Page 107 of Bellini Bound
Enzo
Therewasn’tanythingIhated more than our monthly meeting with the capos. They were a bunch of old men, stuck in the ways of the past, who, by all appearances, showed respect for my cousins who had taken over the family. But the truth was, they were manipulative pricks who thought they knew better than a couple of thirty-somethings about how to run our organization because they’d been around longer.
Swear to God, if one of them opens their mouth today and asks, “What’s wrong with the way we’ve always done it?” I might just pull out my gun and shoot the motherfucker.
Change was progress; businesses—crime syndicates—needed to evolve to survive.
Adapt or die. It was as simple as that.
But go figure, we called them in for a status report, and they completely derailed the meeting with concerns about the gun warehouse that had been essentially stolen from us.
It was like facing a goddamn firing squad.
“Are we going to continue to gloss over the security breach that allowed this illegal sale to happen?” This came from Alessio Russo.
Mauricio Barone chimed in next. “How many gun shipments have we had to cancel without a place to store them?”
Silvio D’Amico slammed a fist down on the table. “We are hemorrhaging money!” The man was just as much a pain in the ass as his daughter, Gabi.
Matteo stood, placing both hands on the smooth wood surface, and the room fell silent. Taking a moment to make eye contact with each of the eight capos in turn, he asked, “Are any of you unable to put food on the table? Have any of you been forced to live even a remotely uncomfortable life? How dare you come in here and talk about money when each of you has tens of millions in the bank, with a fresh infusion of cash weekly?”
“Our personal finances aren’t the issue,” Paolo Bettini countered. “Not when every two weeks we owe our suppliers three million dollars, regardless of receiving the shipment, because we signed a long-term contract. In the past six months since we’ve lost the warehouse, we have handed over almost forty million dollars with nothing to show for it.”
My cousin shook his head. “You think I don’t know that? Hell, I went all the way to Italy to track down a lead.”
Franco Bianchi scoffed. “Please, everyone knows that trip was a romantic getaway with your wife.”
My molars ground to dust, my trigger finger itching something awful.
Matteo held up a hand in my direction, silently letting me know he didn’t need my interference and to keep my mouth shut.
“Yes, my wife accompanied me, but I can assure you my primary focus was on business, on uncovering the culprit behind this cowardly attempt at sabotage.”
“That’s the problem, though.” Clemente DeLuca joined the conversation. “You’re more concerned with digging up a name than you are securinga new space so we can resume running guns. Once we stop bleeding cash, no one here will give a fuck if you want to chase after shadows.”
Around the table, everyone murmured various words of agreement.
I’d had enough of this shit.
Rising to my feet, I refused to keep quiet a moment longer. “If we replace the thirty-six mil we’re currently out, will all of you shut the fuck up about it?”
There were several widened eyes aimed in my direction. It wasn’t often that I spoke up in these meetings, so I’d caught them off guard. Good.
Everyone then looked to Matteo to see how he would react to my interruption.
Even though there was a question in his eyes—What the actual fuck are you doing?—he pressed his lips together and nodded. “The floor is yours. Let’s hear your plan to restore the lost funds.”
“It’s simple. Where does the majority of our revenue come from?” I asked the table.
“The casino,” Silvio replied.
“That’s correct. And while the daily take is nice, the quarterly poker tournaments provide a sizeable boost. What if we did a one-time-only, single-buy-in, winner-takes-all—minus our thirty percent off the top, of course—casino night? Everyone in attendance gets a set amount of chips. Once they’re gone, you’re out. Last man or woman standing wins the whole pot. Combine the massive payout with the exclusivity of an event like that, and rich people will be beating down the door to score an invite.”
The silence stretched on for so long that I began to worry they were about to shoot my idea down flat. But then a wide grin stretched across Matteo’s face.
“That’s not a half-bad idea. There are going to be a ton of influential people in town with cash to burn next month for thegala Senator Hawthorne’s throwing. It would be the perfect opportunity to promote our event as an after-party of sorts.” He paused, and I could tell he was doing some quick math in his mind. “If we can get attendance to two-hundred and fifty people, and charge the same buy-in as the poker tournaments—half a mil—per head, our cut will be enough to cover the gun shipment losses.” To the men seated at the table, he asked, “Is this an acceptable plan?”
There were several nods. Mauricio was the only one who spoke. “Just so long as you secure a new warehouse, so we aren’t paying for any more guns we’ll never see.”
