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Paulo rolled his eyes, pouring another measure of scotch into Luca’s glass, then his own.“Spare me.The day I let a woman control my world is the day hell freezes over.”
Sal leaned back, lips curling into a faint smile.“Better buy a coat, old man.Hell gets cold fast.”
Tony, walking into the room silently as he listened to the jibes, then snorted as he poured his own glass of scotch, shaking his head.“If the three of you are done comparing whose balls are bigger, maybe we can get back to work.”
The room rumbled with laughter, even Paulo’s, before the conversation finally shifted back to business—legitimate ventures, shady ventures, and the thin line they all walked between power and chaos.
Chapter 19
Enricowasgettingtwitchy,his nerves stretched so tight it felt like sparks were crawling under his skin.His plan to take down Salvatore Romano wasn’t moving fast enough.Hell, it wasn’t moving at all.
That useless slut—Diane, or whatever the hell her name was—had stopped checking in.He’d ordered her to send him daily updates.Daily.For five days after he’d sent her off to Chicago—five thousand of his dollars in her purse, mind you—she’d reported in.She’d landed a job at some strip club near Romano’s house.Near, but not close enough, in his mind.More than ten miles away.Ten miles!
He’d texted back, ordering her to fix it, to get closer.Her reply?That she’d adopted a dog and was walking it past Romano’s place several times a day.
A dog.
Enrico had nearly thrown his phone through the wall.What the fuck was she doing with a dog?How in the hell was walking a mutt supposed to lure Romano out of his fortress?The man didn’t have a dog.He’d told her that.He’d ordered her to ditch the leash and find a way into Romano’s house, his circle, his bed.
Her next brilliant update?Shopping.She was buying groceries at the store closest to his mansion, waiting for him to “just show up.”
Shopping.
Enrico’s vision had gone red.Romano was worth billions.Billions!Even counting only the legitimate businesses the IRS knew about, the man was wealthier than Enrico could ever imagine.Did that stupid bitch really think a billionaire, a crime boss who was constantly surrounded by a team of bodyguards, did his own damn grocery shopping?
He’d texted her back, telling her to stop being stupid and start following Romano, figure out where he went.That at least had gotten him a list of Romano’s daily outings—useless crap, all of it.Nothing that got her closer.
Enrico’s fist slammed against the glass table, making the chrome legs rattle.She wasn’t getting the job done.He needed a new plan.A real plan.
Maybe Matteo could come up with something.But then he remembered—Matteo had already lost the girl, his fiancée, like an idiot.And truth be told, Matteo wasn’t built for creativity.Brutality, sure.The bastard could beat soldiers and associates into line, keep the vendors paying their “protection” on time.But brains?No.
Enrico’s lip curled.No one around him had brains.That was the damn problem.
“Hey, boss.”
A new guy.Some ass with broad shoulders and a stupid smirk walked in, tossing a bag of cash from the protection runs on the table.“Collections came in a little light this week.But we’ve got a new shipment of product coming in.Supposed to be strong stuff.Real kick.”
Enrico’s mood eased just a fraction, his shoulders loosening at the news.He smiled, wolfish.“Good.Our special customers deserve a little variety, eh?”
The guy nodded, smiling like he’d just been patted on the head.“Absolutely, boss.”
Enrico stared.The way the guy kept nodding, he looked like an idiot bobblehead doll.Irritation burned in his gut again.
But maybe—just maybe—this guy had more than sawdust between his ears.
“So…” Enrico leaned forward, his voice low and sharp.“What’s your name?”
“Raffy, boss.Raffy Lupo.”
Tall.Muscles stacked like bricks and handsome.At least, the ladies would probably label him handsome.And yet, something about the guy grated on Enrico.Still, there was a flicker in his eyes—maybe intelligence, maybe not.Not many men with muscles like that had a great deal of intelligence.
“You think you can be more useful than some stage bimbo who flaunts her boobs for cash?”Enrico demanded.
Raffy blinked, then shrugged.“Sure, boss.I work directly for Matty.Whatever you need.”
Enrico sneered.“Matty.”The babyish nickname disgusted him—but then Enrico smirked.“Yeah, that works.”He leaned forward on his elbows, voice turning cold.“Tell me, Raffy—what do you know about Salvatore Romano?”
The guy hesitated, then said, “Head of the Chicago group?He’s a good guy.”
