Page 97 of Mafia King: Matteo
“Izzy, will you be my maid of honor? I have Penny from work and Matteo’s sister as bridesmaids. I hope you can still fly. We’re getting married at Matteo’s place on a Florida beach.”
“Of course, I will be there. I need a dress big enough,” she jokes as she glances at her silent husband. “Dmitry, their wedding is next month.”
“Great. I love Florida.” His cheek moves slightly. “We should head inside. I hear cocktails are flowing.”
“What’s your poison?” Matteo asks.
“Vodka, what else?”
Matteo chuckles at the obvious answer for a Russian. We walk inside and make our way to the bar.
“With the cost of tickets, we could have all flown to Russia for vodka,” Dmitry murmurs, “and it would be better than this shit. But we do what we must, da?”
“Da,” I hear Matteo. I wonder if he can speak Russian.
I turn my attention to Izzy and hold her arm as we walk through the crowd. It’s a carnival atmosphere with gold and black helium balloons covering the ceiling.
A band is playing piano and violins. It’s dark music, dramatic at times, and I envision it setting the tone for a sinister scene in a movie.
“Look at the ice sculptures,” Izzy says as she glances at a banquet table with appetizers. I turn and see the sculpture of a Renaissance couple; he’s wearing a striped shirt and tux, and the woman has a mask around her eyes. There is another sculpture of a jester.
“No expense was spared,” I murmur.
Dmitry hands Izzy a seltzer, and Matteo hands me a dirty martini. Now that the men have a drink in hand, we decide to circle the room. The gowns are incredible, and the air is filled with the aroma of roast beef and perfume.
I feel naked without Vito and worry that no one is armed, and I assume everyone will be on their best behavior.
I overhear Dmitry and Matteo talking about computers. I’m relieved that the two have one common ground, as I’m sure they are both unprepared to navigate the new alliance forced upon them.
CHAPTER 33
MATTEO
I believe the councilman will eventually run for a congressional seat when he’s bored with the city. He’s on his second four-year term and will have to wait four years before he can run again.
He spared no expense on this event. The money raised could easily feed a third-world country for a year. Addler must have his eyes on larger budgets. He runs the district over Staten Island Shores and is working on converting an old landfill into a park.
It’s a noble cause, but I’m not convinced it’s feasible. I’m sure Santino Moretti is drooling over it. Moretti is in waste management. The public doesn’t realize what a money-maker old landfills have become. Creating new ones is too expensive for cities as land is expensive. Converting an old landfill is cheaper and requires the help of mafia-held companies with the infrastructure to make it a viable alternative.
Everything in a landfill is recycled. Old landfills are converted to new ones that collect methane on every level, creating clean energy. Items are recycled and composted. The various sources of energy they provide are then sold back to utility companies, which charge a premium for electricity as no distinction between clean energy sources and fossil fuels is made.
I don’t see how the city can’t close down a landfill without opening another. This is why I’ve always invested in land. Land lasts forever, like the sky. I’m not surprised multibillionaires are investing in space. It’s the newest frontier.
Dmitry and I discussed my tech company, and I’m willing to share in its profit with his technological help. He’ll speed up the process of the new app.
I take Alena by the hand and excuse us from our friends. I need a word with Addler. I find him shaking hands with strangers. Alena is as polite as can be when she interjects into the conversation about his work, which involves cutting red tape for state benefits to go to low-income families.
“Why thank you, Ms.?”
“Alena Pasnov, this is my fiancé, Matteo Borrelli. He’s interested in helping more with your reelection. Do you have a minute?” She puts her hand through his arm and steers him away from prying eyes. It’s a crowded event. He’s expected to give a few minutes to his supporters.
“Ms. Pasnov, sure, I’d be happy to,” he replies. Meanwhile, she steers him in my direction. I take him aside from the woman wanting to speak with him about a needle exchange program for the city, and quickly state how I would like his support for my building when it comes up for a vote at the next meeting.
“I’m not into those issues. We need more public housing than hotels.” His frankness is appreciated, but he’s preaching to the wrong man. I’d love to punch him for being a pompous ass, but I need him.
I whisper into his ear, as the message is for him and no one else. “I have intel that complaints about your apartment building are never looked into. I’d hate for a fire to rage through your buildings. It would result in dozens of injured people trapped and dying from smoke and fire due to faulty fire alarms. The investigation would find you negligent. Your career would go up in smoke. If you vote on my hotel variance, I can ensure that doesn’t happen.”
The councilman’s jaw drops. He quickly recovers with a smile on his face.
