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“Technically, they belong to the company. Makes better tax sense to do it that way.”
“You didn’t strike me as someone who paid tax.”
“I pay plenty. Got to fund the libraries you sit inside somehow, haven’t we?”
“So your company owns these cars, not you. What’s the matter? Can’t afford a nice car?”
He growls as he turns to me. “You’re going the right way toward a spanking. Pick a car.”
I blush bright red, unable to say anything for a moment. “This one,” I mumble, pointing at the nearest car.
“Good choice.” He opens the door to let me in before climbing into the driver’s seat.
“How much did this cost?” I ask, looking around at the walnut and leather interior.
“Only about half a million, something like that.”
“Only?”
“It’s not the list price that costs so much. It’s adding all the extras like bulletproof glass and anti-bomb metal plates underneath. That stuff costs a fortune.” He flashes a smile. “Plus the revolving plates and the machine gun in the lights don’t come cheap.”
I frown before getting the reference. “I think you just made a Bond movie joke. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“Doesn’t distract me from wanting to know why you need bulletproof glass.”
“There are some in this world who would be glad to see me gone from it, let’s put it that way.” He starts the engine and we roll toward a door which I’m sure we’re about to hit. “Slow down,” I say, grabbing his arm.
At the last moment the door rolls up and then we’re bursting out, roaring along a gravel track toward a set of wrought iron gates. This time I know what to expect. Once again, just as I’m certain we’re going to hit, they move too.
Now we’re out on the road, heading away from his house. “You said you’d tell me who you are,” I say as he races through the city traffic. He keeps swerving and weaving without ever needing to stop. I’ve never seen anything like it. “What are you? A Nascar driver?”
“I need to be able to drive well for times I’m pursued.”
“You being pursued now?”
“Nope.”
“Then would you mind slowing down?”
He eases off the gas a little. “Not used to going fast?”
“Definitely not. What are you though? You said you were going to tell me. You own all this stuff. People are scared of you. The FBI was in your office that time. What’s going on, Vincenzo? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m in the mafia.”
A heavy silence falls between us. I was expecting bad but not that bad. “You’re a criminal?” I ask, shaking my head slowly.
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m in shock. You’re in the mafia? As in the Italian mafia?”
“My family come from Florence. It would be a bit strange if I was in the Irish mafia, wouldn’t it?”
“I mean what? How? What does that even mean? How are you not in prison if you’re in the mafia?”
“Because I’m good at what I do.”
