Page 67 of Deal with the Devil
The Belluccis are known for their wealth and prestige, not for their warmth and tenderness.
He has always navigated these spaces better than I have—they’ve always preferred when he’s here than when I am, particularly Anthony Senior and Sofia.
Anthony views him as something of a nephew type while Sofia sees him as a big brother.
I don’t give a fuck about faking any sort of familial connection. None of it matters when Don Vito will inevitably die and I’ll restructure the family how I see fit anyway.
The Belluccis are in for a wakeup call when I run things; they’ll kiss my ass and greet me good morning then…
Perhaps that may be why, as I take my seat, Olivia’s posture stiffens. She doesn’t meet my eye, sipping from her espresso, but her grip on the cup tightens.
Anthony doesn’t look up either, but as soon as he believes I’m not paying attention, he’s sneaking a glance in my direction.
“Where’s Don Vito?” I ask, folding my hands neatly on the table.
“He’s unwell this morning. He said he’d rest up and join us for supper instead.”
So it will be just us. Underboss and Capo.
We’ll have to pretend to cooperate while wondering how long the other will last once the old man finally rots.
A staff member bustles into the room to offer me breakfast, but I wave them off with a simple request of freshly squeezed orange juice.
Anthony huffs a laugh around a mouthful of food. A piece of fried egg clings to the corner of his lower lip. “Still won’t take that thing off? We all know what you look like under there.”
“If you don’t understand the purpose, then it perfectly illustrates our differences, wouldn’t you say? I think it speaks to the roles we’ve been chosen for,” I explain calmly. The staff member returns with my juice, but I ignore them, gaze set on Anthony and only Anthony. “It’s not a character to put on and take off. It’s not some charade to put forth when necessary. It’s much more, much deeper than that. Perhaps that’s why you never could fill Vito’s shoes.”
The smile slides off his face so fast it’s almost comical.
As if sensing the tension, Olivia sets her cup down with a clink and scoots her chair back. She seems to have lost any interest in her espresso and her fashion magazine as she excuses herself from the breakfast table with hardly a word.
Anthony wipes his mouth, finally catching the piece of fried egg stuck to his chin. He’s livid, his complexion burning a shade of red that’s similar to the pancetta on his plate.
“You ready for our little field trip today?” he asks instead, tone neutral but eyes sharp.
I reach for the glass of juice and take a single sip. “Lead the way. After all, we’re on your turf, Smoky.”
The warehouse at RossoVerde is tedious in a way that bores me. Nothing about the place has changed in the almost twenty years since its opening.
Every metal drum is stacked as it should be, every crate labeled in identical font, barcodes aligned in meticulous fashion.The floors gleam under the overhead lights, buffed clean every night by maintenance personnel.
All of it managed by Anthony Senior.
He walks ahead of me with the same smug gait he’s always had concerning RossoVerde; his shoulders are squared and his chin is tilted, like he’s proud of his creation.
The pharmaceutical company has played a big part in the Belluccis’ financial success in the drug trade over the past few decades.
Most recently, RossoVerde has helped with the launch of Nectar in Newport.
As he gives me a tour of the facilities I do not need or care about in the slightest, he lectures on and on about export numbers and potential expansion.
“We can go big time,” he says, gesturing at a set of shrink-wrapped pallets marked for shipment. “RossoVerde can supply every lab we’ve established stateside with the resin they need. East Coast first, then the major hubs—Chicago, DC, Houston, LA. We’re going national fast. And this place gives us the advantage to do it cheap and quietly. Vito was all for it.”
I let out a hum, only half listening. The information isn’t new. I’ve heard every expansion proposal Anthony’s made. His ideas aren’t bad, and Don Vito seems mildly interested in them.
But I have an entirely different direction in mind, and as the one who will be calling the shots, the final say is mine.
Anthony stops in the middle of the tour to call out my noncommittal answer.
