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But none of that meant anything on the street. If he wanted to maintain a presence there, if he wanted to hold down his turf in the New York territory, he needed to make sure his men were seen. He looked at operations like the one in Jersey as marketing-focused rather than revenue-driven.
“Anything new from our friends in Singapore?” Damian asked.
Cole opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when Giorgio opened the doors. A trio of waiters entered the room, each bearing a tray laden with covered dishes.
“I hope you have brought your appetites,” Giorgio said as the servers set the dishes down on the table. “I’ve had Mario prepare a special menu just for you.”
“Thank you,” Damian said as the waiters uncovered the dishes. “It looks delicious.”
“I’ll judge your opinion based on the number of empty plates, my friend.” He grinned mischievously. “Although someday soon you’ll have to find a woman to cook for you at home. A man can’t live alone forever.”
Damian chuckled. Giorgio was always trying to marry him off. “No time for a woman.”
He used the singular intentionally. There were always plenty of women; his appetite for food was in no way indicative of his appetite for sex.
But seeing a hundred women was easier than seeing just one. He didn’t have the time or energy for that kind of complication.
“Something we all say until we find the right woman, eh, Mr. Grant?” Giorgio asked, nudging Cole.
Cole nodded in deference.
“I’ll send someone in with another bottle of wine and leave you to the meal,” Giorgio said.
He ducked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Damian busied himself with the food, loading his plate with fresh oysters, pasta with white clam sauce, chicken piccata, and thick slices of buffalo mozzarella that Giorgio made himself using his grandmother’s recipe.
When Cole’s plate was similarly full, Damian spoke.
“Set up the meeting with Fiore.”
Cole looked up, his fork midway to his mouth. Damian had confided in him the day after his visit from Farrell, and Cole had helped coordinate the background they’d done on both the Syndicate and the Fiore organization in the days since.
“When?” Cole asked.
Damian saw the questions in his eyes, was grateful he didn’t verbalize them. It was one of the many reasons he valued the man who was his underboss. They’d been working together since Damian first dipped his toe into the waters of organized crime by fronting a bookmaking operation out of a tiny bar in Queens. Cole had been the bartender. What started as a partnership of convenience had evolved into friendship after Cole stepped in front of him during a rare physical altercation, taking a knife wound to the stomach that by all rights should have been inflicted on Damian.
“As soon as possible,” Damian said. “I want to know what we’re dealing with.”
Cole nodded. “Any guidelines?”
Damian thought about it as he chewed a bite of the pasta, perfectly al dente, the clam sauce fresh and tangy.
“They can choose the location,” Damian said. “Underbosses only. No weapons.”
“No weapons will be hard to enforce if they choose the location,” Cole said.
“I’m not worried,” Damian said.
In his experience, people in their business relied too heavily on weapons. Damian could use them well enough when the occasion required, but it was foolish to become too dependent on them.
Surprises were commonplace. Relying on weapons led to complacency.
“All right,” Cole said. “Anything else?”
“No,” Damian said.
They ate in silence for a couple of minutes before Cole spoke again.
