“I know what you do,” he says stubbornly.
“In the abstract.” His look is dubious. “That’s what these tours are about, Gio.”
“How many more field trips must I endure before you whip me, Valentin?” he asks, glib as ever.
“This is me revealing myself to you, unpolished and uncensored, so you can decide for yourself if this is truly what you want.”
He sighs and blows at an errant lock of hair that’s fallen in his face. “I could tell you what I want in ten different languages, and you still wouldn’t listen.”
One of my men knocks at my window to give me the all-clear. I hold up my hand, signaling him to wait
“I only speak two languages,” I remind him, “so why don’t you try one of those?”
His spine straightens and he pivots in the seat to address me directly. “I’m not going to leave you because you’re a mob boss. And it insults me that you think I would.”
I certainly don’t mean to wound his pride or doubt his commitment, but he needs to know my reasons. “In my previous romantic relationships and including those with my friends, I don’t talk about the family business. Most of my lovers thought I was strictly a businessman, and I discouraged them from asking questions. None of them were tied to the mob. None of them could have handled, truly handled, what I do. I’m showing you this side of me because I want to be completely transparent with you. No secrets and no lies through omission. I want you to know who I am, every facet of my character, so that there are no surprises for you later. I want you to trust me, Giovanni, and to do so, you must know me.”
He surveys my expression as if to ferret out any hint of mistruth. “I do know you, Valentin.”
I nod, electing not to argue with him. “Then, may we proceed?”
“Fine.”
I climb out of the car and offer him my hand, then lead him up the narrow stairwell reserved for employees to the second floor where I have my offices. The décor is dark—dark leather, dark upholstery, dark wood paneling, and dim lighting. One wall is a thick tinted glass window that looks out onto the dance floor, where I have watched Giovanni in another lifetime undulating to the music, his blond hair impossible to miss in the strobe lights. Tonight, he wears his leather pants and an oversized shirt that falls stylishly off one shoulder. His hair is loose around his shoulders, and he’s wearing eyeliner for the occasion, his own added touch. He resembles a broody artist, all the way down to the careless manner in which he flops onto one of the couches and sprawls elegantly across it, entitled and exquisite.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
He motions to the office with an insouciant wave of his hand. “You did say all of this was mine.”
“I said thiscouldbe yours. Big difference.”
“Tomato, tomah-to.”
I stalk across the room to stand over him, not glaring—not exactly—but giving him a look that means business. “I do not trifle with spoiled brats, young man, so adjust your attitude or there will be dire consequences for you later.”
He sits up a little straighter and crosses his arms in a pouty sulk. I tilt his chin upward and smooth my thumb along the plush curve of his fat lower lip. “Have I told you this evening how handsome you look?”
“Not yet,” he says, softening to the compliment.
“You know why I asked you to wear those pants?” He nods, squirming a little on the couch. I point to the glass. “I’m going to fuck you against that later, while you look out onto the dance floor and wonder if anyone can see you. That is, if you behave.”
“I’ll be good, I promise” he assures me. He knows now what’s at stake, and I breathe a little easier. Mouthing off in front of my friends is one thing, but I can’t have him challenging my authority in front of my subordinates.
My staff interrupts us then with a knock on the door and I order a tonic water with lime from the bartender, “and a Coca-Cola with all the cherries you can fit into it for my guest.” This earns me a small smile from my youthful paramour, my olive branch to the young man who tests me so relentlessly.
The club’s manager Angelo comes in next to shoot the shit for a few minutes. He keeps glancing over at Giovanni, probably wondering at his reason for being here. Even dressed like a rent boy, Giovanni acts like a member of the royal family, poised and elegant with his chin raised, looking down his perfect Romanesque nose at the man. Christ, it’s like staring at his grandfather.
“Is he looking for a job, Boss?” Angelo jerks his thumb in Giovanni’s direction. “If he is, I could use him on the floor.”
Red Room isn’t a gay bar, per se, but it’s in the heart of the gay district of NYC and has an “anything goes” sort of vibe. There are Go-Go dancers of all persuasions on platforms and suspended in cages. The bartenders are also chosen for their varied sex appeal. There’s a leather fetish night and an annual BDSM charity ball that Keller organizes, complete with a slave auction. My only hard-and-fast rule is that you must be twenty-one or older to enter. The only time I’ve ever bent that rule was for Giovanni.
“He isn’t looking for employment. He’s my guest for the evening,” I tell Angelo.
Angelo scans him one more time, likely calculating the best way to exploit him. Giovanni stares back coolly until Angelo looks away. It’s amusing and one more reason why he’d be perfect for the job. Even if Giovanni claims to not enjoy intimidating others, he’s a natural at it.
“All right, well, take care, Boss. I’ll be in the back if you need anything.”
After Angelo leaves, I’m visited by Danny, one of my underbosses who’s an Import/Export Specialist. Some of what we do is above board, like shipping used cars from Florida to New York where we resell them for two or three times as much. Other operations are less so, such as the import of generic prescription drugs from Canada. There’s a real market, especially among the elderly and chronically ill, for cheap medications. At my urging, Matthew Sr. seized the opportunity about a decade ago and we now have something of a monopoly on distribution in the Northeast.
