Page 89 of King of Omen

With nothing suspicious that stood out, I followed indoors after him, shutting the door behind us.

Tony wandered inside Lorenzo’s home, whistling as he took in the luxe furnishings, art pieces and high-end fittings.

‘Who’s pad is this?’ he pried.

‘A family friend,’ I hedged. ‘I’m helping out with a matter they have, and they need me here.’

I caught him poking his nose into the various ground-level rooms with a rabid curiosity.

Finding it a tad intrusive, I herded him into the kitchen with haste.

He placed my books on the counter, and I rummaged through the fridge, pulling out milk and pouring him a cup of coffee.

We spent the next half hour chatting and catching up. Our conversation was lighthearted and limited to frivolous topics, from music to the latest TV shows we were streaming.

I sensed he wanted to linger, so I brought things to a head. ‘I need to hit the books. But thank you for coming out to bring them to me, Tony. Your help is appreciated.’

My tone made it clear that our conversation had ended.

‘Ah beautiful, so soon?’

‘I have to get this report done,’ I murmured, keen to have him depart.

Tony finished his coffee, standing to leave, face twisting with regret.

‘I’m so thankful,’ I reiterated, my appreciation heartfelt.

He capitulated. ‘No worries, Mia. It’s been awesome catching up.’

I walked him to the door and said goodbye, watching through the security screen until he disappeared down the street.

With my texts in my hands, I could now tackle my paper and make up for lost time.

In minutes, I settled in front of my laptop, delving into the intricacies of behavioural finance and investment.

LORENZO

The sprawling estate I was standing in was a cliche of Italian architecture.

Every wall and detail was adorned with ornate patterns and Renaissance frescoes.

Archways and columns created an impression of romanticism.

The property was a grandiose display of classical charm, with terracotta roofs and intricate pillars reminiscent of the Italian countryside.

Every element appeared to have been crafted to evoke a sense of opulence and history. Yet, it was all faked with modern materials and slabs of Carrara.

They most likely flew in from Italy’s Apuan Alps, an eternal snow-covered mountain range home to over 300 marble stone-cutting enterprises.

A few of which the Calibrese family owned as one of our legit cash-positive businesses.

I’d spent the morning reassuring the Don of the local Mancini clan that I had no interest in their Australian business.

Instead, I was after protection in exchange for staying out of their way.

I required some of his Mancini capos and gendarmes to provide security in Sydney and keep any fuckers away from my residence, my brother and my woman.

Our family’s reputation was paying off in spades as their Don, impressed by my presence, slipped away to discuss the matter with his advisers.

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