Page 68 of Deal with the Devil
“You got a problem with something I said?”
“I wouldn’t call it a problem,” I say. “Just a different vision. I’m considering whether it’s still cost-effective to keep RossoVerde in the picture. It will likely be simpler to source the base resin from a supplier stateside. Something closer and more manageable. I’m sure you understand.”
Anthony Citti is hardly subtle when he’s pissed. The vein on his temple twitches, his teeth grinding together as he can’t bring himself to answer me.
He’s seething.
RossoVerde really has been his brainchild. It was one of his most successful ventures back when he was still just a capo and myother halfwas barely a made man starting out.
Anthony grew the place from the ground up, and Rafael being the natural businessman he is, helped him do so.
Even now, many years later when he could’ve easily replaced RossoVerde with other suppliers stateside, he hasn’t done it. He’s kept Citti’s baby alive and well.
But I’m not Rafael.
And respect and loyalty were never something I promised him.
Behind the mask, I smile as he nearly implodes before my eyes.
It’s just more confirmation the Belluccis aren’t ready for what’s to come when I really take over.
We finish the walkthrough in silence, the air between us thick with everything unsaid. He doesn’t bother with a closing speech this time, leading the way back to the town car in his sour mood.
The ride back to the villa cuts through the hills outside Palermo.
The sun burns off any last trace of morning cold. Cypress trees line either side of the road, their shadows flickering across the car windows like prison bars.
Many of the roads are long and winding, the landscape itself dry and golden with architecture made up of old stone houses and crumbling cathedrals.
We’ve been driving for ten minutes when Anthony finally speaks again.
“So. Portia.”
It’s only two short words, but they’re enough to force my attention back onto him. My gaze shifts from the window to the round Italian Santa Claus seated on the leather cushions across from me.
“What about her?”
Anthony sticks a cigar in his mouth, fishing inside his suit jacket for his lighter. “Don Vito expects her to die.”
“I’m aware of what Don Vito expects.”
“You say that.” He pauses to click the lighter, the flame flickering as he lights the cigar. “But I hope it’s true, Diavolo. I hope you’re capable.”
The tension spikes like it had inside RossoVerde.
I eye him like I’m contemplating jamming that cigar down his fat throat, and I am.
He blows some smoke out, then adds almost lazily, “Because, you know, it can be hard. Especially after the other night.”
“What the fuck do you mean after the other night?”
“You know the night. We’re all under the same roof. Guards talk. Servants gossip. You didn’t think I’d hear about your after-hours visitor?”
He lets his question go unanswered, though it doesn’t need one when we both alreadydoknow the truth.
He’s smirking now, reclining in the backseat, puffing on his cigar like the cocky son of a bitch he is.
Heat crawls down the back of my neck. My hands itch for violence. I glare at him through the holes in the devil’s mask, watching his every subtle move, debating if he’d squeal like a pig if I ripped his tongue out.
