Dante is smart and our hits don’t look like hits. We knew how to fly under the radar even before Francesca joined us. She’s a great ally in the south, but she’s in Rome and its surrounding areas, not Sicily.
Only the Costa Nostra control Sicily and it’s been that way forever. There is one other family down there who they war with, but that’s their business. I’m not sure if they will be represented at the wedding, but if they are, I hope there’s no incidents.
Just to be sure nothing interferes with the ceremony; we are doing what we need to do to mitigate any whiff of discontent amongst the families and that means preventing a war with the Albanians. If they get wind that we were there or had a hand in Argon’s death, we’d screw up the wedding, as it’s too public which makes it easy for anyone to get to Dante, or any of us.
Shit, Francesca went after Sal to get even with Dante after he had her father killed. But that’s not public information. And Sal didn’t even do the whacking.
See? It’s not all so easy to figure out people’s motives and actions.
The sun peeks through the curtains and I take it as God’s way of saying, “Get the fuck up.” I walk to the living room butt naked and swipe a cashmere throw off the back of the couch and wrap it around my shoulders to stave off the chill in the room.
My priority is espresso. I fill the portafilter with coffee, lock it into place and pour water in the back of the machine. While it heats, I slide my cup under the tiny spouts and add two tiny spoonfuls of sugar. When the drips stop, I stir and wait a few seconds for it to cool down. Then I throw it back like a shot of tequila.
I don’t care what anyone thinks but I’m very strict on my stance of not letting anything cloud my judgement, so I usually don’t drink on the job and never do drugs. There’s a reason that dealers who start using the products they’re moving aren’t around very long. Not to mention the fact that they start making bad decisions and become liabilities.
I have to be prepared to go to work at any time on any day. There’s no such thing as a day off. As long as my brother is the Don, he can call upon me ‘as needed’. There are times ‘as needed’ rubs me the long way, but I make light of it. God knows I don’t want to assume more responsibility.
In fact, my latest fling has been gone a week and I have yet to text her. I’m the king of laid back, but she’d say I’m the king of damaged-beyond-repair.
I get in the shower and enjoy the hot water, knowing the cold outside is going to shrivel my balls when I leave. Yes, I love my junk. I’m well-endowed and use it to my advantage just like I use my sports car and luxury condo.
I don’t dress like most guys my age in their tracksuits or torn jeans. I prefer a tailored suit because it sends a message of superiority, command and professionalism. Most wiseguys don’t dress like bums for that reason. Show up at a meeting in anything other than a suit and no one will take you seriously.
My beard grows in fast, so if I have work and a date night, I shave twice a day. And today is that day as I got home so late last night. Occasionally I’ll let it grow out into a goatee, it depends on my mood.
I pull my navy-blue Giorgio Armani suit out of my customized closet. I had it built so I can even stand inside, and it has pull out drawers for my boxers, dress socks and undershirts. Shelves line the walls for my sweaters and shoes. I pull on a pressed, white long-sleeved shirt and slide into my black Silhouette loafers. It doesn’t hurt to look my best for any woman that might need to be persuaded should I bump into a hot Italian chick.
It’s ten blocks to the governmental building where the coroner’s office is located, and I choose to walk rather than drive. I can use the exercise. Once there, I pass through a security terminal that radiates me with a body scan looking for hidden weapons. No telling what this does to my future children as it cooks my balls.
Now to find room #109, where my buddy Bruno works. He’s the assistant to the coroner and can usually be influenced by a hundred euro.
The place is empty and the only noise I hear is the echo of my shoes clicking on the marble floors. At room 109, I push open the door to the medical examiner’s office and find Bruno.
He’s at his desk, typing on his keyboard with one hand, and eating a pastry with the other. There’s powdered sugar in his mustache and all over his keyboard.
“Bruno, my man,” I say, barging in.
At the sound of my voice, he stands, wiping his hand on his shirt and reaching out to shake my hand. Against my better judgement, I shake his sticky fingers, making a mental note to wash my hands later.
“What brings you here?” His nervous chortle tells me he knows full well that I’ve come for information.
“I hear you might have Argon Rama here. I’m told he dropped dead yesterday while on vacation in northern Italy.”
“You’re in luck.” He snaps his fingers like a cartoon character. “I saw his report, they paid to fly him here pronto.”
“Great.” I make my way towards his desk and pull out an envelope with a girl’s name on it. “I hear your granddaughter is going to be having a birthday soon,” I say and inconspicuously slide the card under the papers on his desk, without touching anything in the process.
“Upon further review, there was Digitalis in his system that can mimic a heart attack. Ecstasy was found in his system, but there’s nothing unusual about that, the man was in his late forties. . .”
“Hmm, so Digitalis is an older heart medication, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Mr. Rama didn’t have a heart condition, and he had enough of it in his system to cause circulation issues and ultimately. . . death.”
I let out a low whistle. Fuck, it appears someone else wanted Argon dead as well. They did our work for us but used a different drug. It had the same end result, so I’m not complaining. And we’re off the hook. Or are we? No doubt the Albanians will figure this out. They had to know he was in our clubs. We could be blamed for something we didn’t do.
“Thanks, and if Mr. Rama’s daughter comes by, or anyone else asking questions, I need you to tell them it was natural causes, and a missing report would be a nice touch.”
“Certainly, whatever you need,” he replies, returning to his desk and pastry.