Page 26 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

Cross pulled off a crowbar hanging on a rack inside the trailer, and used it to crack open the side of the crate closest to the loading doors. Sticking his hand inside, he shifted the packing hay around until smooth metal met his fingertips. He repeated the process through different parts of the hay until he was satisfied.

He jumped out of the truck after replacing the crowbar.

Andino now held a manila folder that he handed over to Cross. “I have a final date on the drop, and the location Rhys wants to exchange the guns.”

Cross opened the folder and looked the new details over. November sixteenth was the deadline, only three months from then. A drop in the Gulf of Mexico, it seemed, preferably with an exchange between boats.

“I can manage all of this,” Cross said. “Do you have a boat for me to use, or do you want me to work that out on my own?”

“Would a trip on a beautiful luxury yacht suit your tastes?”

Cross smirked. “Now you’re talking.”

“I’ll have a port cleared by the drop time. We’ll get no issues there with a little bribe.”

“I have a contact with the coast guard that I can work.”

“Sounds like it’s all coming together just fine.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Cross said, chuckling. “It never does any good.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I’m arrogant. There’s a difference.”

“Sure.” Andino nodded to the inside of the trailer. “So, is that all good, or what?”

“The one crate is dry. It was the last one off the boat, so the closest to the sea water tank. If it’s dry, I suspect the others are, too.”

Andino nodded. “You satisfied?”

“Try to get the rest here on anything but a damn fishing vessel, man.”

“No promises.”

Yeah, there never was in this life.

“You missed tribute last Monday,” Calisto said.

“Was I needed?”

“You know that’s not the point, son.”

Cross took a seat on the leather couch in his father’s office. Usually, the space was a comforting place for him. It held fond memories from his younger years, and especially good memories of Calisto.

Right then, however, it felt cold. That was a lot of Cross’s mixed emotions causing his unease, of course, but it didn’t make it any less real.

“Other than to count the cash when Wolf doesn’t feel like doing it,” Cross said, “I don’t really need to go to tribute. It’s not like I owe you a tribute personally. I pay you my dues as I make my money.”

Cross wasn’t a Capo under his father, like a lot of the Donati men were. He was his father’s underboss—he helped to manage the men when needed, and their business. The money side of his business, on the other hand, was solely tied up in gunrunning for Chicago.

When he made money doing that, Cross paid dues to his boss.

That’s how it worked.

Sure, he had other businesses, too, but they weren’t tied to the Donati mafia. They didn’t need to have dues paid on them. He laundered his dirty money to clean it through businesses spread out in the city that he had investments in. Clubs, restaurants, used car dealerships, and more. Anything that was a mostly cash-only business, his money manager was on it like flies on shit. Investing and owning businesses like those also helped to earn him more cash while legitimizing his dirty money.

“True enough,” Calisto finally said, “but that still isn’t the point.”