Page 63 of The Lies We Tell

Setting the contract aside, he glanced through the glass walls of his office. He was eager to absorb both companies, eager to get on with the next phase of his plan. To fill up the sea of empty cubicles with employees to support the legitimate side of the empire.

The more money they made above ground, the more they could make below without drawing the ever-increasing suspicion of ambitious politicians wanting to take down the Mafia.

That was something the other Dons on the island couldn’t seem to grasp. Not even his father. If they excelled at one, they inevitably failed at the other.

Varda had been so stuck in the old ways his men had started to splinter away, looking for better-paying work, making his takeover effortless. Romano had been so concentrated on his petty drug trade he’d ignored the failing health of his strip clubs. Gallo’s weapons trade had been more of an afterthought than a business model in favor of Gallo Industries.

All of this made them easy targets. And if not for the hard work of Dom and Luca in his absence, Bianchi casinos would have gone under or been ripe for a takeover themselves. All of that was changing now. He was going to make damn sure they were never that vulnerable again.

Maeve poked her head in, drawing his attention. “Hey,” she said, wiping her nose on a tissue. “Your brothers and Alexei are on their way up.”

Matteo grabbed the legal pad he’d been making notes on and pushed away from his desk. “I thought I told you to go home an hour ago.”

“I’m not going home. I’m fine,” Maeve said, her voice thin and tinny from congestion.

“You’re not fine. You’re still sick.” He stepped away from her when she started coughing into the tissue in her hand. “And you’re getting your germs everywhere.”

“I’m Irish,” she replied. “We don’t get sick.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you—”

“Maeve.” Luca weaved toward them with Dom and Alexei close behind. “What the hell are you doing here? You should be at home. Resting.” Luca glared at Matteo as if he was keeping Maeve chained to her desk.

“I’m fine. I just need some tea and a—” She dissolved into another coughing fit, and all four men took a step back. “Men are such babies,” she muttered.

“Get out,” Matteo said, voice stern.

The firmness wouldn’t work as much as the men standing around staring at them would. Maeve was a little sister to him, and she listened about as well as one when they were alone. But she understood and respected the chain of command when she needed to.

With an irritated huff, she yanked open the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled her purse out before slamming it shut. Grumbling to herself, she shuffled papers into a stack and stuffed them in her bag.

She glared daggers at Matteo, slinging her bag over her shoulder and stomping toward the elevators. Maeve hated to be sick, and he bit back a grin as he watched her sag against the wall while she waited for the elevator.

“It must be true what they say about the Irish and their tempers,” Alexei said, scratching his fingertips over his jaw as Maeve shoved away from the wall and stepped into the elevator, angrily mashing the button to close the doors.

“You have no idea. No Carina today?” Matteo wondered.

He’d long since stopped trying to keep Carina from these meetings. As much as he’d wanted to protect her from the harsh realities of this life like their father had their mother, she’d demanded a seat at the table. And he’d wasted far too much time and energy trying to keep her away from it.

“Something about table settings,” Alexei said, following them into the conference room. “I’ll brief her tonight.”

Once they were all seated, Matteo claimed his spot at the head of the table and flipped his pad to the right page.

“As you know, Paris went off without a hitch. I talked with Theroux this morning. Not only is he eager for this transfer of power after seeing preliminary numbers from Antonetti’s Q4 earnings, but he’s also offered a sizable investment for renovations on the mainland properties.”

“How’s that change the deal already in place with Antonetti?”

“I’m still negotiating that piece.”

“What’s their current stake?” Luca asked, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table.

“Thirty-five.”

Luca stared out the window, calculating in his head. “And how much were they promised as a return?”

“Four million in the first five years. They’ve seen less than half that in eight.”

“Not surprising,” Dom said. “According to some of my mainland contacts, Antonetti has been spreading himself too thin. It got worse after his brother died.”

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