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Asphodel is the jewel in the crown of our property portfolio. It’s one of several nightclubs the family owns around the city, but since it opened two years ago, it’s been my favorite. I was the one who came up with the concept for the place. I wanted something different, something edgy. The women on staff wear black leather pants and matching corsets. The guys dress in black pants and shirts. Our DJs play intense, pounding music nonstop. A décor that relies heavily on black and the darker shades of gray adds to the atmosphere. There’s a charge of electricity in the air at Asphodel, a sense that danger lurks around the corner. It excites our patrons, who pay a hefty price to party here.
I’m happy to take money from anyone who can meet the cover charge, but I doubt many of them realize the significance of the name of the club. I chose it because of the role asphodels play in Greek mythology. They were the flowers of the underworld, the part where ordinary souls who’d achieved neither greatness nor notoriety for their deeds were sent. I always imagined thatHades, presiding over his realm of the dead, gave zero fucks for those people. Sitting here in the office, looking over the accounts to see how much we made last month, I feel an odd kinship with him. I don’t give a damn about the people who frequent the club.
Naming the club for a flower associated with death and mourning felt fitting. It appealed to some darker instinct I’ve buried deep inside that grows more distant with every smile Emilia gives me. Just thinking about my beautiful wife gives me a sense of peace. Opening my eyes and finding myself next to her each morning has been like waking up in paradise. I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.
I look up from my laptop screen as the door opens. Antonio comes in. He doesn’t try to claim the seat behind the desk just because he’s the boss. He isn’t an asshole like that. A man like my brother doesn’t need to throw his weight around to gain respect. Instead, he unfastens the button on his suit jacket and drops onto the sofa that runs along the wall adjacent to the desk.
“How are things looking?” he asks, pointing toward my laptop.
“Good. Takings are up fifteen percent on last month.” I doubt that’s news to Antonio since he gets regular reports sent to him. He rarely graces the clubs with his presence. “So what brings you down here?”
“I’ve got news.”
I close my laptop and sit up straighter. “Yeah?”
“Damiano called me. Pietro Conti has sworn allegiance to him and, by extension, to us.”
“You trust him?”
Antonio shrugs. “Until he gives us reason not to.”
Which is really his way of saying he doesn’t trust the guy but will wait and see what happens. “And my wife’s other uncles?”
“Mario reached out. He wants to leave the life. His restaurants are doing well. His sons have been provided for in Ernesto’s will. He wants a quiet life for his family.”
“You’ll let him go?”
“Sure, but we’ll watch him closely. I can’t rule him or Pietro out as being involved in the hit on their father.”
Something in his tone tells me he’s already done just that. “But you’re leaning toward Gianni being responsible?”
“Yeah. His actions concern me the most. His wife and kids slipped out of town a couple of days ago and rumor has it Gianni hopped on a boat to Marseilles.”
“What’s in Marseilles?”
“The Lenkov Bratva.”
I grit my teeth. The Lenkovs are allied with the Morgantis, a rival family here in New York. We’re not at war with them, but our relationship isn’t warm and fuzzy either.
“You think they’ll help Gianni?”
Antonio shrugs. “He’s already in bed with the Bianchis and the Morgantis hate them as much as we do.”
“So is it just a coincidence he’s headed for the Lenkovs’ territory?”
“Who knows? I’ll reach out to Daniil Lenkov and Adriano Morganti and ask them to remain neutral if Gianni goes to them for help.”
“Okay.” I rub my temples to dispel the tension that’s threatening to become a headache. “So what do I do?”
“For now, just take care of your wife. How is she anyway?”
“Fine, I guess. Apparently our sister visited with her today.”
When Emilia called me from Livvy’s phone, she caught me off guard. Matteo and I were in the middle of punishing some asshole who thought he could deal fentanyl in one of our clubs and I wasn’t particularly patient with my wife.
“I know,” Antonio says. “She asked my permission to take Emilia to lunch.”
My jaw clenches. Antonio shakes his head and laughs, knowing that I think he overstepped.
