“I’m relating to them,” he argues, dragging a hand through his chocolate-brown hair. “How is showing them I’m on their level a bad thing?”
Grant me fucking patience. I count to ten in my head before replying. “You’re not on their level. That’s the whole point. You’re their boss. The most powerful man in the state of Florida, and you need to start acting like it. The Commission is not going to allow mismanagement to continue for much longer, which is why we need to do this now. You need to appoint a newconsigliere, and you need to step up and quit all the bullshit. Russo’s been dead for almost seven months, and you haven’t appointed a replacement. That should have been done immediately, and while we’re at it, we should consider Ferraro’s replacement too.”
His eyes widen. “I’m not replacing Dom. He’s my right hand, and if you think things are mismanaged now, it would be ten times worse without my underboss.”
Debatable. “I’m talking about succession planning. You need to be prepared for all eventualities. If Dom dropped dead tomorrow”—like if he was taken out by the cartel for unpaid gambling debts—"where would that leave you?”
“Cesco would take over. He’s his heir, and he’s champing at the bit for more responsibility.”
My brow furrows. “How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“He’s not Valentina’s son then.” The words are out of my mouth before I can trap them.
“Dom’s kids are from his first wife, Marguerite. She died six years ago, and he married Valentina a few months later.”
I could extract intel from Vitto without much effort, but I’d rather get my information from one of hissoldati. I’m more likely to get the full picture that way. “You can’t seriously think a nineteen-year-old could be appointed as your underboss?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course not! But Dom isn’t going anywhere for years. By the time he retires, Cesco will be of age and all trained up.”
I thump him on the arm. It’s either that or knock him out cold. “Nothing is guaranteed, and you need other options in case anything happens sooner. After we’ve hired you aconsigliere, we’ll discuss other potential successors for the underboss role.”
He opens his mouth, to object, no doubt, but I cut across him, confirming the end of that particular discussion. “Give me your top three names.”
He reels them off, and two are on the list I have compiled. “I have Caruso and Pucci too, but DeAngelo is an unreliable drunk, and he’d make a terrible adviser.”
“He works well with Dom, and he’s been around the block. He’s got a lot of experience.”
“That is of fuck all benefit if he’s too trashed to form intelligent decisions or share that experience.” Taking a pen, I draw a line through his name. “He’s out. I think you should consider Davide Gallo.”
“No way. Absolutely no fucking way.”
“What is your beef with him?”
“I don’t?—”
“Darling! There you are!” Diana D’Onofrio totters across the patio on high heels, sporting a tight, short bubblegum-pink dress and a head of big blonde curls that barely move as she walks. She’s pretty, if you’re into over-the-top surgically enhanced, high-maintenance women.
I inwardly groan, praying for an intervention. I cannot stand that vapid woman. A part of me understands fully why Vitto constantly cheats on her.
“I’m busy, honey. Was there something you needed?”
She attempts to toss her hair over her shoulders, but it refuses to budge under the mountain of hairspray clinging to her bleached-blonde strands. “I just came to say hi and goodbye.” She giggles as she leans down and kisses her husband before turning her attention to me. “Hello, Fiero.” She puffs out her chest before leaning down and kissing my cheek, her lips dangerously close to my mouth.
I cough as I’m enveloped in cloying perfume that almost chokes me.
“It’s Don Maltese,” Vitto corrects her for the umpteenth time.
“Don’t be so silly.” She straightens up, touching my upper arm for a few lingering beats as she stares at my mouth. She hasn’t outright hit on me, but she’s cutting a very fine line. If I gave her any indication I was into it, she’d be all over me like a rash. “Fiero and I are friends.”
That’s news to me, but she’s inconsequential, and it’s not worth going into battle. “It’s fine, Vitto. Forget about it.”
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To brunch with the girls.” She repositions her dress so her fake boobsare bulging out of the top. I turn away, repulsed by the sight. I’m a boob man through and through, but they’ve got to be natural. No offense to any lady with fake tits, but they don’t do anything for me. I’d take a small pair of real tits over a large pair of fake ones any day.
“Did you invite Valentina?” He arches a brow.
