I swallow a sip of wine. “Good.”
“So happy,” he goes on, “that they’ve asked me to set up a new book for the spring baseball training camps. A less-often tapped market, but still lucrative enough for them to ask me for help. And they are asking rather…heavily.”
Holding my fork above my plate, I stare at my brother. “Fuck the Friscos. You’re not a bookie.”
“I am now, it seems,” he says dryly. “I’ll keep you apprised of the situation.”
“Copy that.” I take a few more bites. “What else? Marco—you heard from Bryant?”
Marco shrugs. “Jim’s pretty confident the tattooed guy is no longer in Napa. He’s most likely been tipped off. We’re increasing the search radius.”
I grunt in response. We figured the guy had probably skipped town, but I’d held out hope for some sort of lead. Unfortunately, every bit of information Bryant has been able to turn up has resulted in a dead end. This tattooed asshole is some sort of ghost.
Considering the size and type of tatt on his neck, you’d think he’d be fairly recognizable. Which means a hell of a lot of people are covering for him. He must be a big shot in the underground to be able to pull this kind of disappearing act. That, or he’s wanted by so many that he’s learned to master the art of vanishing.
Marco gestures at Armani with a slice of garlic bread. “Tell Dante what you heard from the Chicago fam.”
Armani sets his tablet aside, and I brace myself for bad news. We didn’t make any official deals with our Chicago connections at the restaurant the other night—I hadn’t lied to Frankie when I told her that—but we’d laid out our needs in terms of protective muscle from them, and in turn they had left us hanging on what the cost would be for lending a hand.
Now, it seems, they’re ready to offer terms.
“They need to wash a few million in cash.” Armani’s cold eyes flick to mine. His mask is in place, hiding what he’s really feeling. “They’re willing to contribute the manpower if we help them out.”
“There are a few people around town who still owe us a favor, or three,” Marco cuts in. “We could get it done.”
I let out a slow breath. Honestly, I’d imagined the price would be worse. Though I’d much rather just pay them in dollars and be done with the whole thing.
“They won’t accept actual cash from us?” I ask.
“We, uh…” Marco folds his arms on the edge of the table and glances at Armani.
Armani clears his throat and cautiously says, “We don’t have enough in personal cash reserves to meet their price. The number is high enough that our only option would be to take funds from the winery.”
“No. We’re not taking from the business.” I shake my head.
“Agreed,” Armani says. “But washing a few mill is going to be hard to do under the radar. We’ve got the winery to think of. We can’t afford bad press, rumors, or speculation without damaging the Bellanti name.”
“Pretty sure Dad already accomplished that,” Marco points out.
Armani tosses his napkin on the table. “And we’ve done a hell of a lot to reverse it. Yet here we are again.”
We go quiet, a brooding silence falling over the table, and I think about how deeply unsettled I’ve been since the dinner party the other night. I couldn’t be at ease around the Chicago family. They’re old school, by the books—there’s no leeway in how they do business—and it was obvious at dinner that they were observing us to determine how easy we’d be to maneuver. They know we’re vulnerable, so it’s a perfect time for them to pounce. Maybe my unease with them is more than just concern over how hard they can be to deal with.
“Do we even know for sure it’s not Chicago behind the whole fucking thing to begin with?” I muse. “How do we know the tattooed man isn’t on their payroll?”
Armani frowns. “Farman has been solid in doing his research. He’s turned up nothing that would connect them to Dad’s accident or Marco’s car. Reasonably sure it’s not them, but…”
“Is Farman digging deep enough? You know how the mob buries things.” Sitting back in my chair, I rest my knuckles on my chin. “We’re going into this blind, and you’re asking me to take Farman’s word for it. We barely know the guy.”
“That’s what we hired him for, Dante,” Armani says, exasperated. “At some point, we have to let him do his job so we can take the next step. This is it.”
“Damn.” My frustration gets the better of me, and I slam my fist down on the table, sloshing wine out of my glass.
Pushing back my tendency to overthink everything, I make a fast decision. We have to protect our family. It’s worth any price.
I scrub my hands over my face and then look hard at my brothers. “Okay then. Just the cash. One last favor. That’s it.”
Marco’s eyes widen. “But what about the business—”
