Page 25 of Mafia Redeemer

Below our positions are Made Men. They’re of Italian descent, usually Sicilian in our branch. It’s not automatically hereditary, but it pretty much is. Half a step down are associates. They’re our non-Italian men. They serve us just like Made Men and are loyal to our family, but they can’t be born into theCosa Nostra. They are few and far between. Beneath even that are thesoldatior soldiers. They haven’t risen through the ranks to Made Man. They run our low-level street hustles, rough people up, and steal. Enforcers are practically at the bottom of the ladder, but for years, Gabriele existed in limbo.

He wasn’t acapobecause of his ties to Carmine, but he was far more respected and trusted than a regular enforcer. The man can have the patience of a saint. He scares the shit out of people just from his size and his demeanor. But anyone who knows him knows he’s actually the least inclined to violence of all of us. He sets bugs free and would take every wounded animal to a vet if he could.

Carmine didn’t officially earn the title ofcapountil he came clean about what happened to him when he was a kid. He’d served as one, but Uncle Salvatore refused to acknowledge it. That was the same time when Uncle Salvatore promoted Gabriele, too.

Marco, Matteo, and I earned our positions by our actions and commitment to our family, but we basically stepped into the roles and title when we were old enough. We didn’t have to prove ourselves the way Carmine and Gabriele did.

Chellie brings me back to the present.

“I told my boss, Enzo. Anderson took care of it. Simon knows he’s not welcome in our office again, and he’s to stay away from me. Susan wasn’t thrilled when Anderson told her, but my boss had a hunch and did some digging through public records. Apparently, Simon’s been sued before. Three women accused him of inappropriate touching and intimidation. I don’t know what happened to them, but Simon settled them all.”

She’s not telling me anything I didn’t already know. Before I left, I asked Carmine to dig a bit more. This kind of man not only makes dubious business deals, he makes dubious friends. I want to know about everyone in his life from his barber to the doctor who examines his prostate.

“Are you going to have to deal with him through your client?”

She hesitates, and I stop. She turns to look up at me.

“Yeah. That’s unavoidable because he’s such an important donor. But I don’t have to meet with him. I don’t even have to talk to him. I can do everything through email.”

“Did Anderson or Susan tell your client what happened?”

She shifts from one foot to the other. Finally, she shakes her head as she looks down.

“Why can’t you look at me? Did you tell them not to mention it? Or are you frustrated because they wouldn’t?”

“I told them not to. I’m not ashamed of it. I did nothing wrong. But I don’t want our client picking sides and not choosing us. They bring us a shit ton of billable hours, and they’re well connected. If they fire us, then other charities will follow them. I don’t want one asshole to ruin my job. Anderson wouldn’t fire me, but Susan would.”

If Susan were a man, I’d deal with her the same way I am Simon.

“What happens when your client wonders why you won’t hold meetings with Simon anymore?”

“I don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

I don’t press the issue even though I want to. I don’t want to ruin our night. We walk into Constantine’s, and Manny, my manager — yes, he’s been teased plenty about that — seats us. It’s not like I can’t pick out the best table in the place. But it does make it feel a bit more like a date when he pulls out Michelle’s chair and offers her the wine menu. I watch Enrico wipe his hands as he leaves the kitchen.

“Hey, boss.”

He slaps me on the back as he comes to stand beside me, looking at Michelle. If the man weren’t gay as the day is long, I might take offense to how appreciative his gaze is.

“Michelle, this is Enrico. We’ve known each other since we were toddlers. He used to serve me mud pies.”

“Which you ate.”

“I did not.”

I grin. My mother says I did, and his mother said I didn’t. Who can remember the truth? Not us since we were three. We became friends for real in elementary school. I’m a Mancinelli, and he’s a Martinez. Our names were close enough that we always ended up next to each other in lines. I’m fully Italian as in both my parents’, my siblings’, and my cousin’s, and my first language was Italian, followed by Sicilian, then English. Enrico’s mother is of Italian descent three or four generations back, and his father moved with his family to New York from Mexico when he was fifteen. That’s why it’s an Italian-Mexican fusion restaurant.

Michelle laughs, and I grin. Enrico looks at me like I sprouted a second head. He shifts his gaze to Michelle then back to me. I don’t like that knowing expression. He sees way too much. Fortunately, he starts explaining the new dishes before I get too uncomfortable.

“I have an avocado y palmito salad that combines avocado with palm hearts, along with mixed greens in a light vinaigrette. I can also offer you pasta con mole, so fettucine with mole sauce. I’m refining a pollo con hongos y crema pasta which is grilled chicken with mushrooms in a cream sauce over pasta. And finally, polpette en tamales. It’s Italian meatballs wrapped in a corn-based dough steamed in banana leaves.”

I watch Michelle, and she looks interested in all of them. Thank God because they’ll all be delicious. I’ll make a pig of myself if I ask for them, and she isn’t interested in eating half.

“Bring us a sampling of each, Rico. Thanks.”

He nods and turns on his heels before calling out orders as he enters the kitchen. The staff all speak English, but half speak Italian and half speak Spanish too. The commands come in English, Spanglish, and Itanglese. Somehow, they all know what he’s saying. Michelle laughs and shakes her head.

“I can’t wait to see what happens with those dishes.”

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