“Gregorio is dead. I’m the new head of the D’Medici Mafia. Steffano’s deal with me isn’t as ironclad as it was with my father. I’ll be much more flexible, given our working relationship, than he would have been. I thought you might like to use that in your negotiations.” Berto stands rigid, addressing Dad.
From the corner of my eye, I see the jet door open and people descending the stairs.
The three of us look back and forth, the questions more numerous than the answers and the time needed to get them.
Did Berto man up and kill his old man for the seat of power, or was there something else at play?
“There’s a treaty between us, and I’d like to keep that and honor it to the full extent. I would like to stand in with your negotiations with Steffano and offer what we can to get Leticia the best possible deal and keep her safe with you.” Berto turns to me. “I think you’ll treat her better.”
I don’t argue with him because he’s right. I keep my snide comments about how good she’ll have it with me to myself and just nod. Berto can’t be trusted, not yet, but I’m willing to entertain theidea for now. An olive branch is being extended. Especially since Valor hasn’t ripped his throat out yet.
Steffano Bianchi is shorter than I expected for an Italian Mafia boss. Then again, Berto isn’t all that big either.
He stalks toward us, well-tailored suit but no winter coat. His body is rigid against the balmy Illinois air.
“What is it with Italians and thinking they’re impervious to the cold?” Valor mutters.
“Where is she?” Steffano makes a show of looking around.
“Leticia is someplace safe,” Dad answers.
Safe at home. Where she belongs.My wolf snaps his jaws, frustrated and angry.
“You didn’t even bring her to negotiate. Bold of you.” Steffano postures, raising his chin.
Dad doesn’t rise to the occasion; he remains relaxed and calm. “She’s not up for negotiation. We’ll be keeping Leticia, and you’ll find we’re agreeable to a number of terms that are favorable to you.”
“Which is why you’ve brought Berto D’Medici here? I’m looking for a green-card bride. Bride being the keyword. I don’t want Gregorio’s son.” Steffano looks Berto over, but his gaze almost seems hungry.
Don’t protest too much.I struggle to hold back my laugh and hide it behind a cough.
“Berto is here as the new head of the D’Medici Empire.” Dad smiles, and it’s almost one of his happy ones. Almost, but not quite. “Berto informed us of the recent passing of his father, and as the truce between our families isn’t tied to a singular generation, we’re all here to work together.”
“I already paid the D’Medicis off.” Steffano points heatedly at Berto. “Gregorio accepted the deal. That’s not my problem.”
“I never said it was.” Berto adjusts his tie ever so casually, but something about it makes me think he’s doing it as a way to keep himself still and anchored to the ground. “I just think there might be room for improvement so that everyone walks away from this happier. I can cut you a better deal on transportation than my father could.”
“Plus, I’m sure you were buying guns from us to sell to Steffano.We can cut out the pricing of the middleman by extending a deal” — Valor lets out a low growl of displeasure — “jointly.”
“I want double the number we talked about.” Steffano looks at Berto and then to Valor. “That’d be fifty fully automatic rifles delivered to any location of my choosing. I want an additional shipment of thirty in the spring.”
“Eighty fully automatic rifles, no problem.” Dad widens his stance and crosses his arms. “I’m sure Berto will help us with the transport, given he already has knowledge of your operations.”
Berto gives a single nod.
I reach for my phone to take notes. Steffano’s henchmen, who came to stand behind him, draw their weapons.
Holding my hands out, I make a show of slowly reaching for my phone in the breast pocket of my jacket. “Someone should take notes, shouldn’t they?”
Steffano waves his hand, and the guns are lowered.
“Well, if that’s all, then.” Dad shrugs. “That’s an easily done deal.”
“No, no, that’s not all.” Steffano laughs. “I also want access to a mercenary, at my discretion, no charge, for three full years.”
“Six months.” Valor scoffs.
“Two years.” Steffano counters.
