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The next morning, I call a meeting with my consigliere, Francesco Jilani, Angelo, and my brother. They come to my office on the 35thfloor of the high-rise that belongs tola famiglia'slegit business front, Oscuro Enterprises.
I sit behind my desk, answering the never-ending stream of emails I get as CEO, while my assistant ushers the three men in. Miceli and Francesco sit in the two chairs facing my desk. Angelo remains standing. He could pull another chair over, but I know he won't. Miceli lounges, but his casual demeanor is an act. He's relaxed like I am. Never. Aware of everything around him.
It's how our father trained us and the security team outside my office door doesn't diminish that awareness one iota.
Francesco, on the other hand, sits straight up, his manner respectful, but about as alert as a sleeping spaniel. The consigliere I inherited from my father when I took over as don five years ago, he's twenty years my senior and damn complacent for a made man. He trusts his bodyguards and our security team to protect him.
Though we have bodyguards, Miceli and I see them as backup, not the front line. Angelo is the same, if not more paranoid than us. He only sits down when social strictures absolutely require it. Even then, I've yet to see him stay in his chair throughout an entire meal.
I shut down my email and close my laptop. "We aren't waiting for those whiskey-soaked assholes to move in on me like they did Russo. We take the fucking war to them."
Last night, I updated Francesco on the results of the interrogation.
Miceli nods. "I'll call a meeting."
"I don't like that he didn't name his boss," Angelo says.
His words drop into the room like bomb. We all stare at him.
"He said he got his instructions from the mob," Miceli says.
"But when we asked which boss, he never used Brogan Shaughnessy's name."
The poor bastard had been nearly dead at that point, and he'd just kept muttering, "My boss. It was my boss."
We all know who the biggest mob boss in New York City is, but Angelo's right, the Irishman didn't name him. "You think he was from a different crew?"
Angelo shrugs. He's not prone to speculation.
"There are several organizations that would benefit from a war between us and the Irish," Francesco says. "Waiting to strike back might be prudent as it's possible that is exactly whoever is behind these recent attacks wants us to do."
I don't like waiting. It pisses me off, but that's why the man is my consigliere. He's supposed to give me smart counsel and I have to admit he could be right.
"We need to do some digging. Find out if Shaughnessy is looking to expand his territory."
"Domenico told me the I.D. we found on the Irishman is fake," I tell them.
It's not uncommon to carry fake I.D. when on a job. It can obfuscate even better than having no identification at all. But its presencecouldmean that Francesco's theory has merit. Angelo thinks something is shady and I trust his gut.
I look at my brother. "Get Domenico to run facial recognition on the Irishman."
Domenico is my capo in charge of online money laundering, but he has tech geniuses on his crew that do a lot of other stuff for the organization too.
"Talk to your contacts in the mob," I say to Francesco. Besides respect for my father, I keep him as consigliere because he has built a lot of connections in his decades as a made man. "Maybe they know if their boss is targeting us."
Francesco's mouth tightens, but he nods. He doesn't like taking orders from me. Too bad. I'm don.
I look at Miceli. "Order a full sweep for surveillance equipment. Offices, meeting rooms, bars, restaurants. Anywhere our plans could be overheard."
"Consider it done."
I nod. Then I look around the room, meeting each man's eyes before I say, "It's not the Irish stirring up shit with my capos."
There has been grumbling about lost revenue from the hit shipments, about stability inla famiglia. Like I fucked up. Like I'm weak.
Francesco crosses his legs, trying to look more relaxed, so I know whatever coming out of his mouth isn't going to be something I like.
