Page 11 of His Passerotta

“Settimo will call that weak.”

“Settimo will be wrong.”

“Will he be?” Lorenzo asks.

I don’t answer right away, giving myself a few moments to center myself while he studies me, most likely assessing my irritation. My advice being considered ‘weak’ is not new for us. It infuriates me to constantly be challenged, constantly proving myself to be as vicious as deemed fit by my family.

To be merciful is to be weak. To be cooperative is to be weak. To be smart is to be weak. There is nothing worth more than a man’s pride among the Grucos. All will bow or all will die. There is no compromise.

“Yes,” I finally say. “He will be. And as his advisor, it’s your job to make him see that. Unless, of course, you too believe I’m an idiot.”

“I don’t believe you’re an idiot.”

“Right, just weak,” I spit, instantly regretting it.

I’m not the underboss. I’m not the don.

I’m a capo. Capos don’t make the final call. Capos don’t whine when they don’t get their way.

Lorenzo’s head tilts, his eyes metaphorical magnifying glasses. “No, not weak. No one thinks you're weak. You’re just … a little soft.”

Soft.

Now I feel much better.

My eyes roll on their own accord.

“It can be a good thing. It provides a unique input to the familia that levels out the more aggressive approaches. Sometimes, your suggestions require serious contemplation. Other times, they should be ignored.”

“This time,” he goes on, “I think you’re right.”

The tightness in my face releases as his words register.

“Settimo will too, once he’s through being pissed at you.” Lorenzo’s eyes move back to the invisible burn on my face. “I’m sure he’s eager to hear the excuse for his own capo’s absence.” He gestures to his cheek. “You might want to wipe the lipstick off your face first.”

Lipstick?

I run my hand over the patch before looking down at the pink smudge across my palm.

Shit.

More smears onto the back of my hand when I rub what I’m hoping is the rest of the lipstick off. “It isn’t what it looks like.”

He raises a brow.

I lower my hand to tuck it into my pocket. Lorenzo’s gaze follows it. “I gave some girl a ride earlier, and when I dropped her off, she kissed me to express her gratitude. Pussy isn’t what made me late.”

Lorenzo just stares.

“I had a follow up on an investment opportunity that I couldn’t pull myself away from. It was across town, and traffic was?—”

“When you say follow up,” Lorenzo cuts in. “Do you mean, ‘second interview’ for a chef you’re considering for Au Revoir?”

My chest tightens, but I keep my spine straight so he can’t read into my posture.

How the fuck does he know what I was doing?

“No,” I lie. “It was?—”

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