I incline my head toward the door. “Let’s do this.”
I exitthe elevator to the executive floor and walk past the employees who say hello. I never stay and chit-chat. If I stop to ask Mrs. Torres how she’s doing, she’ll end up telling me about her mother, who’s in the hospital or her divorce, and her chronic arthritis. I’ve got too much on my mental plate already. Looming turf war in Arcadia, taggers getting out of control in East LA like it’s the nineties, and homeless people squatting in old abandoned buildings ready for demolition.
I walk directly to my office and pass by my assistant, who gives me a death glare like I shot her ugly dog. I keep going even though I feel her dark eyes boring through my back like a drill. Just as I’m settling behind my desk, she comes into my office without knocking and drops a file on my desk. “I’ve rescheduled your meeting with the investors to two p.m. tomorrow. Those are the contracts you need to review before then, and the application for the new zoning permit is ready to sign. We just need a notary. I called up Julie from legal, but she’s at a dentist appointment, so she’ll come up when she gets back.”
Ms. Jessica Lee, twenty-eight years old and UCLA graduate, is a foot shorter than me and probably weighs a buck-twenty soaking wet, but has more guts in her petite body than three of my best bodyguards put together. She's always reminded me of a studious owl, watching the world through her round, horn-rimmed glasses. She's got beautiful bone structure and a nice body but insists on wearing baggy, ill-fitting skirt suits she probably buys at thrift stores.
It's like she's trying to hide herself on purpose. Ah, well. Less distraction for me
I flash her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. I don’t know why I delight in taking the piss out of this woman. I don’t usually bother fraternizing with my employees. Still, Ms. Lee’s dislike of me amuses me more than it should. “Great job as always, Ms. Lee. You are a marvel. Might you do me a favor and make reservations for two for dinner tonight? And if you could send a dozen red roses to Miss Rebecca Kane. I’ll email you her home address.”
Her full, pink lips stretch thinly into an obviously fake smile. “Will there be anything else, Mr. San Giovanni? Shall I fetch you an espresso, perhaps?”
“No, thank you, Ms. Lee. I would prefer a cappuccino. And an old-fashioned glazed donut. Oh, and don’t use any of those food delivery apps. I don’t trust the drivers. I saw this 20/20 expose on those people licking the food before handing it over to their customers.”
Her lower lip stretches in a grimace, showing her disgust. “Will the cafe in the lobby suffice, your lordship?”
I shake my head deliberately, knowing she doesn’t have a car. “I prefer the Italian cafe four blocks down. Mangione’s, I believe. Would you be a dear and get over there for me? I didn’t have a chance to have breakfast this morning.”
Her eyes narrowing into slits, she opens her mouth as though she means to curse me out, but instead, she takes a deep breath and forces herself to smile. “Was it because the place where you stayed overnight didn’t offer breakfast options?”
I chuckle under my breath. “I don’t think I like your insinuation, Ms. Lee. It sounds like an innuendo. I might have to report you to HR for counseling. You know they’ll make you take one of those eight-hour classes.”
She shows me her gritted teeth. “I’ll go and fetch you your breakfast now, sir. Will there be anything else you need?”
“No, Ms. Lee, but I’m sure I’ll think of something while you’re out there getting some fresh air. Enjoy your walk. Oh, and please do bring a brolly with you. I might have heard on the radio that it’s supposed to rain today.” I wave my hand in dismissal.
She responds with an exaggerated curtsey. “As you wish, my liege.”
I wait until she walks out of my office, slamming the door behind her, before I pick up the phone to call my elder half-brother Carlito. He picks up after two rings. “What’s up, Vince?”
“How was your meeting with the Lombardi family last night? Is Madame Lombardi still planning on buying that mansion in Malibu? I hope you made it clear to them that Malibu is part of our territory.”
Carlito is the result of my father’s affair with another woman while he was married to my mother two years before I was born. Technically, he’s the eldest son, but to our old-fashioned Sicilian father, I claim this honor because I was the one born within the sanctity of wedlock. My brother doesn’t seem any worse off for it, though. He attended UCLA for his undergrad, then got his MBA from Wharton.
“Oddly enough, that’s not what she wanted to talk about, little brother. She has a granddaughter named Stella, who just graduated from Vassar with a Masters in… I don’t fucking know, psychology or something, and she’s twenty-four years old. The old woman is eager to see her married before she kicks the bucket.”
I let out a sigh of annoyance, trying to bury the burning feelings of anxiety building in my chest.
“What does this have to do with us? Oh, wait, don’t tell me….”
“She doesn’t want me, by the way. Not because I’m the bastard child of Giuseppe San Giovanni, you understand, but because I’m too old,” my brother answers with his deep laugh.
I palm the side of my head. I might have to take aspirin if I have to listen to another minute of this nonsense.
“Arranged marriages don’t happen anymore, Carl. This isn’t the old country. What the fuck.”
“The old woman said with the merging of the two families, we can take back New York from the Luciano clan. If that were the case, I can run the East Coast branch of our family while you stay here. Look, the Lucianos are a bunch of violent, ignorant assholes. They deserve to be taken over. We can clean up New York and make it like it was, little brother.”
An alliance with the Lombardi family would bring us the clout and political power necessary to drive the cartels out of LA for a long time. I couldn’t care less about New York. Unlike Carlito, I don’t have any attachment to it. "Who are you suggesting we offer up as the sacrificial lamb, fratellone? I'm not looking to get married any time soon. Wait, is the granddaughter on Instagram?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know that?"
"Because you're my right-hand man, bro. You bring me the information I need. Did the old woman show you a picture?"
My brother hesitates, then clears his throat before answering. "The old woman had pictures of the girl all over the place, but the most recent one I could find was from what looked like high school graduation. Medium-height, dark hair, thin, glasses, and braces."
I pull up Instagram on my phone. I don't post anything on it myself. Still, it's a convenient little way to keep track of people these days because morons are compelled to take pictures of every tiny thing and post it on social media. Why do idiots feel the need to chronicle every hour of their mundane little lives?