“The offer I made at the island still stands, Bellanti,” he says. “I’m happy to take her off your hands when you’re ready. She’ll learn her place with me. Who knows? Maybe I’ll gift her back to you after I’ve trained her up right.”
Without a single hint of emotion in my voice, I reply, “I’m here to talk business. My wife isn’t part of the deal.”
Slamming my gaze into his, I hold it for a length of time that becomes uncomfortable for everyone but me. I can see the sweat beading on Bakka’s balding scalp. Colosimo nudges him to take his turn and only then does Bakka look away from me.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company today, Armani?” he says as he calls.
“I’m here on business. Some new information about our mutual enemy has come to light,” I tell him, glancing around at the rest of the men to be sure they’re all taking this in. “Turns out Sergio Bruno is marrying off one of his own to the Bratva to seal their alliance.”
That gets their attention. The game stops as a stalled hush claims the room.
“Where did this information come from?”
Incidentally, my wife, I think, but I don’t want to bring her into this.
“A reliable source close to my family who knows the bride. The wedding is happening in a few weeks.”
Pausing, I let that sink in before I move on to my request.
“Let me get to the point. This wedding cannot happen. So. How much to enlist your collective resources to come together and stop it?”
The cocktail waitress reappears with another round for the table before anyone can reply. They’re all looking at their cards as if they didn’t hear my question, save for Bakka, who entertains himself by squeezing the server’s ass. Taking his time, he fondles her while she stands there obediently until he finally gives her a pat and sends her on her way.
“This is quite the…exceptional request, Armani,” he says carefully, nodding at my cards.
It’s my play. Considering my move, I pick a card and drag it out just for the hell of it. I could be strategic, but this game is an insult to my brain, so I don’t bother.
“I entertained you on my yacht. Fed you very well. Provided you with all the Bellanti Vineyards wine you could drink as well as a generous quantity of exquisite scotch and some very, very attractive company with whom to enjoy it,” I remind him.
He inclines his head, waiting for me to go on.
“You accepted my hospitality and agreed that we had to stop the Bratva at all costs when I laid it all out for you,” I continue, addressing the entire table. “We discussed how it would affectall of usif Sergio Bruno makes this alliance, so let’s quit fucking around. It’s time to act.”
Dead silence falls.
“No groom, no wedding.” Nicolo Riggante tosses out the words casually as he rearranges his cards.
He’s the oldest one here by a few decades, and even though Bakka acts like he’s the alpha dog, there’s no question that Riggante has the most experience and the most seniority. Not to mention the most notoriety—this guy’s one of the OGs. He’s not a man to be crossed.
“Seems to me that’s the easiest solution to our problem,” Riggante adds. “One and done.”
I subtly arch a brow at his use of “our” which indicates he considers the Bratva a mutual issue. Excellent. It’s just what I was hoping for. Riggante is the man the rest of these mafiosos will take their cue from, even if they play lip service to Bakka.
“What do you have in mind?” I ask. “It needs to look like an accident. Or a frame job that would have to be flawless, maybe a robbery gone wrong or—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Let’s discuss terms first,” Bakka cuts in.
I’ve considered what the price will be for their help. It will be high, of course, and likely something that I don’t want to give. But well-to-do mob families rarely ask for money in exchange for manpower. It’s always much more personal than that.
Riggante outlines what he’s asking for. Then Romo. The others chime in along the way. Clenching my jaw, I force myself to relax my shoulders and keep the tension off my face. Bakka is the last to name his price, and I know before he speaks that it will involve Candi. He became infatuated with her on the yacht, and despite the array of women at his disposal, he continues to focus on her.
Making eye contact with him, I hold up a hand to stop whatever he’s about to say.
“As I said, my wife is not part of this deal. Before you ask, the answer is no, and it will always be no.”
A smirk slowly spreads across his face and crinkles the corners of his beady eyes, making them even smaller.
“Then I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you,” he says.
