Page 18 of Petrichor

Tight ass.A vision of that pink thong tries to sneak through my thoughts. “One of them knew Fly. They argued just before he recognized me and started the fight. His name was Jerry.”

“Tall? Chicago accent, ugly mug, acts like he owns the place?” Luca asks.

I nod. He keeps going. “He’s an Enzino soldier. Joined the family a few years ago. A little bitch. He came at you outside that coffee shop a few months back, bitching about a car you stole. Remember?”

That’s why he acted like we’d met before. He was so insignificant, I completely forgot about him. “I didn’t steal his car. He accused me of bribing the mechanic to get a car part he had been waiting for.”

“Which you did.” I shrug at Seb’s statement. That little bitch should have taken it to the mechanic not me, he’s the one who accepted the extra money.

“Who’s this Fly? The name sounds abrasive.” I knew Seb wouldn’t let it go. I’m sure he already knows that Fly slept at my place. Didn’t mean a damn thing, because after what happened ten years ago, I don’t get close to anybody except for the people in this room. Fly spending the night was just an odd occurrence.

“He’s nobody. We fought the Enzinos together. I had a migraine. He drove me to my place.”

“He drove you.” Seb echoes my words letting me hear how fucking weird it is that I let a stranger inside my car. In the driving seat. In my home. “Are you going to see him again?”

Instead of replying, I twirl the wine inside the curvy glass, then push my nose over the rim and inhale the dry, fruity bouquet. I take a sip and let the smooth liquid envelop my tongue. The finish is always long-lasting with this variety ofvinoand the texture full-bodied. But the reason why I like it so much is because it comes from Sicily, the island where my nonno was born before moving to the States later on.

“He sure will. Fly owes Marco money,” Luca answers for me, before lifting his glass in a toast. “To keep a full head of hair in the years to come.” He gulps down the wine in one go. The dickhead can’t even pretend to enjoy the taste.

“He ruined my shirt with his drink,” I clarify. They know how much I love my suits. They’re all tailored by a skillful craftsman who makes the most perfect pieces—the finest, first-rate prime quality. In my line of work my clothes get easily ruined since I send them to the dry cleaner’s often. Blood and other bodily fluids often sully the fabric, which for this reason has to be resistant and superior quality. As time goes by, instead of caring less I’m becoming more meticulous, almost pedantic when it comes to what to wear.

Seb hums, lacing his hands in front of his mouth, elbows propped on the massive desk.

“You said he knew that Jerry guy. Did he owe him money as well?”

“Not sure. But I believe they hooked up.” I take another sip from my glass while Seb keeps studying my face. I’m used to his intense stare, so much that I’m immune to it. Plus, there's nothing else to say about Fly. The fact that he sucked me off has no weight at all.

My eyes fall on Luca’s polished black shoes. I can see blood stains on the tips and sides. He follows my eyes and grunts the word “interrogation.” Which means he was sent to make someonetalkyesterday.

“Without me?” My brow kicks up.

“An employee of one of our companies, Derringer, who decided to run his mouth to the Corettis,” he explains.

Since Seb’s become thecapo, the family went corporate. Nowadays criminal organizations prefer to disguise their illegal activities behind a corporate mask. Many big companies are headed byorganized crime, while most people dismiss it as malicious rumors or prefer to ignore it.

We do use the usualhands-onapproach when it’s needed—Luca and I are specialized in taking care of the hard stuff—the Italian Mafia is still a merciless organization. We just wear finer suits and have a college degree.

“Did he tell them anything compromising?” I ask.

“He started talking after I sliced the third finger.” Torture is still the best way to make bastards talk. “Coretti seems to have it out for us, for some reason. Derringer heard one of the Coretti’s crew talking on the phone about a third meeting between his boss and Enzino.”

Since they are the only other two Italian families in New York, a secret meeting between them looks dodgy.

“A coalition?” I ask, refusing the joint Seb tries to hand me. It’s not unknown for families to unite in order to crush the competition. And since Don Massimo,il capo deicapi, died a year ago, it has been tough to keep things peaceful.

“Coretti owns the north east side of the docks, Enzino the north west. They could start smuggling weapons and drugs if they join forces, without buying from us anymore,” Seb states. We own the whole south side of the docks, which is where the weapons come through.

“Sounds improbable. Coretti intends to retire in a year or two, but the only blood he has left is his sister’s son, and he’s a junky. Even though he’s old school, he’d never help Enzino…unless. Why did he come to see you two weeks ago? You never told us.” Luca looks at Seb. That’s right. I remember that meeting. Coretti asked Seb to speak alone.

“He alluded to a wedding to bring our families closer.”

Cazzo! I already know what Seb replied.

“Enzino has two young sons, and Coretti has one daughter. It's only logical that when I turned him down, he looked elsewhere,” Seb adds.

Coretti must have gone to Seb first out of respect for Don Massimo since they had been school mates—and also because we own the whole south side of the docks. Coretti has been trying to expand his shipping company for a while now.Coreis an integrated transport and logistics firm and operates a worldwide fleet of tankers, supply ships, terminals, and other vessels. That company is his pride and joy.

“That’s why Enzino stayed on the low lately, smug dickhead. He doesn’t want us to find out about those secret meetings with Coretti,” Luca ponders out loud with a scowl on his face.

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