My car waits where I left it, a black Maserati, sleek and powerful. The leather seat is cold against my back as I slide in. I start the engine, feeling the vibration through the steering wheel. This, at least, is under my control.
I pull away from the private airfield, my mind already shifting to the meeting ahead. Sophia Brewer has requested a substantial loan. Normally, I wouldn’t bother with such a small business. But her bakery is a long-established staple in Little Italy, making it customary to at least take the meeting.
I drive toward the city center, watching the snow-covered landscape blur past. My empire isn’t built on marriages or family connections. It’s built on debts owed and collected. On fear, respect, and the quiet understanding of what happens to those who forget either.
On the absolute certainty that Raffaele Russoalwayscollects what he’s owed.
And right now, what I want is to get this meeting over with so I can return to more pressing matters.
Cleveland rises before me, gray and industrial against the winter sky.
My territory. My rules.
My office downtown stands seventeen floors above the Cleveland streets, the entire top floor of a building I own outright. As I push through the heavy oak doors, my receptionist—Valerie or Victoria, something with a V—rises to greet me the moment I step inside.
“Mr. Russo, welcome back. Your two o’clock appointment called to confirm she’s on her way.”
I check my watch. One forty-five. Punctuality is a promising start. “Send her in as soon as she arrives.”
“Of course. Would you like coffee?”
“No.” I shrug off my overcoat, handing it to her outstretched arm. “No interruptions once she’s here.”
I stride through the outer office into my private sanctuary of quiet and control, closing the door behind me with a satisfying click. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Cleveland, gray and snow-dusted below.
This is where the real business happens. Not the legitimate operations that occupy the lower sixteen floors, but the transactions that built the Russo family fortune over generations.
Loans. Collections. And when the latter proves difficult, punishment.
I move to the bar cart in the corner and pour two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. Then I select a cigar from the humidor on my desk, carefully clip the end, and light it. The rich smoke fills my lungs, then curls toward the ceiling as I exhale.
At precisely two o’clock, there’s a knock at my door.
“Enter,” I call, not moving from my position by the window.
My receptionist opens the door. “Ms. Sophia Brewer to see you, Mr. Russo.”
I turn slowly, assessing the woman who walks in. Sophia Brewer is in her mid-forties, though she carries herself with the straight-backed poise of someone younger.
She wears a simple gray wool coat over practical clothes, nothing flashy or desperate. Her dark hair shows threads of silver at the temples, pulled back in a neat twist. Her face is lined but dignified, showing character rather than weakness.
“Ms. Brewer.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Please sit.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Russo.” Her voice is steady as she removes her coat and takes the offered seat. No trembling hands. No nervous fidgeting.
I move to my chair, bringing my whiskey with me. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
I take my seat, leaning back slightly to establish dominance in the space. “I’ve heard good things about your bakery. The Brewer Family Bakery in Little Italy, correct? Your cannoli are apparently quite authentic.”
A small smile touches her lips. “Thank you,” she breathes. “The recipe has been in my family forever.”
“Family traditions are important.” I tap my cigar against the crystal ashtray. “My grandfather spoke highly of your establishment.”
“We’ve been serving the community for three generations.”
“And now you’re here.” I take a sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch.
