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1
ALESSANDRO
Aromas of garlic, olive oil, and oregano waft through Donofrio's as I walk into the empty Little Italy restaurant, threatening to soak into my suit for the rest of the day. My driver, best friend, and sometimes bodyguard, Lorenzo, stands guard at the door, making sure no one comes in while I'm here.
"Ren." My voice is low, barely above a whisper as I tell him, "Have Rita at Arty's prepare one of my suits for pickup in two hours, the navy bespoke. I don't need to smell like bruschetta for the rest of the day."
Lorenzo pulls his phone out but pauses, looking at me with an expression on his face I can't read. He's the silent, lethal type, despite his surfer blonde hair that he wears slicked back with a clean-shaven chin. His years in the military give him a heavier build than me. While he's never afraid to use that size to our advantage, his friendlier face lets others feel at ease when dealing with me. However, his normally friendlier face shifts to one of scrutiny.
"What?" I huff the question out, waiting for an explanation. He's stopping me from heading into the back room of the restaurant where my father and his consigliere are meeting.
The dim lights of the dining area bounce off the phone's screen as he shows me what's got him glued to the device instead of watching the street. It's a viral clip of Evelyn Rossi. I groan, looking at the daughter of a rival Family.
The Rossis, De Lucas, and Montegnas, La Familia to everyone else. We all operate in New York with an understanding of tolerance. Recently, the Rossis have suffered a blow to their operations with the indictment of a prosecuting attorney who married into their family.
Evelyn's beauty is devastatingly distracting. Full lips, sage green eyes, and sun-kissed blonde hair that falls in waves around her face make me focus on the screen. I nod for Lorenzo to turn the volume up.
A reporter shouts at her from behind the phone they're shoving into her face. "Miss Rossi! Miss Rossi! Can you tell us how your sister is handling the verdict and her pursuant incarceration?"
Evelyn whips around with fire in those brilliant eyes as she slams the reporter with a verbal assault. "The fuck do you mean, how's my sister? Ask your mother and get outta my face before I get someone to take that mic and shove it up your?—"
She doesn't get to finish before a tall gentleman rushes to her side, putting himself between her and the camera. His name is Jenkins, if I remember correctly. He knocks the reporter back, and as the reporter mouths off, he shoots them a glare that's intimidating enough to silence them. The corner of my lip turns up in a quick grin, wondering just how fiery Evelyn is off camera.
Lorenzo shakes his head. "She's got a mouth on her and it's going to get her in trouble."
That mouth of hers is trouble, indeed.
"The only trouble the Rossis are worried about is her sister taking the rap for her cowardly husband. What kind of man allows his wife to do a bid for him? Fucking scumbags. They're getting exactly what they deserve, letting a rat like that marry into the family."
"What are ya doin out here, Alessandro?" My Uncle Oz calls from the back of the room. "Let's get a move on it. We're running late."
I nod to Lorenzo, who goes back to standing guard by the door as I make my way through the restaurant. Oscar Baldoni is my dearly departed mother's baby brother, Zio or Oz to me, and my father's right-hand man, the consigliere of the De Luca organization. He's often ruthless and violent, where my father is conniving and methodical.
The horseshoe balding across his white-haired scalp shows everyone just how stressful his job is and how seriously he takes it. I've inherited traits from them both, making me the heir apparent to our organization. Hopefully, I'll get to keep my hair like my father, although he runs thin around the temples.
Speaking of my predecessor, Don Sandro De Luca is an inch short of my six-foot height, but I can never see him as a smaller man than me. There's a room off to the side of the kitchen, where he's sitting patiently. The same clear blue eyes I inherited are constantly watching his surroundings. It forces me to do the same even though the threat of something going down in his favorite restaurant is unlikely… for now.
There are a few shelves stocking fresh vegetables and an assortment of other items for the restaurant. A chef brings in a few plates of food and a bottle of red wine along with a basket of bread before disappearing out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Oz sits beside my father, and I take the seat across from them. Neither of them wastes any time digging into the food. Oz's baseball mitt-sized hands tear into the bread, but I'm in no mood to eat.
"Jimmy makes a great gravy, Alessandro," Oz says, dragging his piece of bread through the pasta sauce on his plate. "Come on, dig in."
"I'm not hungry," I tell him, adjusting my jacket. "What's the plan?"
I'm in a rush to get out of here. I'll have just enough time to get to my favorite tailor to pick up my suit, change, and get to my next meeting.
"Peter Martin is in the wind, from what my sources tell me," Pop says, sipping his drink. "Don Rossi is probably calling in favors if he hasn't already. The cops on his payroll were only working under the guise of being protected from prosecution. But with this cazzone getting pinched out of his position in the district attorney's office, there's an opportunity here."
"I have friends with the DA we can use," I tell Pop and Oz.
"Your fancy job as a… what are you called again?" Oz asks.
"Officially? I'm a lawyer with a focus on crisis management."
Oz knows what I do. However, as I get older and more prominent in our organization's leadership, he likes to diminish my work outside of the Family. It's never obvious, just subtle jabs here and there, which I take in stride. He'll never be outright disrespectful unless he wants to find out exactly how much violence I've picked up from being his nephew.
"Right." Oz nods with a grin. "A fixer like that woman who used to do that show every Thursday night. Something to do with the Vatican."
