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“Leave that to me. I need you to promise me something. If I’m not alive to watch over your siblings, you will. Make sure they don’t stray far and that they’re happy, especially Maddalena.”
He leans forward as he offers me his hand across the desk. “Of course, Papà.”
Maddalena
PRESENT DAY
Istand at the server’s podium, under an overhang that thankfully saves my vision from the sun’s unforgiving rays. I’ll never understand why Matteo Venza chose to conduct his business luncheon outside in the middle of spring—in open air, café seating—given the target on his back.
Is he stupid or arrogant?
How could he not have noticed that aside from three suited heavies in the corner, he's the only person seated? I highly doubt he’s aware that this establishment is one of dozens owned by the Vettore family. Or that we know he screwed us over to the tune of three million dollars. It’s chump change for us, but it’s the principle of the matter.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you and allows you to run your subpar, cut down coke in our neighborhoods, on our streets. You sure as hell don’t skim off your net profits and not pay us the full twenty-five percent we’re due.
If you want all the Wall Street dipshits to snort your coke as they broker multi-million dollar trades, you need to go through Alessandro Vettore first. Any criminal worth their salt in New York City and beyond knows that you don’t fuck with Nuova Notte. We reign supreme. Papà makes the rules, the East Coast follows them. To the tee.
Those who do not fall in line unfortunately fall victim to me, The Fixer. I take care of the famiglia’s messes and make them disappear, sometimes before they’re even made. Information is my currency, and I keep it all filled away for future use. My role isn’t as defined as my brothers’, but it’s integral, nonetheless.
Regardless of why he’s so careless, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth right now. His security mistake makes it easier for me to get rid of him and carry on with the other things on my never-ending to do list.
A woman’s work may never be done, but a mafia woman’s work is to get it done.
My first instinct was to perch myself in a nest on the building across the street and take a short range shot. It’s clean, efficient, and a very public way to end his life and teach others what happens when you disrespect my famiglia.
But last week, my cousin Pamela told me about this new plant-based compound she’s been working on for the past several months—a concentrated mix of lily of the valley, nightshade, and angel’s trumpet. It causes a heart attack and breaks down in the bloodstream within a four to eight-hour time period, so it won’t show on a toxicology report.
Not that they’d bother to run a tox report on this asshole. He’s the poster child for heart disease. I had my brother, Maximo, procure his medical records. Twinning for the win.
Pam promises that this will be her deadliest creation yet, and I’m on board to run an unofficial clinical trial for her.
I walk over to his table, mentally preparing myself to use my customer service voice.
“Hello, my name is Jenny. Thank you so much for coming to Café Roma today!” I say in a peppy, sweet voice. “Can I get you started with anything to drink while you wait for your other party? Perhaps an espresso, or one of our specialty pastries?” I gesture to the laminated paper insert in his menu.
Little does he know, his other party isn’t coming. That anonymous ‘prospective buyer’ who wants to purchase sixteen kilos of shitty cocaine is me.
Instead of reading his menu, Venza’s shifty little eyes leer at me. I can feel his gaze roam down my breasts, hips, and thighs like a slimy, unwanted touch. He licks his lips—the move making my stomach roll. Aside from being a stupid prick, he’s an ugly one too. Balding hair, a short stature, a ruddy red face and bulbous nose that betrays the amount of hard alcohol he indulges in on the regular. He’s stuffed tightly into an ill-fitting suit, resembling a homemade sausage.
If he knew who I was, he’d think twice before showing me such overt disrespect. But why would he recognize me? He mostly deals with my brother, John Carlo, who handles the less public side of the famiglia’s business interests.
“I’ll take a white mocha latte, sweetheart,” he says in a patronizing tone.
I smile at him, mentally imagining myself plunging a knife deep into his chest, then go behind the counter inside to prepare his drink with a dash of my special secret ingredient. A teaspoon of the clear, odorless liquid should be enough to get the job done.
I promptly return to the table, placing the cup gently in front of him with an ear-to-ear grin. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
He’s nose deep in his phone, much too distracted to even glance at me or the beverage on the table. He waves me off, dismissing me without a word.
There’s a special place in Hell for people who are rude to wait staff, and I’m about to send him there with a smile on my face.
I busy myself bussing tables, watching him take the first few sips as a smile spreads across his bloated face. The smooth, rich blend of espresso, steamed milk, and white chocolate goes down easily. He doesn’t suspect that this drink will be his last.
He grows agitated as the minutes pass, probably because he finally realizes his buyer won’t be attending. He moves to stand, when suddenly, he starts coughing and falls to the floor. I rush over to him, because I’m just so concerned.
I kneel next to him, grabbing his pudgy hand and squeezing it tightly. “Sir, are you okay?”
“No,” he rasps as he struggles to breathe. “Please…help…me.” Blood pours out of his nose, and he sputters.
