"Don't worry if you didn't spot me." He pats my back. "I cross-trained at Langley, so I'm a pretty good spook." He sits on the bench next to me. "Mind if I sit here?"
"You're already sitting. Why ask permission?" I take my long hair out of its ponytail, comb through the strands with my fingers, and put it up again. "What do you want, Scully?"
"Scu--haha, I get it, because of the red hair." He points to his own head. "We need your help to watch and take care of an asset for us."
"By ‘take care,’ do you mean…" With my finger, I draw a line across my throat.
His answer is a bemused grimace. "You're a very dark person."
"We can't all be sunshine and sunflowers, Red." I pat his knee. "Is this asset a person or a houseplant?"
"Southern California has been experiencing a record drop in crime rate for the last twenty-five years because one crime family came along and cleaned up, so they can corner the market. They got rid of the Crips and the Bloods by turning them into loyal associates who got paid well. There are no turf wars, fewer drive-by shootings because everyone knows their place in the community. This is a very effective business model that's been making a lot of criminals money, and nobody gets killed. They've been policing each other. It's wonderful."
I wait for him to continue because I have no idea where he's going with this.
"But that Golden Era of peace and coordination among the bad guys is about to come to an end because rumor has it that the Grande Capo of the most powerful branch of Camorra outside of Sicily is retiring at the end of the year and passing the torch to his son, who up till now, has been working as the consigliere among the families."
Now I'm really puzzled. I'm a secretary for the CEO of a company that deals with commercial real estate. What does this dude think I can do? "Consig--what?"
"A consigliere is a mediator between crime families, originally the Mafia. He negotiates trade deals, arbitrates territory disputes, bribes the appropriate people in government and administration, and basically works hard to prevent an all-out gang war half the time. He's usually an attorney, but not always, though it does help if the consigliere is well-versed in criminal law. He stays above the fray and can't favor one family over another. He's the one guy who doesn't get his hands dirty."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"Glad you asked," he says with a friendly smile that invites a punching. "The families don't think the Grand Capo's son should be allowed to take over for his father because he's been privy to inside information of other families. He has to stay neutral. And while they think he has the brains to do the job, they don't believe he has the guts for it."
"Why not?"
The Fed flashes me his teeth like a wolf might smile at his prey before pouncing on it. "Because he was raised by English nannies and graduated from an Ivy League school, that's why. They don't think he has what it takes to wring necks and crack skulls if the need arose."
My stomach drops to my knees. I knew there was something untrustworthy about that slick motherfucker. "You're talking about Vincenzo San Giovanni."
"Bingo. Also known as Vincent St. John and Sinjun Vincent."
"Oh, right, he modeled a bit for Armani while he was going to Oxford supposedly. Did a few runway shows in Milan. Sinjun Vincent was the name he used," I say casually, like it's a tidbit I've heard and not something I've read on Wikipedia. "What about him? Okay, the guy’s a shark but a Mafia shark?"
Out of nowhere, the Fed produces a folder of glossy crime scene photos, people dead from gunshot wounds to the head. As he flips through them for me, I watch with no expression, though I want to barf on his patent leather shoes. "The families are wrong, by the way. Vincenzo has plenty of blood on his hands. Each one of these is his kill."
"Bullshit. I book that guy's mani/pedi appointments every two weeks. Besides, if he's the consig-whatever, why was he the one who killed them? Isn't he supposed to stay neutral?"
"Ms. Lee, if someone sends somebody to kill you, you're going to want to kill them back."
"How many times have they tried to kill him?" I reflexively touch my throat and swallow hard. I just can't imagine that cool, unflappable bastard picking up a gun and shooting someone dead. He's too British for that.
"Six times this year alone," the Fed replies cheerfully. "The families figure if they topple the San Giovanni clan, everything can return to the bad old days. Nature abhors a vacuum, so if you take out the current head guy, the next guy who replaces him might be worse. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't."
"So the FBI wants to protect a murdering international gangster so worse assholes can't take over?"
"I told my boss you're a smart one. You're the right person for the job."
"What job? Why me?"
"You've been with Vincenzo San Giovanni for… what, six years? That's the longest an assistant has ever lasted with him. The guy is… kind of a snobby, arrogant asshole. He doesn't like a lot of people. But you… he doesn't seem to mind you at all."
"Ugh. That's because he's surrounded by idiots seventy percent of the time, and I'm the only one with a functional brain in that company."
The Fed spread his palms before him. "You guys are a perfect match. He thinks everyone is an idiot, too! How have you crazy kids not gotten together?"
"I'd rather make out with a lamprey eel." I sigh in resignation. "What do I have to do?"