VINCENZO
All right, so this isn’t the type of night I had in mind, but at least the evening is not wasted. My lovely Executive assistant is keeping me company, and even though she’s not the most cooperative partner at the moment, I’m convinced I can coax her into a friendlier mood. I turn on the shower before pulling out my phone from the pocket of my trousers.
I text Lee to update him on what’s happening and ask him to look into Rebecca Kane. The Russians, eh? The West Coast Bratva has been trying to cut into our profit margin for the last ten years by sneaking into our territories and undercutting us.
When they realized Southern California wasn't going to be an easy target, they instead attacked our more vulnerable Northern California cousins, the Girardi's who, at the time, were going through a power restructuring as my grand-uncle Vito had died, leaving behind four sons to whom he never delegated.
They managed to gain a foothold in San Jose and Oakland for a bit until my cousins got everything settled and drove them out of South Bay with some help from my father. They managed to stay below our radar these last few years, and my father became convinced that they would push their operations back to the East Coast.
But then, little pockets of gang activity would pop up in places like Glendale, Pasadena, and East LA.
I take off my clothes and step into the shower, allowing the warm water to sluice over my head and soothe my tense muscles. I've been on edge all day and was looking forward to releasing some stress tonight. Since I won’t be having sex with a hot redhead– who, as it turns out, might have been an assassin sent by the Russians to take me out– I might as well make the best of it. I think of my grumpy, ornery assistant who saved me from this fate and consider her less obvious, but nonetheless magnetic appeal.
Ms. Lee is proper fit– she’s curvy where it counts, but her arms and legs are lean and muscled. Unlike most women of my acquaintance, she doesn’t wear much makeup. The clothes she wears to work are baggy and unflattering, as though she’s purposely trying to hide her shape. But there’s no mistaking Ms. Lee’s athleticism. Mrs. Torres, who tells us she has a bad back, would ask Ms. Lee to fetch her a fifty-pound box of printing paper from the supply closet at least once a week. I’d see the woman picking it up with no problem and walking it over to Mrs. Torres about fifty yards away.
I get out of the shower and dry myself, running the day’s events through my head and asking myself what my next move ought to be. I keep a mental list of steps I have to take to get through my day and keep myself organized. In the mornings, I wake up, brush my teeth, eat a quick breakfast, work out in my home gym, shower, and go to work. I have three modes at work: CEO, brother, and consigliere. I’ve been successful in compartmentalizing aspects of my life so they don’t infect each other. Today was the first time my corporate life crossed over into my work as a consigliere for the families. Someone was tasked to take me out, and my secretary of six years pretended to be my wife to rescue me from a femme fatale.
When I walk back out to the main room, Ms. Lee is in pink silk pajamas that she must have gotten from the closet, and her face is scrubbed free of makeup. She is on the floor, eating a cheeseburger and fries, while she flips through the catalog of movies on Netflix. I normally sleep in the nude, but obviously, I can’t do that with my employee hanging out, so I reluctantly put on the navy-blue silk pajamas hanging in my closet. I pour myself a glass of champagne and sit on the floor next to Ms. Lee, who passes over a plate of fried chicken and waffles to me.
“I’ve never actually had chicken and waffles together,” I tell her as I drizzle maple syrup over my waffle, making sure each square is filled.
Ms. Lee stops chewing for a moment and looks at me. “You live in LA. We’ve got Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, which is known worldwide for this delicacy. What kind of life have you been living?”
She seems so outraged by the thought of me never having visited the fine establishment that is Roscoe’s. “A sheltered one, I’m starting to believe.” I slice off a piece of chicken along with my waffle and fork it into my mouth. I take a moment to chew and reflect upon the flavors bursting on my tastebuds. “Sweet and savory. I like it.”
“Rich people must have boring food,” she murmurs, dragging a french fry through a spot of maple syrup on my plate before shoving it in her mouth. “What do you want to watch?”
“Why are we sitting on the floor when we have an enormous, much more comfortable bed?”
“You can’t eat in your bed. That’s how you get ants. Do you want to get ants?”
I chuckle and sip my champagne. “I don’t think anyone wants ants, Ms. Lee. I bet if ants possessed a modicum of self-awareness, they’d hate themselves for being ants.”
“I doubt that.” She takes a giant bite from her cheeseburger, which her small mouth somehow made possible. “Ants provide a valuable service to the planet. The ecosystem wouldn’t survive if we didn’t have them.” She drinks out of her glass of champagne.
“You’re right. I apologize. I didn’t mean to downplay the contribution of ants to the environment.” I look up at the giant projector screen and survey the movie choices on display. “What kind of movies do you like to watch? Horror, action, suspense… romance?”
Her nose scrunches up. “I like horror movies.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Just think about the worst thing that can happen to you on an ordinary day. Maybe you spill coffee on yourself at work. Mess up some slides for a presentation, which makes you look like a rookie. And then there's a person on screen, fighting for her life and running away from a crazy dude wearing a hockey mask and carrying a machete. You can sit back, relax, and tell yourself, ‘At least I didn’t have anyone try to kill me today.’”
“That you know of,” I murmur, sipping my champagne.
“Good point. But sometimes, boss, you just have to take a moment and ask yourself where did it all go wrong in your life that the hot chick you’re out on a date with turns out to be some Russian assassin. Could anything like this happen to an average Joe with a simple life and a simple job?”
I chuckle, unable to help myself. “Ms. Lee, as you like to point out, I’m not an average Joe. I’m handsome, educated, and privileged. On top of that, I have billions in my bank accounts. You can hardly compare me to someone who makes… what, fifty thousand dollars a year, probably graduated from a state school, and has to suffer through a mundane job day in, day out?”
“Whoa, buddy…” She punches the top of my arm. “I graduated from a state university. Sure, I didn’t go to Oxford or Harvard or anything, but that doesn’t make you smarter than me.”
There’s a hidden fire within my secretary that shows up in her eyes when she’s annoyed with me, and I enjoy bringing it out. “No, it doesn’t, Ms. Lee, but you must admit that attending those prestigious universities gave me a step up in life.”
She stares at me for a moment, then snorts. “Mr. San Giovanni, the fact that you were born a white European male with money was what gave you a step up in life. Let’s not kid ourselves.”
“Do you have something against my people?” I prod, knowing I’m kicking a potential hornet’s nest, but I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in so long that I let it ride.
“Your people? Who, ridiculously good-looking white men born into the upper class and a life of privilege?”