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"Send him up."
Two minutes later, Sal Mancini walks in. Mid-sixties, silver hair, fresh suit. He's been my underboss for eleven years and my father's for twenty before that. There is no man alive I trust more. Except John Marco, of course.
I take a seat behind my desk while he sits in the chair across from me.
He reaches into his jacket and slides a folded newspaper across my desk.
On the front page is a rendering of a casino, accompanied by the headlines: THE GRAZALOV. A NEW STANDARD IN LUXURY GAMING.
I study it like it's news to me.
But it isn't.
I saw this coming eighteen months ago, when Anton Grazalov started buying up waterfront land through three layers of shell companies and a trust.
Anton Grazalov. The new pakhan to the Grazalov Bratva. Young, dumb, and trying too hard to be the kind of man his father was.
Viktor Grazalov … now there’s someone who knew how to do business. How to rule an empire and make those sitting across the desk from him shake.
Anton Grazalov couldn’t make a blade of grass shake.
He’s a bedazzled wannabe, an entitled prick playing dress-up in his father’s shoes.
Since learning about his plans to build a casino near mine, I've put things in motion against him. I have people in city hall who take my call before they take his money. The same goes for construction crews and other contacts that mean the difference between a casino being built and not.
It's useful to have people in high places.
"Grazalov requested a meeting," Sal adds.
"No."
"You're not curious what he wants?"
"I know what he wants." I lean back. "He wants a casino that rivals Fortune, but he’s not going to get one.”
“It might be worth playing nice to keep our enemies closer.”
"I don’t play nice with a man who makes money trafficking women and then decides to dip his toe into luxury gaming because he feels like it. He doesn't get a meeting with me. He gets told to go fuck himself."
Sal's brows lift a fraction. “Sounds like you have everything under control.”
He stands and walks to the door, but pauses with his hand on the doorframe.
"Your wife," he says. "I’m looking forward to meeting her on Friday."
“She is looking forward to it too,” I lie.
“I heard she’s a firecracker.”
John Marco.
"She's a handful."
"Good. You could use a handful." He smiles. "Your father had one too. It kept him human."
He leaves before I can answer, which I think was the entire point.
I look at the newspaper on my desk.
