“How is your wife?” I ask, a little reminder of what is at stake.
“Enjoying my money,” he says briskly and accepts a tiny, pickled shrimp from a passing caterer. He looks at me, and the corner of his gaze tightens. “But we are looking forward to our retirement, which seems to be coming close.” His way of telling me things are moving along nicely.
He must have found his replacement. I’ll have to check in soon. I touch his shoulder and squeeze. “I’m so very glad to hear it, but you will be missed, John.” I release his shoulder and, with a final nod, make my way further into the room, greeting everyone who stops to make small talk.
It’s a way to remind people who is really in charge of the city. Not the mayor or the police department, but the Mafia. We rule with a subtle scepter most days or an iron fist on the days it becomes necessary.
When I have a moment’s pause from greetings, I take in the museum, which in itself is impressive. In the center of the main gallery is a photo of a single-person submarine in a glass box. I pause in front of it, not because I have any interest in submarines but because of the man who stands beside it. The police commissioner, Waylon Vigneault.
After I was thrown into the Pits and forced to kill my best friend, I did the unthinkable for someone in my position and openly, brazenly, threw my lot in with Vigneault. I would never, ever be in the position of being manipulated again. From here forward, it would be me doing the manipulating. Working with the law…being almost lawful… That was a fuck you to my father and to Carina’s, a tightrope I began to walk, a dance of giving each side just enough of what they needed to keep them happy and keep myself alive.
The Five Families fed me what they wanted me to give Vigneault—scraps and shreds that would lead to busts that didn’t impact the Mafia, usually. Vigneault let us operate unmolested in most venues, provided we helped them out and kept the gang warfare to a minimum. It was an arrangement that had worked well enough for the past five or so years that I and my family, by extension, were untouchable by any law enforcement agency.
Getting Vigneault on my side was, without a doubt, the wisest decision I ever made.
“Waylon, how are you?” I ask, taking the old man’s hand. Waylon gives me a genuine smile. He understands his role, and it’s a role he’ll maintain no matter the cost. He’s comfortable in his position.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” He points at the submarine with a flute of champagne.
“It is. We are surrounded by history,” I say with little to no interest.
“Men make history, not machines,” he declares, facing me fully.
I hold up my drink. “I’ll drink to that.” He clicks his glass against mine, and we share a moment of silence. We are the men who are making history. Crafting our worlds as we see fit. And it wouldn’t be possible without each other.
A waiter stops with a platter of goat cheese and salami-stuffed dates. I decline, but Waylon accepts, and once he does, the waiter disappears into the crowd that seems to have given myself and Waylon a wide berth.
“I believe the decks hold the most impressive aircraft,” he states. I’m sure he has seen them as many times as I have, but I know this is code for ‘Let’s go where we will have more privacy to talk.’
“I’d love to take in the sights.” He leads, and I follow, both of us stopping several times to brush shoulders with more people trickling in. I speak to two more judges who are in our pockets. When we reach the deck, it’s not as congested with people. Blue and purple lights shine on different aircraft, and my eye is drawn to each of them. Up here, the air is fresh, the breeze slight and cool, and the soft sound of the river rustling by with only faint sounds from the orchestra playing below deck.
“I need to make the borough safer,” I say, both standing in front and just beneath an aircraft. Waylon polishes off his snack before he nods in agreement, but there is a questioning gleam in his eye. “There has been an uptick in petty shit that, if not squashed now, could become more dangerous.”
“Of course. Isn’t that everyone’s goal?” he answers, but it’s clear he thinks I want arrests to rise.
Jail’s a waste. I want the bottom-feeders out of my way. Some get brave and think they can disrupt my business. They are more of a nuisance than anything else, but they’re the kind of nuisance I want taken care of before they grow bolder. Give a man enough rope, and he will hang himself. So I want it unraveled for them, and I want their fear to be so severe that they would piss themselves tying the knot.
I hear a commotion behind us and take a quick glance over my shoulder, stifling a groan as the thin stem of the champagne flute snaps between my fingers. Waylon looks at me in narrow-eyed surprise.
“Don’t fucking start,” I mutter. He lifts his hands in concession.
Not here for a fucking day, and already she’s fucking everywhere.
The vicious surge of jealousy that swells up at the sight of Carina strutting in on the arm of State Representative Henry Staton takes me by surprise, and I grab another glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray before downing it in one swift swallow.
She moves fast.
Carina boldly moves toward me with Staton on her arm. She looks dazzling with a red figure-hugging dress painted onto her skin, leaving nothing to the imagination, even with everything covered. Her hair flows down her back in silky, dark curls that I ache to plunge my hands into.
Every man on deck is focused on Carina. She knows the power she holds over the room. Boys normally like their toys, such as all the big aircraft around, yet Carina, with her swaying hips and coy eye, has captured the room.
Carina’s gaze never wavers from mine, and when she reaches me and Vigneault, she tightens her hold on Staton’s arm, pressing her breast into his arm. My fingers tighten around the stem of my new glass, wishing it was his scrawny neck.
“Henry, this is Luca, a local businessman.”
I fight a grin. Is that what I am now? Waylon excuses himself as a group of people approaches, leaving me with Carina and the eager puppy. Which reminds me… I glance deliberately around.
“Where’s your other dog, Carina? I don’t see Baccio.”
Her lips tighten. “Father insisted I leave him at the Palisades estate for the evening.”
Her fresh off-the-boat escort misses the insult. His gaze is too clear, his smile too wide. He has freckles, for God’s sake. I smile toothily. “Are we having fun yet?”
Henry holds out his hand. “Yes, indeed. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Luca.”
I have pocketed my fair share of politicians, but Henry is new to our world and I haven’t approached him yet. Now he has my full attention for all the wrong reasons.
I take his hand and tighten my fingers around his, not releasing his hand. “What kind of business are you in?” he asks as I continue to hold onto his hand.
“Mm. I do all manner of things,” I reply. “Finance. Legal shit. Security.” I shake my head. “It’s been a bit rough out there lately.” I release his hand.
Henry gives a quick, polished smile. “Well, that’s what we are here to do. Clean up the streets.”
I lift an eyebrow, wondering if that’s his best go at a piss-poor logo. But I smile back. “What a fine job you are doing,” I compliment him.