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“As for her husband, Neal is also a proud graduate of Dartmouth, by the skin of teeth as it happens,” Fedel added. “And is also a world-class sniper. When he isn’t killing people from hundreds of yards away, he is playing baseball . . . a lot.”
“So the brother is an idiot. Olivia’s maiden name is Colemen?” I repeated, focusing back on his wife as I took another sip. “As in Senator Daniel Colemen?”
Fedel nodded, lifting up a photo of the man in question. “Yes, Senator Daniel Colemen, a right-wing conservative pushing for a smaller government, and I wonder why? Her mother is an active left-wing liberal blogger, which is why they are divorced and the former Mrs. Colemen is now helping the needy children of Africa as the head of the Callahan’s Global Youth Charity. Both know about their daughter’s new family and approve.”
I grinned at that. “Is it real a charity?”
“Sadly, yes. When they aren’t stealing cars for the black-market, organizing several murders-for-hire, or selling heroin, crack, and meth to Suzy down the block, they’re attending ballets and charity balls to better their community.” He shook his head.
“What about this one?” I asked, pointing to the man beside Liam. He had the same green eyes as Liam, however the man’s hair was longer and a lighter shade of brown. I figured the African American woman next to him had to be his wife.
“Ah, Declan Alvin Callahan—”
“Why the fuck do all their middle names start with an A?” I asked.
Fedel looked around to see if he had the answer somewhere in his papers. I didn’t need to know, but watching him squirm was amusing. First generation Italian, like myself, we looked a lot alike—the same olive skin tone, pitch black hair, and brown eyes. He was my right hand, and in some ways, that made him closer to me than a sibling. Nonetheless, I never wanted him to get too comfortable. No matter how ridiculous my question was, or how pointless it may seem, his job was to get my answer or die trying.
“It seems to be a tradition started in the eighteen-forties after the first Callahans came over from Ireland,” he said at last. Nodding, I waited for him to continue.
“Declan Alvin Callahan, age twenty-nine, married to Coraline Wilson, age twenty-five. He is the son of Sedric’s older brother, who was set up by the Valero twenty years ago, and killed by Chicago PD in the crossfire. Since then, Sedric has raised Declan almost as his own. Coraline, the wife, is the daughter of Adam Wilson, big shot bank owner. From what we can tell, Declan was the one who hacked the system this morning and stole that twenty-seven million from the Russians a few years back. Most of them still don’t know he did it. Those who did were killed off, most likely by Neal.”
What a lovely family.
“Coraline. I’ve seen her face before,” I stated, staring at the photo of Declan Callahan’s wife.
“Maybe that’s because if Robin Hood and Mother Teresa had a daughter it would be her.”
I tried not to smile. “Explain.”
He left a spread of photos across the table. In each one Coraline was either feeding the homeless, giving blood, rebuilding homes, and so on.
“She spends more time giving away all her shit than anyone in the family. Last year alone she spent almost nine million on charities and performed over two thousand hours of community service. It’s like she’s—”
“Guilty,” I stated. Giving was normal. Giving to make yourself look like a better person was normal, but this went way beyond that.
That might be a problem. Both women seem to love the lifestyle and hate the life . . . just great.
Lifting the last set of photos, I knew who they were—the world knew.
“Sedric A. Callahan, who is named after the first Callahan, age fifty-four, and his wife, Evelyn Callahan, age fifty-one, make sure their kids breed well,” he stated, placing the file down.
“Now Fedel, it’s wrong to judge.” I grinned. The truth of the matter is that I was slightly impressed, and it took a lot to impress me.
I could tell Liam’s green eyes came from his mother, while his darker features came from his father. They were all quite good looking, and from what I could tell, all was God-given with the exception of Malibu Barbie. It was good, but I could tell she’s had work done. Nevertheless, they all looked Hallmark ready. It was almost sickening.
“Ma’am, why in the hell is Sedric stepping back and allowing his second son to take over? It makes no sense. I’ve checked into his health records, and he’s fine.”
I took my time drinking in the warmth of the wine as I stared at the photos. Fedel was right. People like us didn’t just step down. We didn’t retire. We died and then someone tried to replace us. But I think I knew Sedric a little bit better, after all my father spoke often of him.
“All I know is he didn’t want to lead but had no other choice after his brother’s death. Now he’s washing the blood off his hands on to his sons.”
He frowned shaking his head at the photo. “The Irish and their fucking drama.”
“My father lost his elder brother as well, Fedel. We Italians have drama.”
“Yea, well they still need you more than you need them.”
“Are the wives involved in business?” I asked, ignoring him. Evelyn, looked too sweet to be packing with her sandy brown hair curled gracefully under a large sun hat, but then again, it was my grandmother who had taught me how to fire my first gun. I was only seven, and I had never been without one since.
Fedel huffed. “No. They prefer to keep their heads above ground, planning parties, making sure everyone attends Mass on Sundays, going to charities and monthly dinner parties. They all know and accept it with open arms, but they aren’t on the same level as you, ma’am.”
Smirking, I shifted my gaze to him. “And what level am I on?”
Fedel adjusted his tie before sitting straighter, his face void of all emotion, eyes almost black.
“You, ma’am, are ruthless, and not a soul on this planet would dare cross you. You would put a bullet in our heads if we were ever disloyal to you or the family. You are the Boss,” he replied.
When I glanced at the men surrounding me, they nodded, not making eye contact, but aware that I was looking.
It made me proud. It had taken a lot of blood, sweat, and no tears to make sure that they, and everyone else, knew that I was the Boss. I may be pretty, I may be young, but I was a Giovanni. Giovannis were—and always would be—beautiful, but lethal when crossed.
Nodding, I leaned back in my seat, finishing my wine as we descended. I was the head of the Giovanni Empire now, a fact that no one other than my men and my father were aware of. The world still believed he was Boss, but since the age of eighteen, everything—the drugs, the hits, the money—had been run through me because my father was dying. The great Orlando “Iron Hands” Giovanni was dying of stage four colon cancer. Ninety percent of everything out there had a cure, if you had the right credit card. Cancer, however, was a self-righteous bitch that fell into the ten percent that couldn’t be bought.
The irony was, most people in our world thought that sons were the only way to keep our underground empire growing. My father didn’t. He felt he was blessed. The men in our family all seemed to die of the same cancer, but the women were made of tougher stuff. My grandmother lived until she was one hundred and four before she passed away, in her sleep, with a gun under her pillow. The reason my mother died was because of a plane crash.
