Page 33 of Thin Lives

He did.

“That and a Capo to see about a shipment coming in next week,” Calisto replied, keeping his tone easy and unconcerned.

Something was wrong.

Nothing felt right.

What was he missing?

“I suppose you should get on that, then,” Affonso said. “I swear, all you do is work, Cal.”

Calisto forced a chuckle. “Isn’t that what a good consigliere does for his boss? Works?”

“Sure, but you’re a man, too, my boy. Make some time for that. Find a pretty girl, why don’t you? Amuse yourself. You’re closing in on twenty-nine. Time to start refocusing on … different things.”

Like what?

Marriage?

Calisto’s stomach churned, and he didn’t even know why. He owned several clubs, and spent the majority of his evening time there on the weekends. Beautiful women went in and out all of the time. He had plenty of chances and offers, as far as that went.

But they didn’t interest him.

He turned them all down.

“Are you even listening to me?” Affonso asked.

Calisto just wanted out of the house all of a sudden. “Yeah, I’m listening, zio. But business right now, huh? It’s more important than a woman to keep me occupied.”

Affonso laughed, his hand coming up to clasp Calisto’s shoulder.

The weight of it felt off.

Too heavy, maybe.

“Business,” Affonso echoed, “is always more important than women.”

The one thing Calisto hated more than anything was Manhattan traffic in the middle of the week on a Tuesday morning. It was damn near impossible for someone to get from point A to point B in any reasonable amount of time. There was always some sort of construction happening, an accident clogging up the lanes, or a road closed for some type of event.

For a state like New York, he figured they should have had this congested traffic bullshit corrected by now. It was ridiculous.

Drumming his fingers on the backseat of his new Escalade, Calisto glared at the cars ahead of him and silently willed traffic to move.

“Chill out back there,” his driver said from the front. “We’re not late.”

Calisto sighed. “Yet, Tiny. We’re not late yet.”

“I will get you to tribute before the boss, trust me.”

Deciding that arguing with his enforcer would get him nowhere, Calisto settled on glowering at the vehicles in the lane beside theirs that was going slightly faster.

“Tribute should have been held elsewhere with the traffic being like this today,” Calisto said.

“Boss likes upper Manhattan.”

“I’m aware. The Irish stay away from there.”

Because that nonsense was getting out of hand. Or rather, it already was, but the issues had started to escalate in just a couple of days. A shootout had occurred the night before at a business one of the Donati Capos owned—a restaurant. The Capo took a bullet, and four patrons of the restaurant were killed, along with a waitress the Capo apparently had a thing going on with.