His bodyguards stand like they're military, straight backed and hawkeyed. A silent row of black suits oozing with threat. Our first target if shit goes down. Next to him are his sons, or maybe grandsons. The family resemblance is obvious. In the Mafia, there's family and there's Family, and many of these guys are obviously both.
“Please,” he says, his voice languid and smooth, like we're here for fucking Sunday brunch. “Have a seat. You have my word that you’ll leave my estate as intact as you arrived.”
I trust him about as far as I can throw this conference table, but it's what we're here for.
Eagle-eye glances at the bodyguards lined up behind Papa Giordano and nods. “If we sit, they sit. Let's keep this civil.”
“Of course.” The Don gestures and the men take their chairs, leaving enough space for him and his officers between them. As soon as they're seated, Eagle-eye gestures for us to do the same.
Papa Giordano folds his hands and puts his elbows on the table before considering Eagle-eye curiously. I'm itching to rest my hand on my gun, but I keep my eyes on the bodyguards, trusting my guys to do the same. One of those motherfuckers twitch, and I'm going to make sure they've eaten their last fucking bowl of pasta.
“It makes me curious,” begins the Don. “After so many years, you have proposed peace talks. Why now?”
“Same reason you’re willing to be here,” grunts Eagle-eye with a shrug. “When Mayor Hawthorne was still around, you had a working relationship, and the hardon he had for blaming all of the city's troubles on us made cooperation difficult. Now, I don't suggest we become best friends, but our interests lie in different directions. We’re getting sick of pulling our guns out every time we see a Giordano, and from what I understand, you guys would rather know that your boys are going to come home safe after a trip to South Side. A truce seems like a win-win proposition. Am I wrong?”
Papa Giordano laughs, but there's no humor in it. “Not exactly how I would have phrased it, but your point is made. Cazzo. These skirmishes between us benefit no one, especially, as you say, now that Hawthorne is gone. There is no profit in it. I'm willing to negotiate, and we can see where the day brings us.”
“This is bullshit,” says a man next to him, maybe in his fifties. His perfectly styled hair is dyed dark brown that doesn’t match the crow's feet by his eyes and the furrows on his brow. His mouth is a hard line and his dark eyes glint dangerously. “We should put them down and throw them in the sewer where their corpses belong. You think we can trust them?”
I try not to make a show of it, but I adjust how I sit so I can reach my gun faster.
“Antonio, they are our guests.”
“Your guests,” he mutters under his breath.
Obviously, not everyone's as interested in peace. Interesting. A family rivalry maybe? Antonio doesn't share Papa Giordano's hawkish features, and the asshole from the elevator is beside him. Now that I see them together, it has to be his son. If looks could kill, between the two of them we'd be smoking piles of ashes already.
“As that may be,” says Papa Giordano with deceptive calmness. “If discussions fail, we send them on their way, and you can resume your bloodthirsty ways. Arturo, send in the refreshments.”
Golden double doors, a story and a half tall, open at the one side of the room that's not window or forest. Out come a couple of pretty young women, pushing rolling carts. There are glasses, carafes of wine and water, and plates of little pastries. One of the women looks strangely familiar.
“Ah, here come my darlings. My very own grand-nieces have organized this luncheon. I hope you appreciate the show of respect this is.”
I notice that they're family, but not too close. Not risking his own daughters on things going ass up, obviously. Antonio holds on to his rigid expression, but it's apparently too much for his son. He spits on the floor.
The closer of the two women looks up at the sound of it and frowns, just before her gaze shifts to us and our eyes meet. Her jaw drops open.
I recognize that mouth.
Yeah, and I fucking recognize those eyes, too, set in that beautiful face with the pouty blowjob lips. And the sexy as fuck curvy body beneath that looks like it would squirm just right beneath me. Fuck, I know it does. Her dress is modest enough to hide the insides of those creamy thighs, but I've been between them and made my fucking mark.
Alessa.
And from the way her doe eyes widen and her cheeks flush pink, she recognizes me too. She almost drops the plate as she puts it on the table in front of us, the little stack of pastries on it wobbling dangerously.