“The arms deal was between the Saudis and the U.S. weapon sector.”
“Ah, that deal.” The tension in my chest loosens as I take a drag of my cigar. I remember it. It was the second pressing thing on the list last week. The first being that pesky journalist and her fucking agenda of my shipping company violating EPA laws.
“But luckily for us, the general’s son, Khalid, wound up dead, so the deal is on hold for now.”
I cock a brow at the news. General Malik, the Saudi Minister of Defense’s most decorated general. Seems like a lot has been happening lately.
“Quando(When)?”
“Three days ago. Word is that he was assassinated.”
My breath feels hot as I pass out smoke through my nostrils. That deal would have been a knife to my throat. Profits would have dipped significantly for me if another major supplier had entered my monopolized equation.
But somehow that’s not a problem anymore.
“Good for us.” My gaze falls on the pile of papers. “Those are?”
“Mafia reports,” he gestures to the papers, “and legal.”
“The Bellandi Mafia, one of our best buyers, recently moved abroad and stopped their business dealings with us for reasons unknown. But we have others vying to fill the gap.”
Hmm. I liked that mafia. The Don had the spine and vision. I wonder what happened.
“These are quarterly reports from our three businesses.” He clears his throat, halving the pile of papers to place in front of me.
Shipping and logistics, construction, and real estate. Through these businesses, I hold the lion’s share of New York’s trade, construction, and real estate wealth.
A surge of pride spreads in my chest. I single-handedly built the legal empire, starting from rock bottom. Now half the city runs through the businesses I own.
And that journalist bitch wanted to ruin it all. Digging into the Moretti shipping business like a fucking stray dog sniffing for remains of trash. Illegal dumping. Toxic waste poisoning the ocean. Exploited labor in the docks.
That was what she wanted to write. Hell, she didn’t even need to write it. She spoke about it publicly, everywhere she went. My face was slowly becoming one of depravity.
Not to mention, if her crusade gained enough traction, it wouldn’t have taken long for someone to realize my ships didn’t just carry oil and steel. They also carried hard drugs.
She’s weaponizing a single mess one of my subcontractors made, and I already cleaned up. The idiot cuts corners and spills oil into the sea, forcing the dockworkers into a week of extra shifts they didn't want. Their union threw a tantrum over the whole cumbersome disaster, but I signed off on their bonus pay within three days. Problem solved.
Yet, she labeled it exploited labor. A scoff escapes my lips. She paints herself as a damn philanthropist, but all she wants is a career-making headline, not the facts.
A bullet to her head would have solved it all, but the legalities of the real world constrained the issues. She was so much in the open that any attempt on her life would rouse suspicion.
Enter Dean Rossi, the hero.
He’d waltzed into my club office a few days earlier, claiming he had something to silence the journalist. And he did, indeed. A USB drive containing a sex clip—a threesome with two of her minor interns.
The blackmail worked on the journalist, but it also forged an alliance.
Dean Rossi’s first daughter, the beautiful one he claimed wouldn’t be an eyesore, in exchange for protection and resources. I always hold the bargaining power in any deal, but I agreed, just to fuck that journalist up and save my mafia. Besides, a ring on my finger is the only way to get an old-school traditionalist like Grimaldi to finally stop stalling and sign the contract.
I’d wanted to tell him that no matter the resources I pooled, his mafia would forever remain small. Resources don’t build empires, vision does, and Dean doesn’t have the spine to dream, let alone lead something powerful.
“…Your wife has also settled in the west wing,proprio come hai ordinato(just like you instructed).”
I retrace my thoughts back to reality when I hear that word.Wife. Fuck. Even at forty-two, the title feels foreign.
“Her personal belongings have been taken to her. For the sake of the legal contract, Boss, you might want to appear in frequent public meetings with her. Get acquainted with her to—”
“Send her in,” I find myself saying before I can stop it. “And set a meeting with Dean Rossi.”
