Page 25 of The Almost One

“The Napolitanos want River.”

My head whips to Enzo and my blood boils with rage at his narrowed eyes and ticking jaw.

“Then a war they shall have.”

* * *

The hotel renovations are on schedule, which is, in and of itself, a feat. But paying a fee that’s higher than the asking price usually drives people’s motivation.

The meeting with my capos is on a constant loop in my mind, but the different ways to protect River are at the forefront. It’s my only priority, if I’m honest, keeping my family safe, but I’m going to need help from those I trust to do so.

A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me it’s time to pack up and get my ass to Staten Island, where a very serious and potentially uncomfortable conversation will have to take place with my wife. Any time I ask her to lay low, she tends to do the exact opposite, but this time is different. This time, all bets are off.

“Sir, here are the bottles you requested along with fresh lime.” André places the bag on my desk and waits to see if I have any other requests.

“Thank you. Go home and enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.” Bowing his head like he’s speaking to royalty—still makes me uneasy—he walks out. I do the same, gathering all I need to work from home if necessary.

As I’m shutting off my computer, there’s rustling outside my door and André’s voice clearly saying I’m not taking visitors moments before the door swings open wide, and two figures loom over me like a bad mob movie from the fifties.

I lean back in my chair, not bothering to stand and greet the men. Pressing the emergency button under my desk that immediately alarms Enzo, I place my gun at the small of my back, hidden by my jacket.

“Sir, what can I do?” André is in panic mode, but I can’t show emotion, it’s what these fuckers want and I refuse to give it to them.

“It’s fine, André. Go home.” I need him to leave and stay safe in case this goes badly. I’m watching the older man, his balding head reflecting the overhead light, a thin sheen of sweat coating it, which tells me he’s not as confident as he’d like me to believe.

“Ambrosio, I didn’t realize you were in The City.” I’m trying to figure out when the fuck this asshole landed on my soil. He’s supposed to be in Naples, not on my fucking turf. The problem is that I cannot turn him away, that would be offensive, and I have far too much at stake to show my hand so soon. We are equals in status, but my reach is exponentially larger than his will ever be.

To the outside world, I’m relaxed and in control, but inside, I’m livid. This isn’t how we do business. We do not ambush. We do not show up without a courtesy call when stepping into someone else’s domain. They are trying to push me into a reaction, but I am a bigger man than that. At least that’s what I want them to believe anyway.

“Marco,come stai?” Giuseppe Ambrosio enters my office like I imagine a king would walk into his castle. Dressed in a charcoal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and no tie, he looks every bit the part of the businessman walking into an office to make a deal. His son, Ugo, on the other hand, is still a little punk ass bitch with a chip on his shoulder the size of his ego.

I stand, my hands in my pockets like I don’t have a worry in the world. I’m not afraid to die, this job pretty much guarantees a short life span on most days, but I’ll be damned if I go down without a brawl.

Giuseppe goes in for an accolade, both hands on either of my shoulders as he leans in and plants a kiss on one cheek then the other. “Tutte le mie condoglianze per tuo padre.” I doubt this guy flew across the fucking Atlantic Ocean just to express his condolences.

“Grazie.” My eyes shoot to Ugo, who doesn’t pay his respects, only stands there with laser eyes barely hiding his murderous intent like he’s just waiting for me to run. Fuck that. I don’t run, I fight.

I’m guessing Enzo might take a while before he arrives, given the rush hour traffic on a Friday evening, and I have no doubts this ambush was a calculated move to get me alone and vulnerable.

“You know,” Giuseppe walks around my office, looking at the books on my shelf that are mostly about New York City architecture at the turn of the twentieth century, before he cocks his head to the side and stares at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. “I liked you, Marco. Your father and I had plans for this business. A…come si dice?” He’s looking for a word and I know damn well he’s just trying to be dramatic, but I don’t have time for these games.

“A partnership?” I offer the word so he can continue his diatribe. I suppose the more he talks the fewer bullets will fly.

“Si, si. A partnership, yes.” Raising his index finger at me, he shakes it almost in my face like he’s trying to scold me. “But you, Marco, did not keep your promise.”

Internally, I’m rolling my eyes, because this again?

“Giuseppe, I’m sorry you felt you had to come all the way out here for this, but I never promised to marry your daughter. That was between you and my father and honestly, I don’t think Elizabeth wanted to marry me either.”

Ugo is now fuming, his nostrils are opening and closing, his mop of dirty blonde hair is sitting on top of his head like it has no place to go except flatly around his skull.

“You sullied her, you son of a bitch.”

Wait, I what?

I’m confused and my face must show that something is not computing.

“She’s no longer a virgin because of you, Marco, which means none of the Italian families want to take her as a don’s wife.” Giuseppe’s voice is hard now, with a hint of defiance, just waiting for me to call out his daughter as the liar she must be.

---