Owning and running a nightclub was exciting when I was in my twenties, even into my early thirties, but it has long since grown distasteful to me. When we first opened fifteen years ago, I played a larger role in the day to day operations. I made all the decisions and set up the way things were run. But these days, Sammy knows the ropes and handles things, and my role is to handle the books and accounting, the business dealings. I have no interest in spending my time here anymore. If I had a choice, I’d walk away in a heartbeat.
I catch Sammy’s eye. “Is Al in the office?”
Sammy’s fingers are closed around a highball glass, per usual. He drinks too much, but he holds it well, so I have no reason to bust his balls about it.
He doesn’t bother coming over or answering, but lifts his chin in the direction of the back of the club. I nod and head to the private back rooms where I knock on my office door before I push it open.
Al sits behind the big desk. Carlo lounges in the corner. Al doesn’t have his own office–he conducts business wherever he feels like it. Here in my office, his back deck, the sidewalk cafe. Sometimes the office in his house, but he likes to keep business from reaching his wife and daughter.
“Hey. How’s it going?” I drop into a seat across from my brother.
“You look good,” Al says. “What’s going on, you getting some?”
Cristo.It’s like he reads fucking minds. How could he possibly have seen that in me after three seconds together?
If it were anyone else, I’d say “fuck off,” but you don’t disrespect the don in front of others. So I say, “Maybe. You come here to talk about money or my love life?”
Al’s eyes light with interest. Aw, fuck. I should’ve kept my stupid mouth shut.
“Oh yeah? Who is she?”
I blow out my breath with a sigh. “Sophie Palazzo.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bet she’s a looker. She was already a knock-out as a teen.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“She doesn’t have a chip on her shoulder? No hard feelings with the Family?”
He’s asking about this again. I was right that he sent me to get a measure on her.
I keep my expression carefully blank, but Al studies me, missing nothing. I shrug. “She wasn’t happy to see me at first, but she warmed up.”
“Significantly, by the sound of it.” Al unwraps a fresh cigar.
Carlo smirks.
“No comment.” I don’t kiss and tell. I would never disrespect Sophie like that.
I open my briefcase and pull out a sheaf of papers to pass to Al. This is my real gift to the organization—I’m an investment broker. A crooked accountant. The tax avoidance expert. This is where I use my degree from Columbia to strategize for the outfit.
I cook the books at Swank, run all the cash through the business and invest half of it in legitimate businesses and stocks, building my brother’s portfolio (and my own) with retirement accounts, offshore accounts and as many untraceable, unseizable assets as possible.
I give Al the biweekly report, and Carlo stacks bricks of cash on the desk for this week’s laundering. When he’s done, Carlo tips his head toward the front of the club. “What’s up with Sammy out there?”
Officially, I’m Sammy’s boss, but I think of him as an equal. Sammy’s the one who really runs the club. He’s put his heart into the operation. If it were up to me, I’d bow out entirely and give the whole operation to Sammy, but Al won’t have it.
“Sammy works for you, and don’t you forget it,” Al always says. “It wouldn’t matter if you never set foot in the place again, it’s still yours.” There’s a power play in it. Al purposely gives me more than I deserve, simply to show everyone he’s boss. Or that his family comes first.
I scrub a hand across my face. “Why?”
Carlo shrugs. “Something doesn’t seem right about him lately. Is he drinking too much?”
“He drinks, but he holds it well.”