me with a sincere expression, and I can already tell his reputation hasn’t been exaggerated. “Please accept my apology, Donna Conti. Roberto was way out of line.”
All hint of humor fades from Don Maltese’s face, and I smother a smile. “It’s fine. It’s not exactly original, and I have been subjected to far worse,” I coolly reply, elegantly lowering myself into the chair and placing my cell on the table. At least it has diverted the surge of panicked adrenaline that was coursing through my veins being in the same room as the brother of my abductor.
“I am sorry to hear that.” Ben claims a seat at the top of the table. “I genuinely hoped our organization had moved beyond the sexist archaic treatment of the past, but it’s clear I have more work to do.” He levels another cutting look in Maltese’s direction.
I want to suggest it’s a hopeless endeavor as long as men like Don Maltese sit on the governing body of The Commission. From the things I have heard about his son, I’m not sure his successor will be much of an improvement.
“My son speaks very highly of you,” Don DiPietro says, clawing a meaty hand through the shock of thick silver hair on his head as he focuses the conversation.
Ben studies me for a few seconds. “How do you know Cruz?”
“We met through mutual colleagues at an event in Cincinnati a few years ago,” I lie.
I purposely didn’t attend Anais’s wedding to Cruz DiPietro six years ago. Protecting my identity so I could execute my plan was greater than my desire to see my half-sister get married.
Anais and I communicate mainly via phone or FaceTime, and she knows to keep our relationship a secret. She, too, has her own reasons for wanting to retaliate at Ben. I only took Cruz into my confidence a couple of years ago when I knew I could manipulate him into helping my cause and could trust he would go along with it. Of course, he doesn’t even know the half of it. I have fed him the right amount of information, and no more, to ensure he does my bidding.
“My understanding is you have intel about the war that has broken out over the supply chain on the streets and you have a proposal to resolve it.” Ben’s keen gaze traps me in place.
“I do.” I maintain eye contact as I relax a little in my chair and pop the cap on a bottle of water. With slow, steady hands, I pour some water into the glass and take a sip while my gaze bounces confidently between the men. Setting my glass down, I part my lips, letting my tongue peek out to lick my bottom lip. Then I inhale deeply, the movement drawing subtle notice to my chest.
I now have the attention of all the men in the room with one exception I’m not unhappy about.
The key to projecting confidence is body language. Intelligent conversation and holding my own among a group of men would only get me so far if my body betrayed my fear. So, I have learned how to hold myself in such situations. I remain upright but relaxed as I let my gaze flicker across the five most important Italian American men in the US while they wait for me to pitch to them.
Hidden fear is hot and fiery as my eyes briefly linger on Gabriele’s. He looks a lot like Carlo with the same dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes, but where Carlo had an evil cold glint in his gaze, his younger brother’s eyes are a warmer brown. Still, looking at him is like staring the ghosts of my past in the face, and it has the power to unnerve me.
If I let it. Which I won’t.
“You have the floor,” Luca Accardi says gently nudging me with his words and a quick tilt of his head.
A screen lowers from the ceiling at the other end of the table as I tap into my phone. Ben gave me the technical specifications before the meeting so I could deliver a visual presentation. I learned from experience that made men won’t accept what I say without proof, and I came prepared.
I pull up the first set of photo files, and they load quickly on the screen as all five men lean forward in their seats with undisguised interest. “The Triad has cut a deal with the Paraguayans, which sees them receiving the lion’s share of the supplies coming into the city,” I say, omitting the part where I orchestrated it from the shadows. “The Irish and the Mexicans have been arguing with the Paraguayans over missing shipments and delayed orders until they recently became aware of Lee Chang’s betrayal. They confronted him to resolve this peaceably,” I add, moving through pictures showing The Triad leader meeting his Paraguayan contact under the cover of darkness and several trucks leaving the port laden down with cocaine and marijuana.
My next picture shows Chinese warehouses piled high with a variety of narcotics and chemicals. Ben curses under his breath as I display close-ups. “They have also cut a deal to bring heroin and MDMA in through Canada. The Chinese are known for mixing drugs with chemicals to produce an inferior product that causes a higher incidence of accidental overdoses. When they were working with the Irish and the Mexicans, there was a quality control standard. Now they are doing things their way. It was this intel that ultimately started the war.”
Ben and the other dons exchange looks, and I can tell this is news to them. A ripple of excitement goes through me. I love when a plan comes together. “The Irish and Mexicans remain allied, and they are determined to wipe The Triad from existence in New York and split their turf. A reliable source has confirmed The Triad is expecting a heavy shipment of arsenal next month. The bloodshed you have witnessed on the streets recently is nothing compared to the chaos that is due to be unleashed.”
“How is it you are aware of this?” Don Mazzone asks. “This isn’t your jurisdiction.”
“We’re neighbors. It’s natural I would hear things. I have spent years developing a reliable network of contacts who keep me informed across the US.”
“Impressive.” He stares at me in quiet contemplation, his face betraying no hint of the concern he must be feeling. He’s not confirming my intel is better than his either. Not that I blame him. I would keep that close to my chest too.
