Page 24 of Claimed By the Enemy
Velasquez looks relieved to change subjects. “Better than expected. The dock workers’ union reached an agreement last week. No more delays.”
“Good. That was costing us two percent profit margin.”
“About time someone stood up to them,” Torrino adds. “These unions think they can hold entire industries hostage.”
“Sometimes pressure is necessary to reach reasonable terms,” I reply absently. Sophie has disappeared from view now, blocked by other guests. “Negotiation requires leverage.”
“Speaking of leverage,” Velasquez says, “have you given any thought to the Marseille opportunity?”
“What about it?”
“The port authority is looking for new partners. With your connections in Asia and our Mediterranean network…”
“We could corner the luxury goods market between Shanghai and southern Europe,” I finish. “Interesting.”
“Very profitable, if we move quickly. But it would require significant upfront investment.”
“How significant?”
“Fifty million euros, minimum.”
I whistle low. “That’s not pocket change.”
“No, but the return potential is enormous. We’re talking about a twenty-year exclusive contract.”
“Twenty years is a long time to commit to anything.”
“It’s also long enough to build something that lasts,” Torrino points out. “Your father understood the value of long-term commitments.”
“My father also understood the danger of putting all your eggs in one basket.”
“This isn’t one basket, Dom. This is an entire market sector. We need an answer soon. The port authority won’t wait forever.”
“Give me the detailed projections. I’ll review them next week.”
“Next week might be too late.”
“Then get me the numbers tomorrow.”
My tone is sharper than intended, and both men notice. Velasquez exchanges a look with Torrino.
“Everything alright?” Velasquez asks.
“Fine. Just tired.”
“Maybe you should find your wife,” Torrino suggests. “Make sure she’s… settling in well.”
The suggestion irritates me more than it should. “Sophie can take care of herself.”
“I’m sure she can. But you know how people talk.”
“Dom.” Velasquez’s voice carries a warning. “You’ve made a bold statement tonight. Everyone in this room is watching to see how you handle it.”
“Handle what?”
“Being married to a Bellini.”
The conversation is interrupted by movement near the terrace doors. Couples are moving toward what looks like an impromptu dance floor that’s been cleared in the adjoining room. The pianist has switched from background music to something more rhythmic.
