Page 72 of Giovanna

Elio attends one meeting in every five and signs off everything rather than reading what it is and applying judgement. It’s lucky our executive leadership team has been with us for so long that we can trust them not to take advantage of the disinterest he shows. Not that I’m not keeping a close eye on things.

Events he is good at. He never misses a liquid lunch or tickets to the footy. He schmoozes better than anyone I know, but that just isn’t enough.

“He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be the boss. He doesn’t want to marry Francesca. He’s running away from his problems and responsibilities.”

The very things I want, that I have waited for, he has on a silver platter, but he doesn’t want them. He would rather hide behind a bottle, between the legs of strangers.

“Nightmare. Anyway, we need to sort out the fuckers who threatened Francesca. You said you’ve tracked them down?”

Energised at the prospect of enacting violence, Matty sits up straighter. “The guys picked up two of them this morning. Not the ringleader though, the Billy guy. He’s ghosted.”

“Where are they? The other two.”

“Should be arriving at the warehouse shortly,” he grins. “You coming with?”

The men terrified Francesca. They left her with bruises. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

“Yeah, why not,” I respond.

There is something disturbingly comforting about walking into the warehouse. It’s been several months since I had to get my hands dirty and, as much as we aren’t supposed to admit these kinds of things, there is nothing like the buzz of fucking up someone who has fucked you over.

It’s an unbranded, unremarkable warehouse in the middle of a quiet industrial district. It has been in the family since before Dad moved to Australia. Nonno got creative with property records at the time and now two generations later it is virtually impossible to trace the place back to us.

Mostly we use it for shifting our less-than-legal product, but in the basement, we have a dedicated room for extractions and cleanups. It is kitted out with every tool imaginable for extracting the truth from someone or cleaning up a loose end.

“Those things are going to kill you,” I nudge Fat Tony, looking pointedly at the cigarette dangling from his lips, and take a drag from my vape. He’s standing in the utilitarian atrium of our warehouse. It’s all brown and concrete and in serious need of renovation.

His face lights up and he wraps me in a boney hug. There is not a gram of fat on Fat Tony. Rumour has it that he was skin and bones from birth.

“Just wait, we’ll find out in ten years that those wanker puffers are even worse for you. Don’t ask me to donate you a lung,” his eyes twinkle in his weathered, wrinkly face as he jabs his burning cigarette at my vape. He must be in his late 50s, but the scrawny bastard looks about 100.

“You know as well as I do that we are more likely to cop a bullet than a cancer diagnosis,” I grin. I miss working with the guys. The banter is morbid and we all know we’re on borrowed time. It makes for a unique brotherhood. A brotherhood that at some point decided to open its arms to this tomboy dyke.

Fat Tony nods towards the elevator. “What’s so special about the brats downstairs that the big guns have come to sort them out?”

“I’m not the big guns, Fat,” I roll my eyes.

“Aw come on, G. I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I can see who’s running the show.”

I purse my lips, annoyed that I have to keep repeating the lines of loyalty to my brother like I’m a politician on the campaign trail. “Elio is the boss. I’m off downstairs. Say hello to Cath from me.”

Matty is already in the basement laying out a selection of tools. He’s taken off his blazer and business shirt and is wearing a singlet tucked into his dark trousers. I stroll into the sparse space rolling the sleeves up on my dress shirt and raise my eyebrows in greeting to two of our guys who have been tasked with standing guard over the prisoners.

The residual odour of bleach from previous clean-ups gives the place the smell of a hospital and an indoor swimming pool. The scent is nostalgic for me. This is where Dad taught me that leaders sometimes have to use fear and violence. It is where he showed me that the boss must be willing to do what he asks of his men.

I was about 12 the first time I was allowed down here. Maybe 14 when I witnessed my first cleanup. Seventeen when I was allowed to pick up the tools myself.

I was born to be mafia, I have no doubt. But it was Dad who crafted me into a ruthless killer. I don’t thrive on the bloodlust as much as Matty, but I feel the thrill and the power. It is intoxicating.

Elio avoids coming down here as much as possible. I honestly don’t know that he has even killed a man before. Something that would make him a total anomaly among dons. He’s the gentlest of us; the lover of all things light and pleasurable. The worst possible one of us to be Don.

My phone rings in my pocket and I’m about to silence it when I see it’s Elio calling.

“Good to see you’re alive,” I answer with a growl.

“What are you doing at the warehouse?” He barks.

“You would know if you had been around the past week.” My voice is a lot calmer than I feel. I want to rage at him. Demand he acts like a 36-year-old man and not a petulant 20-year-old who can’t think beyond the next party.

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