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“You’ll do great.” DeLuca was my pick for head of house security while I’m gone. He was a good gate guard, with the kind of broad physique that keeps people behaving themselves when he asks to see their ID. When I bumped him up to the house, he proved himself further. He knows how to be discreet. Knows how to make an impression, too, when it’s needed. He’s young and he’s a little green, but the other men respect him. They’ll fall in line.
“I’ll try not to fuck it up,” DeLuca says with a grin, but he’s a little too jittery for me to think it’s just a joke.
“I know you won’t,” I tell him, squeezing his shoulder. “And hell, we’re due for a quiet spell.”
“Don’t jinx it!”
“Any issues, you call me. But you won’t have issues.” I pat him one last time on the arm, and then I turn to the door and walk out of Redwood Manor.
The Castellani brothers flank me like a pair of sentinels as we make our way down the stairs outside, and the house guards all give me somber nods, as though I’m heading off to my execution.
Maybe I am.
I pause at the bottom of the steps and take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the sprawling estate, or at least as much as I can see here. I was real happy when the Boss himself promoted me to head of house security. Redwood Manor feels like home, and the Family—not just Julian and Sandro, but the rest of them, too—feel like brothers. That sense only grew after Sandro took over and got rid of some dead branches that were twisting the Family tree.
For a man like me without his own blood ties, being a Castellani has given me a sense of security. Ofroots. And I don’t much like change. Don’t much like the Espositos, either.
But for the Boss, for the Family, I’ll do anything. Even join another clan for a while.
A dark-windowed car waits for me a few yards away, its sleek black exterior waxed to a mirror shine. The driver steps out and opens the back door so that, as the three of us approach the car, Giancarlo Barone emerges from the back seat.
The Esposito Consigliere was sent to pick me up? I’m starting to feel like a celebrity.
“Don Castellani,” he addresses the Boss with a respectful nod, his voice smooth and confident. “Mr. Pedretti will be well taken care of. You have nothing to worry about.”
“See that I don’t, Barone,” Sandro replies, his tone firm but devoid of malice. He knows now how to assert his authority without resorting to aggression—a skill he’s developed since taking on the top job. He wouldn’t thank me for feeling proud of him, but I do.
I packed a suitcase just in case, and it’s already been loaded into the trunk. So with one last glance at the Castellani brothers, I climb into the car, settling into the soft leather seat as the door closes behind me. The Espositos, like the Castellanis, have some serious money.
Barone reclines in his seat across from me, studying my face. “Comfortable?” he asks as the car begins to pull away from Redwood Manor.
“Sure.”
“Massimo Pedretti,” he says, as though he’s tasting my name. “Quite the reputation you have in your Family. Don Castellani always speaks highly of you.”
Now how the hell would Barone know what the Boss says about me? But all I say is, “It’s Max. Or Pedretti. Choose your flavor, just not Massimo, eh?”
“MaxPedretti,” Barone continues, undeterred. “A skilled security expert, fiercely pragmatic, highly intelligent. And a man who has…reinvented himself.” That rings a few alarm bells, but I make no reply. “Tell me, what drives a man like you to serve a Family like the Castellanis?”
The chess match has begun, apparently. No matter. I intend to keep my king well-guarded.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask. “Same thing I bet drives you, Barone. Loyalty. I protect the people who protect me.”
He gives a yellowed smile. “Loyalty. A rare commodity these days.” He leans back, fingers tapping idly on the armrest as he stares out the window. “How did you first come to work for the Castellanis?”
“I’d rather keep those cards close to my chest.” May as well be upfront about it. “I might be an envoy to your Family, Barone, but I ain’t no rat. And I assume you, of all people, understand the importance of discretion.”
“Of course, of course.” He chuckles, a knowing glint in his eyes. “We all have our secrets, don’t we? Some of us have secrets currently serving time in Chino.”
If I was uneasy before, I’m on guard now. The old Don, Sandro’s father, paid a lot of money to have my past painted over when I joined up. But I guess that’s why Giancarlo Barone is the Esposito Consigliere. He knows things he shouldn’t, like any good Consigliere.
We don’t talk anymore, and soon enough we arrive at Anna-Vittoria’s house, if you can call it a house. It’s not what I pictured. She’s a woman of refinement, but this estate—a grand, sprawling reimagining of a Roman villa built on top of one of the gentle Bel Air hills—is not the style I would’ve picked for her. Carved sandstone mimics marble columns, and there are little mock temples here and there as we drive through the gardens, themselves vibrant green, dotted with bursts of color from carefully arranged flower beds.
It’s an impressive sight, sure. But it’s not Redwood.
The house guards at the door eye me, but don’t touch me. No pat-down. A show of faith, maybe.
Barone leads me through the front door and into the interior of the house. Polished floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the recessed lights overhead. We pass by room after room, each as beautiful as the last, until we finally reach a well-lit sitting room covered in chartreuse leaf-patterned wallpaper. Green raw silk curtains hang from the tall windows. A large fireplace is set into one wall, and twin golden-framed mirrors hang above it. The floor is covered with a huge, thick rug patterned after some Pompeii mosaics.
