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Over the next two hours,I watch my little brother smile at his new girl, Eleanor Kingston. Bash looks like one of those fucking unicorn emojis with hearts for eyes and rainbows shooting out of its ass. He’s mentioned her to me before, and after spending a little time in her presence, I understand why. She’s beautiful and funny, and she’s ball-busting in a way that reminds me a little of Amelia.
And the way she looks at Bash makes me think this girl is important.
She gets it.
She gets him.
I know he’s worried about the arranged engagement Pop has been trying to force on him, so he’s trying to not get attached. But he should. Bash has chosen not to be involved in the family business, which means there are certain things he can’t be privy to.
He doesn’t know he’s never going to marry Emma Sabatini. We just need him to believe it to sell it for her family’s sake. Pop and I have been working for years to get something on those slimy fuckers, and unfortunately for Sebastian, this is Pop’s in.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
But friends and enemies aren’t what we need.
Allies are key.
And sometimes allies have to be gently manipulated into those roles.
You’ve got to have alliances to sustain success and maintain power in our world. The Beneventis have held the power in Philadelphia for over sixty years, but as most of us modernize and branch out into more legitimate businesses, allies are becoming scarce. We’ve always had a good relationship to our north with New York, but our relationship with Atlantic City, further south, is lacking. We don’t need Atlantic City often. The Port of Philadelphia typically gives us all the access we need. But the international waters off the coast of New Jersey are less monitored and have their benefits occasionally. While Atlantic City may answer to the same commission we all do, they keep to themselves down there as much as possible.
That’s where Carlo Sabatini comes in to play. His family came into power ten years ago, but they’ve been playing the game for closer to thirty. We don’t trust him. Never have. Pop has been working on a plan for the last few years to get rid of him.
He thought it would be over in a few months.
He was wrong.
It’s been slow moving, and we’re all fed up with this shit.
Finding something to hold over Sabatini is proving harder than any of us expected.
I’m on my way to meet with my cyber-specialist now. He’s been pulling double duty, working on getting something on the Sabatinis and keeping Amelia off the grid. Mike was a Navy SEAL years ago. And I’m not talking about the average Navy SEAL. He wasn’t running normal missions. He was with SEAL Team Six, infiltrating governments and bringing down empires, all with a few swipes of a key.
After a mission gone wrong, he came home with a certain skill set and an aversion to authority that made him the perfect man for the job.
He doesn’t work for The Family.
He works for me.
He also doesn’t like to leave his loft in Old City if he doesn’t have to.
When he calls, I go to him.
But he’s worth the hassle.
He’s the best at what he does, and I trust him. Trust is something I don’t give often, but this man has earned his way into the small group of people I trust. Once I’ve parked my car on the old cobblestone street, I hit the buzzer below his security camera and look up so Mike can see it’s me, then wait to be buzzed in.
It may be humid as hell outside, but it’s freezing in here. Mike keeps his place at a frigid sixty-five degrees year-round. Says he never wants to be hot again. He got enough of that during his time in the sandpit. He’s sitting at a long steel desk lined with expensive computer monitors when I enter. He doesn’t look up, instead continuing to type while he watches a screen off to the right.
I lean against a steel pole in the center of the room and cross my arms while I wait for his attention. His place is Spartan. It’s an old brick building with exposed beams and one open room making up the massive loft. He has the basics, what he needs and nothing else. The only thing here that appears to be flashy or indulgent is his computer system.
Once Mike finishes typing, he leans back with a flare, a self-satisfied smile settling on his face. “I got it.”
“Got what?” I ask, tired, aggravated, and not in the mood for games.
He kicks his feet up on his desk and leans his arms behind his head. “Got who is more like it. I got Canada. The Tremblays. I got what we needed for you to protect your girl. They double-crossed their partners south of the border. Well, south of our border. Really south of their border. I’ve got the proof right here.” He points to a file on the monitor like it holds the secrets of the world.
When I stand there motionless and glaring, his smile starts to fade. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, man? I thought you needed something on them so you could get them to leave the baker alone.” Mike pulls his feet off his desk and sits up. “Did you bring me any of those cupcakes I like?”
