Chapter 45 The Don's Priorities: Appointment vs Lover
Gianni’s POV
The problem with Il Macellaio, Gianni was discovering, was that the man didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.
They’d been in this warehouse for three hours now, three whole goddamn hours, and Salvatore was still showing him crates of weapons like a kid with a new toy collection, still offering variations on the same deals and insisting they sample another bottle of grappa while discussing shit that Gianni had already agreed to.
“And this,” Salvatore said, prying open yet another crate with a crowbar that looked comically small in his massive hands, “is something very special. Direct from Belarus. You won’t find this quality anywhere else in the states, I promise you.”
Gianni glanced at his watch. It was now officially midnight. He was supposed to be in Brooklyn by now, meeting with the coalition of former bosses who controlled the borough’s underground gambling operations, but not anymore now that he’d replaced them, of course.
Among other things, they had to discuss his personal goal to shut down every last dog-fighting ring in the tri-state area.
But here he was, stuck in a warehouse watching a fat man fondle assault rifles. It was in times like these that Gianni wished he had never begun his life of crime.
“It’s impressive,” Gianni said, keeping his voice neutral even though his patience was wearing thinner by the second. “I’ll take two crates. Same terms as before.”
“Two? No, no, you need at least five!” Salvatore protested, his jolly mask slipping to reveal the sly, greedy businessman underneath. “What are you going to do with only two? That’s barely enough for one operation!”
“I have other suppliers, Salvatore.”
“Bah! Other suppliers don’t have my quality, my discretion, my…” He paused, his eyes lighting up with renewed enthusiasm. “Ah! I think I know what you need. Wait here. I have something else to show you. Just arrived this morning. You’re going to love it.”
Before Gianni could protest, Salvatore was waddling off toward another section of the warehouse, shouting orders in Italian at his men.
Gianni pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. This was another reason why he fucking hated dealing with the old guard. Everything had to be a production of look-how-fucking-important-I-am.
Once more he looked at the photo of Luca in the clone phone and grew even more impatient.
“Forget it,” Gianni said, more sharply than intended. “I need to leave. I have business in Brooklyn that can’t wait.”
Salvatore’s face darkened. “You’re leaving? But we haven’t finished discussing the RPGs! Or the new shipment of Glocks!”
“Send me the details. I’ll have my accountant wire the payment tomorrow.” Gianni was already moving toward the door, his mind on that photo, his mind going through the different scenarios of what was going on back at his estate.
This disrespect, this constant pushing and testing, treating him like some client instead of the man who controlled all of New York, wouldn’t stand. Il Macellaio had embarrassed him in front of associates, pulled guns on him over hurt feelings, and was now wasting his time with desperate attempts to upsell weapons that he obviously didn’t need.
He would be very dead, very soon.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, he needed to get back to his estate and find out what the fuck Cedric had gotten himself into.
The car was waiting exactly where he’d left it, his men straightening immediately when they saw him emerge from the warehouse.
“Boss,” his driver said, opening the rear door. “Brooklyn?”
“Back to base” Gianni said, sliding into the leather interior.
The driver’s hand froze on the door handle. “Sir?”
“You heard me. We’re going back to the estate.”
His head of security, Marco, leaned forward from the front passenger seat, his voice careful. “Boss, the meeting in Brooklyn. The coalition is expecting you. If you don’t show…”
“I don’t care.”
“With respect, sir, they’re going to take it as an insult.” Marco’s reflection in the rearview mirror showed genuine concern. “If you blow them off without any notice or explanation, then they’re going to think you’re disrespecting them. Or worse, that you think they’re beneath your attention.”
Gianni’s jaw tightened. Marco was right, of course. Now that he had taken over New York, things would have to change.
He had decided that rather than bring in his own men from Italy who were already stuck in the ways of his homeland, he would learn to work with the available men here, who already knew the ins and outs of what it took to run a city like this.
That was why he had left a few members of the original family alive, so they would work under him and execute his every instruction on their own turf.
That served two purposes, to control them with fear and humiliation by turning them into glorified errand boys, and to use the people who actually knew New York to control it even better than his own men could.
So making new enemies of the coalition now, before he’d even had the meeting, would only cause problems and set back his plans by months. Maybe longer.
“Boss?” the driver prompted gently.
Gianni pulled out his phone, staring at that photo of Luca and Cedric.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Brooklyn. But make it quick.”
The car pulled away from the warehouse, heading toward the expressway. Gianni pulled up Luca’s contact and hit dial, pressing the phone to his ear.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
No answer.
Gianni tried again. Same result. Just endless ringing before going to voicemail.
Luca always answered his phone. Always. It was drilled into him, into all of Gianni’s top men, that when the Boss calls, you pick up, no matter what. No exceptions.
“Fuck,” Gianni muttered, trying a third time.
Nothing.
They were on the expressway now, the city lights streaming past the tinted windows. In the distance, Gianni could see the Brooklyn skyline getting closer, the venue where the coalition was waiting just fifteen minutes away.
His phone buzzed with a text from one of his Brooklyn contacts: They’re outside waiting for you, sir.
Gianni looked at the message, then at the unanswered calls to Luca, then out the window at the approaching borough.
Cedric would be fine. Luca wouldn’t dare hurt him, not after what happened to Maria. This was probably nothing, just the brat taking photos like a child playing spy and Luca being his usual paranoid self.
But something in Gianni’s chest was pulling tight, there was some instinct telling him that he needed to be there, not here.
The car slowed as they approached the venue. Gianni could see them now, five men in expensive suits standing outside a brownstone, valets in position, everything staged for his arrival like he was fucking royalty.
“Sir?” Marco said. “We’re here.”
One of the men outside checked his watch, his expression already looking irritated at the slight delay.
Gianni watched through the tinted window as the valets prepared for his convoy to drive in, watching as the seconds slowly ticked by.
“Fuck it,” Gianni said. “Turn the car around.”
“What?” Marco twisted in his seat, his eyes wide. “Boss, they’re right there, they’re waiting…”
“I said turn around.” Gianni’s voice was commanding “Now.”
The driver hesitated for only a second before jerking the wheel, the car swinging wide in a U-turn that made the tyres squeal.
Through the rear window, Gianni could see the men outside the brownstone reacting, their heads turning, arms spreading in confusion and building anger as they watched his car drive away without so much as a courtesy call.
“Boss, this is going to cause serious problems,” Marco said, his voice tight with stress. “They’re going to…”
“Let them be angry,” Gianni interrupted, already dialling Luca again. “I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I need to get home.”
The phone rang in his ear, unanswered, as the car accelerated back toward the expressway, toward whatever crisis was unfolding in his absence.
And Gianni found that he didn’t give a single fuck about the political fallout he’d just created, not when every instinct he had was telling him that Cedric needed him.
Even if the stubborn brat would never admit it.