Page 68 of I Would Beg For You

Chapter 22 Valentino

“Remind me again whywe’ve invested in some obscure medical company no one’s ever heard about?” Luciano asks as he barges into my study.

It’s been a month since I had that fateful call with Declan Reeves. I didn’t know things could move so quickly in the world of acquisitions and boardroom manipulations—the man is showing me a slice of the world I suspected existed yet didn’t really have a clue about, all things considered. And really, why would I? That’s white-collar stuff. We don’t deal in such shenanigans. Our families are blue collar, in the big scheme of things. Heads of Borgata flirt with different heights, but ultimately, what makes us strong is the boots on the ground. Strongly blue-collar folk there. While some bosses do peddle in this kind of transactional game, it’s not generally our purview.

Except, I myself am about to wade into those waters. Never thought I’d ever have to. There’s a semblance of legitimacy we need in order for our world to flow along smoothly. We operate in the dark—and not the shadows and shady corners like DeclanReeves—yet when the light of day hits us, it has to look a certain way, pass muster.

I can’t hide from the fact I’m going into this white-collar shit now to get back at a certain person who doesn’t even deserve to be called human. Ultimately, I’m protecting our collective asses—none of us, including the syndicate, wants another RICO landing on us—but this is, at the very baseline, personal.

I sit back in my chair and nod at the one across from me. My brother sighs and sits down.

“So?” Luciano asks, eyebrows raised.

I shake my head. “What’s with the beard?”

His hand comes up to smooth over the hairs on his jaw and chin. To his credit, it has filled in somewhat, and he’s keeping it neat. I don’t want to admit it, but it suits him. Breaks that goody-two-shoes impression he always gives anyone with his clean-cut looks and wide eyes.

“We’re not discussing that,” he mutters.

“You lost a bet or something?” I can’t help but tease.

Luciano and I used to be close. Marco was my first playmate, us being the same age, but Luciano was a close second. I was barely two when he came. By the time Marco and I were five, Luciano was three and able to follow us into all our adventures, no matter how ill-advised. He had a tendency to tattle on us at first, then he learned to keep his mouth shut when we started side-lining him. I chuckle—he took his own version of Omertà to me then, and he’s never let me down.

“Can we please leave my facial hair out of this?” he grumbles.

Ooh, touchy subject. I’ll let him off the hook. For now.

“Where’s Luka?”

“Daycare, you stronzo.”

I wince. My mind hasn’t been in the family game lately. It’s a weekday; of course, the kid would be in school.

“What about you? Finished with that car you were salivating over? What was it, a 1967 Chevy Impala?”

Luciano narrows his dark eyes on me. I’ve never let my younger siblings make me squirm, so what’s happening today?

“You’re doing everything to sidestep my question, Val.”

Touché.

“So,” Luciano continues. “Why are we buying into some medical company no one’s ever heard of? They make breathing apparatus. Not even ventilators, and those could bring in a profit, somewhat.”

He’s not going to let this go. Luciano knows when to defer to me—this is what makes him a formidable ally and the one positioned to be my second in command when I took the reins. It was our padre’s plan. I haven’t implemented it yet. This all landed on us completely out of the blue when he was murdered. But my brother is also like a hungry dog with a bone when he wants to be, and something tells me this is one such moment.

I sigh and stand, moving to the sideboard to get us both a glass of whisky.

“I’m driving,” he argues when I set his drink in front of him.

“No, you’re not. Luka’s not going to be done for another few hours, and if you want to know what’s going on, you’ll stick with me today. Carlito’s driving.”

“Merda,” he curses, then eyes the glass like its vermin.

“Are you going to start growing your hair and go vegan and all hipster who doesn’t drink a drop of alcohol on us or what?” I ask as I sit back down.

Another curse drops from his lips as he glares at me then grabs the glass and takes a sip.

“BeathaAnáil,” he says, staring straight at me. “What the fuck’s going on with that?”

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