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Twelve
Anthony scowledat the gilded antique clock behind the black marble desk; forty-five minutes and Luciano Conti still hadn’t emerged. Everyone knew Luciano never arrived anywhere late, especially not within his own damn building.
Anthony ground his teeth together and curled his fingers into tight fists over his chair’s armrests, pounding at the brown leather with a satisfying thud. Thanks to Emilia, his social standing had taken a catastrophic hit.
“So, Mr. Stucco.” Luciano’s voice startled Anthony into ceasing his armrest beating, the mafia kingpin striding across the plush crimson carpet before plonking his plump and aging body into a chair behind the desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
His gaze glided over Anthony’s wrinkled clothes while a slow smirk bent the outer corners of his lips upward. The muscles at Anthony’s jaw strained as did his fists. He looked like a homeless bum, and Luciano—with his classic leather shoes, crisp beige suit, and slicked black hair—looked just as polished and pristine as Los Angeles’s most powerful crime boss should.
And yet again, thanks to Emilia, “homeless bum” was pretty much who Anthony had become.
“I have a business proposition.” He held back an urge to bare his teeth and snarl at having to ask Luciano for help. An animalistic response, sure, but he’d spent eight days struggling to tame the wild rage within. “A proposition that will make you lots of money.”
Luciano slumped way back in his chair, fingers adorned in heavy gold rings and interlocking over his rounded belly. “Of course you do, but I have a lot of money already. And from what I hear, you’re broke as fuck.”
“You’ve heard?” Anthony raised a brow, stroking Luciano’s ego.
The man had eyes and ears all over LA. Of course he’d heard.
Luciano shook his head, slow, unimpressed. “You know I have, and I’d never waste my time meeting a client who can’t pay. I’m only here because we have history. So, what is it you think you can get from me today?”
Luciano’s flippancy. His downright disrespect. It lit a sense of searing violence that clashed within Anthony’s stomach, his nails biting into his palm as he tried to subdue that clashing.
There’ll be time for violence and rage. Later. I have to remember where I am.
He cleared his throat and took a second before responding, “I’m not ‘broke as fuck.’ My funds are tied up at the moment. That’s all. With your help, there’ll be plenty of money to go around.”
“You know, I don’t want to return to the days of throwing my clients in the river, Mr. Stucco. So maybe you understand why I don’t provide services based on if someone can pay.” Luciano leaned forward and flicked open a flat wooden case on his desk. “Your accounts are frozen, and you didn’t have the foresight to hide your money in other places.” He pulled a cigar from the case and pointed it at Anthony. “That was stupid.”
Anthony shifted in his seat, pulling his posture up and pushing his chest out. The insult’s sharp sting cut against the fact he’d spent yet another night sleeping in his car. As much as he wanted to lunge across the desk and smash Luciano’s wrinkled old head into the unforgiving black marble, he again vowed to channel his fury into something else. Someone else. Emilia.
Luciano flicked at a silver lighter. “So, let’s say your plan, whatever it is, doesn’t work. You know the big bad world of business, Mr. Stucco, and you know I still have to pay my men. What would you do if you were me?”
Anthony’s pulse pounded in his neck, and he watched as Luciano lit his cigar, taking short, sharp inhalations before tossing the lighter onto his desk.
Anthony’s life had become a series of near misses, including his escape the day Emilia ran away. If he hadn’t turned back to the apartment on his way to work, all because he’d forgotten to take a second shirt for his night out with friends, he would never have returned home in time to see the stack of papers fanned across the kitchen counter.
There’d been photos and multiple documents, and right then he’d known he had to run. And why? Because that stupid bitch had gotten all het up over one little fight the night before.
By the time he’d peered outside the apartment’s city-facing windows, five squad cars were already weaving toward the building. He’d got outta there as fast as he could, leaving with nothing more than the shirt on his back and a few hundred dollars in his wallet.
He glared at Luciano and extended a smirk of his own, painfully aware he couldn’t fuck this up. “If I were you, I’d take a calculated risk.”
Luciano sputtered out a smoke-infused laugh, gray plumes circling the air above him. “The keyword is ‘risk.’ You think it’s my problem you couldn’t manage your ill-gotten funds?”
Anthony slammed an open palm on the desk and leaped out of his seat, his face hot while sweat trickled down his temples. “You’ve gotten soft, you fat, lazy bastard.”
Luciano didn’t so much as flinch, and still, Anthony needed to prove he had the balls to stand up to this asshole. “You’re talking shit, Luciano, you know it. If I couldn’t see both your hands right now, I’d guess you’re jacking off under that ugly desk of yours since hanging shit on me is about the limit of excitement in your life these days. Am I right? You built your career on taking on risks. How many times have I hired you? How many loaded friends have I steered your way? I helped you become what you are, you dumb fuck. You owe me. You. Owe. Me.”
Luciano flicked ash off his cigar and into the red crystal ashtray beside him. The lag in his movements said Anthony’s outrage didn’t perturb him in the least. “Stop being a shit, Anthony, and sit the fuck down while you’re at it.”
Anthony sat down and made a point of not breaking eye contact with Luciano. “What I have in mind is an easy job for you, and it could be your biggest pay day yet. If you turn this down, you’ll be the biggest fucking limp-dick this city’s ever known.”
Luciano chuckled and stubbed out his cigar before narrowing his eyes at Anthony. How long had it been since someone had the balls to call this man a “limp-dick,” much less a dumb fuck? Likely not since he’d been a pimply teenager with nothing more than a pastrami sandwich to fill his pockets. Most people these days found him downright terrifying.
Luciano was Anthony’s creation. His connections and his money had dragged this fucker from a two-bit drug pusher to a corporate monolith. It’d be a cold day in never before Anthony let this shit stain forget that.
Luciano leaned back in his chair, and his demeanor settled. “I can’t believe you couldn’t control your missus. I’ve seen chihuahuas more vicious than her.”
