1
Marchello
The crisp scent of the first rain after weeks of dryness lingers in the air as I get into my sports car heading out for a long night. The rain has cleaned the air and brings with it a refreshing cool wind.
The once colorful leaves of rich reds, yellows and green are now dark and decaying as they blow around as I speed by, testing the speed limits as my Ferrari takes the curves over the old and narrow roads. The sign ahead of me announces the town of Scandicci located south of Florence.
Tonight’s high stakes poker game is being held in a dimly lit banquet room in what was once an elegant hotel. The location and the quiet town makes this a safe place to use for illicit gambling because law enforcement would never think to look here.
Keeping an eye on the players in the room, I make sure they aren’t cheating. It sounds ridiculous considering the buy-in is in the double digits, but wealth is no indication of a man’s integrity when his chips are down, no pun intended.
I hide my mischievous smirk behind my hand as I read the men in the room. Most of them I know, and the ones I don’t have been vouched for by someone I have met. I still vet them as much as possible to ensure they aren’t snitches.
It should be no surprise I spent all my spare time playing chess and card games as a child. Even though I love a good game and strategy flows through my veins, it’s better to be on this side of the table. I can read people, which is a useful gift, especially in the dangerous world of organized crime with all its deceit and debauchery.
A waitress who wears a shirt that shows cleavage stops and asks if I want a drink. I tell her I want a soft drink. I cannot afford to look unprofessional or blur the line between me and the guests. I need a clear head, so drinking alcohol is reserved for the clubs.
I can always tell when Mr. Costa is getting nervous. He pushes his silver rimmed glasses up on his nose and chews on his lower lip. Sure enough, it’s not long before he folds his cards face down on the felt-lined table, and without much ado, leaves his seat. Last week he asked me to carry his debt, so now he’s only paying the interest.
I’m relieved he’s out of the game early, and even though his wife recently passed, business is business. His debt will need to be settled. He’s been a faithful client over the years but he’s squandering his money. Is it out of loneliness?
Boredom?
The young woman I hired to serve top shelf liquor brings Mr. Costa a glass of Campari. She’s not from here, her Italian is broken, and her Albanian accent serves as yet another reminder that Italy is more of a cosmopolitan country than thirty years ago, when it was mostly Italian. The influx of refugees from surrounding countries over the past decades has changed our landscape forever.
The waitresses won’t report me for illegal gambling because they are illegal. And unlike other bosses, I pay them instead of screwing them over and now I have cheap, trustworthy labor, and the word gets around their communities so I have more resources.
I rent this space from the hotel and pay off the managers to stay silent. I order overpriced trays of fruit and cheese and the most expensive Italian meats from the famous butchers in Florence to keep the guests from getting hungry. There’s no clock on the wall, another way to keep the game going to the wee hours of the morning.
My attention is drawn again to the young girl serving and I wonder what brought her to Italy. Then I remember I don’t care and I don’t like people from her country, or any other country for that matter. Especially after the Albanian mafia infiltrated our government with more aptitude than we anticipated and then had the balls to make a move on our nightclubs.
They used to operate in the north until this past year when they blatantly moved south to sell their drugs in our clubs. They know better, but it didn’t stop them from this premeditated infraction, and it had to be dealt with. It is my understanding Dante handled it.
Supposedly, the family made a move and Francesca and Sal were involved.
Ah. Francesca, my older brother’s fiancé. I can’t help but approve of a woman as smart and savvy as her–– she’s not one to over-share, preferring to let her actions speak louder than any words. With those lethal hands, she’s someone I want on my side when shit goes down. She’s a real hellcat if I ever saw one. Women like her don’t come along often, so it’s up to men like me to stay vigilant in this business dominated by men.
All I know is Sal and Francesca went on a long weekend ski trip to Milan and from there they traveled further north. One of our soldiers heard on the street that the Albanian who muscled in on us, Argon, disappeared.
It’s not much of a stretch to assume we are responsible for his disappearance, and it will be interesting to find out what happened to him.
My oldest brother, the don, Dante, keeps me in my place and I don’t mind most of the time. If I feel unappreciated, I laugh it off and try to keep a good attitude because we’re family and if I do my job and bring in the money, I keep my luxury condo in downtown Florence, my sports car and plenty of euros to throw around.
Mr. Costa approaches me after the waitress leaves to check on the men at the table.
“So, I’ll make a payment to you this week.”
“You’re behind, Gio.” I refuse to meet his eyes as I cross my arms over my broad chest. My stance is that of a man with military service, but I have none. It’s a habit I picked up from some of the best bodyguards money and loyalty can buy.
“Yes, I know, I’m going to make it up to you. You know me.”
Without looking, I know he’s going to place his hand on his chest to imply he’s honest and a man of his word.
But I know better than to trust the word of an addict.
“You’re late, Gio. You need to come up with all of it or lay off.”
“I’ll meet your guy this week, like normal, with the full amount.”