Page 20 of Savage Lover

“The Clark Street Bridge needs renovating,” he says. “We could bid on that.”

Gallo Construction has been taking on bigger and bigger projects lately. It’s funny—the Italian Mafia got into contraction so we could control the labor unions. It started in New York. For decades, there wasn’t a single construction project in NYC not controlled by the mob in one way or another. We bribed and strong-armed the union leaders, or even got elected ourselves. When you control a union, you control a whole industry. You can force the workers to slow or stop construction if the developers don’t make the proper “donations.” Plus you have access to massive union pension funds, almost totally unregulated and ripe for tax-free money laundering, or straight-up robbing.

But here’s the irony—when you get into a business for nefarious reasons, you sometimes start making a legitimate profit. That’s what happened to the mafia dons who moved to Las Vegas—they opened casinos to launder their illegal money, and all of a sudden, the casinos were raking in more cash than the illegal rackets. Whoops—you’re a legitimate businessman.

Bit by bit, that’s happening to Gallo Construction. Chicago is booming, especially our side of the city. The Magnificent Mile, Lake Shore Drive, the South and West Side retail corridors . . . there’s five billion in commercial construction going on this year alone.

And we’re getting more of it than we can handle.

We just finished a twelve-hundred-foot-tall high-rise. Papa wants the next project lined up. For once, I’ve got an idea . . .

“What about the South Works site?” I say.

“What about it?” Papa says, peering up at me from under his thick gray eyebrows. His eyes are beetle-dark, as sharp as ever.

“It’s four hundred and fifteen acres, completely untouched. It’s gotta have the biggest untapped potential in this whole damn city.”

“You ever see a python try to eat an alligator?” Dante says. “Even if it can strangle the gator, it chokes trying to swallow it down.”

“We don’t have the capital for that,” Papa says.

“Or the men,” Dante adds.

That may have been the case a year ago. But a lot has changed since then. Aida married Callum Griffin, the heir to the Irish Mafia. Then Callum became Alderman of the wealthiest district in the city. As the cherry on the sundae, Callum’s little sister hooked up with the head of the Polish Braterstwo. So we’ve got access to more influence and manpower than we ever had before.

“I bet Cal would be interested in my idea,” I say.

Dante and my father exchange scowls.

I know what they’re thinking. Our whole world has already been thrown into a blender. We were bitter rivals of the Griffins for generations. Now all of a sudden, we’re allies. It’s been going well so far. But there’s no baby to seal the alliance just yet—no shared heir between the two families.

Dante and Papa are fundamentally conservative. They’ve already had all the change they can stomach.

I’ll have to appeal to their competitive natures instead.

“If you don’t want to do it, that’s alright. The Griffins can probably handle it on their own.”

Dante lets out a sigh that’s more of a rumble. Like a dragon in a cave, forced to rouse itself in response to an intruder.

“Save the negging for the girls at the bar,” he growls. “I get your point.”

“Four hundred and fifteen acres,” I repeat. “Waterfront property.”

“Next to a shit neighborhood,” Papa says.

“Doesn’t matter. Lincoln Park used to be a shit neighborhood. Now Vince Vaughn lives there.”

Papa considers. I don’t talk while he’s thinking. You don’t stir the cement when it’s already setting.

At last he nods.

“I’ll set up a meeting with the Griffins to discuss,” he says.

Flush with success, I grab one of Greta’s biscotti, dunk it in the last of my coffee, and head down the stairs to the underground garage.

If I identify with any superhero, it would be Batman. This is my Batcave. I could live in it indefinitely, fucking around with machinery and only coming out at night to get into trouble.

I’m currently working on a 1930 Indian Scout motorcycle, a ‘65 Shelby CSX, and a ‘73 Chevy Corvette. Plus the Mustang I’ve been driving around. It’s a 1970 Boss 302, gold with black racing stripes. All original metal, V-8 with a manual transmission, only 48,000 miles on it. I swapped out the vinyl seats for sheep leather.

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