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“I’d rather go find one of the whores we employ than go anywhere near her. Anyway, I need you to look into the Violantes for me.”
“The Outfit? What did those fuckers do?” He pours himself another glass.
“We got word that they’re fucking with our shipping harbors. There was an attack earlier, and I want to know who was behind it and why.”
He nods and takes another sip. “Seems odd. They’re not desperate.”
“I agree, but we can’t leave any stones unturned, and we gotta start somewhere.” I rub my thumb on the rim of my glass.
“You got it, sweet pea.” He finishes his second drink and stands to leave.
I shoot him a glare, and he laughs. The bastard and his nicknames.
Later, I’m still in my office when my phone chimes. An image is attached of a tall, built, blond man getting into a white Porsche Cayenne.
I know exactly who it is.
Dante: Nico—check this out, Dominic Violante just landed at JFK.
What the fuck is a Violante doing in New York for a non-business trip? And it’s Dominic Violante out of all of them. His father is capo of the Chicago Outfit, and he’s next in line to take the throne. They come into New York for business and to get access to our harbors, but they shouldn’t be entering our territory unannounced.
The Violantes rule over the Outfit. They’re one of the most powerful Italian families in the U.S. Their influence stretches from the East Coast to the Midwest and in parts of Italy. The Outfit’s involved in the usual underground trades, including gambling, extortion, money laundering, and drug trafficking, cushy nightclubs, shell corps, and art galleries covering them up. But that wasn’t their crown jewel. The Outfit was heavily involved in politics, where they had us all by the balls. We all have one big super power. Policy is theirs, just like global trade is ours. And we all had used each other—or “worked together”—when convenient. The Outfit are the only ones who are close competition. But we’ve been at peace.
Nico: Follow him, I’ll catch up.
Grabbing the keys to my Range Rover, I head down to the parking garage of the club.
Seriously,a Violante in New York?I have to admit: the guy has some fucking balls entering New York so soon after an attack—that or he’s the biggest idiot alive. It doesn’t surprise me. Most men who in our world always feel they need to prove something.
Violante is lucky I didn’t look into him right away, or he never would’ve made it off the airstrip.
I pull up Dante’s location on the monitor and head toward the moving dot on my GPS. A text pops up on the screen.
Dante: Some girl picked him up. She was practically bursting at the seams. Could be a secret lover.
Me: Who the fuck says lover?
Dante: What? Chicks dig it.
This fucking idiot. Dante’s been my best friend since we were in diapers. Not only that, but he’s one of the Cosa Nostra’s best trackers, which is why he’s our enforcer. It’s his job to hunt anyone who has debts with us, not to mention he’s an expert in hand-to-hand combat and not a bad hacker, either. Instead of texting back, I hit the call button on my steering wheel.
“Hey, lover,” Dante answers seductively.
I ignore him but can’t help but laugh. “What do you know?”
“Not much, except she’s hot as fuck. Long black hair, toned legs, and—”
“Not the girl,” I say, irritated. Dante was always looking for the next piece of ass. “Did you get anything on Violante?”
He chuckles. “Not yet, but they’re close. She all but threw herself at him. She could be useful—might know something. Looks like they’re heading to dinner. Want me to keep watch?”
“Follow them, and I’ll meet you to take over from there.”
“Sounds good.”
“Later, man.”
Before I could hang up, Dante spoke again. “Oh, and Nico?”
