Chapter Three
Salvatore
The coffee I’m served at American Diner is so terrible, I order the waitress to take it away after just one sip. She picks up the cup of sludge with a patronizing smile.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
“No.” My voice is cold, the word landing with a thud.
She skitters away at that, leaving me alone. I watch the street through the front window, waiting for my old friend. On the phone, Anthony had sworn that he wasn’t coming this time, and that I should delete his number. But he says that every time, and he always comes. And I’ll never delete his number, not while he’s still useful to me.
A figure lumbers in the distance. It’s dark out, so he’s hard to distinguish in his black suit. Anthony walks quickly, with his head down, clutching a folder under his arm. He pushes open the door to the diner with his maimed hand. He blinks up at the bright lights, glances around nervously, then approaches my table.
“This is it,” he says, before ever sitting down. “This is the last time.”
He sits down, waving off the waitress’s advances. My cousin doesn’t look at all like the man he used to be. Like me, he has nearly black hair, and the almond shaped brown eyes of the Mariano’s, but the similarities end there. He’s paler, with dark circles under his eyes, and thinner too. He seems particularly conscious of the missing fingers on his right hand. He keeps glancing at it, and stroking the short ends with his thumb.
“Let’s see what you’ve brought me,” I say, reaching for the folder.
Anthony holds it out of my reach. “You first.”
I reach into my jacket pocket, and withdraw an envelope, thick with cash.
“Pass it under the table,” Anthony says, glancing around at the nearly empty diner.
I toss it through the air like a basketball, and it lands in his lap. Anthony curses me as he stashes the envelope in his pocket.
“I’m always happy to help out a family member,” I say. “You know that more than anyone.” I slide an open palm across the table, and Anthony gives me the folder. I lean back, perusing the contents leisurely. It’s a fucking goldmine, exactly what I need.
After Anthony’s unfortunate kidnapping, where he’d lost his fingers, and due to the stress of his wife’s illness, Franco saw it fit to take him off the streets and stick him behind a desk. Poor Anthony took a massive pay cut, but luckily for him, he has access to Franco’s books, the real books, which is something I’m willing to pay for.
On a quick scan of the documents, I can see that the Mariano’s are raking it in. That’s why Franco wants to take care of me once and for all. He doesn’t want me fucking things up while the getting’s good.
Anthony stands up quickly. “Don’t call me again,” he warns, before leaving.
I study the documents, looking for weaknesses I can exploit. It will take some more thought, but from what I can see initially, the Mariano’s are making more money than they can properly launder. The dirty cash is just sitting there. It can’t be invested or funneled into new businesses, so it’s losing money in a way. And the tax bills on the clean money are killing them.
Excitement stirs my blood. A plan is coming together. I can’t see it yet, but I will. My first step will be to get back into the Mariano’s good graces. Once I’m there, I can infect them from the inside out. I won’t be satisfied until the entire family is in tatters.
But I need to figure out the details. I smile to myself. I can hardly wait to go home, light up a cigar, and allow my devious mind to do its work. Clutching the folder, I leave to do just that. I don’t even look at my waitress, who has the good sense not to ask me to pay for the shitty brown water they try to pass off as coffee.
*
I’ve decided which cigar I’m going to select from my humidor by the time I reach my apartment door. My place is bare, besides a refrigerator in the kitchen, a bed in the bedroom, a leather armchair by the gas fireplace, and other essentials. I won’t be staying here long, so I didn’t bother with much else. The property was left to me in my father’s will. It’s out of the way, and the last place anyone would expect to find me.
The air inside is balmy, just how I like it. Heat makes me feel alive. It reminds me that my heart is beating, and blood is pumping through my veins. I take a freshly lit cigar to the armchair, spread the documents out on my lap, and begin.
I’d only just laid my eyes on Franco’s number when there’s a knock at the door. Who the hell could that be? I thought I’d successfully given my tenants the impression that I’m not to be disturbed. They can take their petty problems up with the real estate agency I hired. I consider answering the door and scaring them off, but decide instead to ignore them until they go away.
They knock again, timidly, quietly. I might have to scare them away after all.
“Mr. Mariano?” they call through the door.
It’s a female voice, soft, but with a forceful edge. I imagine whoever it is had to work up the nerve to knock on my door. I close the file in my lap. The voice intrigues me. Whoever it is is already afraid of me, and it’s no act. I need to know what she looks like.
With a stony face, I open the door and inspect my guest. She’s at least a foot shorter than me. Her curly hair is pulled away from her face, but a few errant tendrils hang loose around her forehead. Nice tits, nice ass, I mentally check off my list as I scan her. But what I like the most is how she looks at me, or makes herself look at me, and the nervous flutter of her long eyelashes.
I lean against the doorway, smiling deeply. “I didn’t order a girl tonight.”
“What?” Her mouth falls open, and her cheeks burn red. Stop it baby, you’re killing me. She shakes her head, trying to recover, then offers me her hand. “I’m Molly Wright. Your tenant in 3C.”
I study her hand, long elegant fingers, neat short nails devoid of polish, and skin that looks soft to the touch. She senses I’m not going to shake it, and tries to yank it away. But I grab it before she can, stroking her skin with my thumb.
“Hello, Molly Wright in 3C.”
Her fingers slip between mine as she pulls her hand back. She shifts on her feet, waiting for me to continue this transaction. But I let her wait. She pushes a curl from her eyes and finally speaks.
“I need the wifi password for this floor,” she says. “It was left out of my packet.”
She stops talking. I let silence fall around us. She clears her throat. I step away from the door, showing her a path inside.
“How badly do you want it?” I ask.
I expect her to melt into the floor at that moment. I’d rather feel her melt beneath me. Her entire face turns red. She gropes for something to say, but comes up with nothing. I decide to cut her torment short, and withdraw into my apartment. I return with a slip of paper containing the password. Molly glances over it nervously, thanks me under her breath, and scurries away. I watch her ass as she walks back to 3C, round and firm, perfect for spanking. She glances over her shoulder at me. When she sees me looking back at her, she picks up her step. I growl, feeling myself get hard.
Miss Molly, I think, closing the door. Wouldn’t you make a fun plaything? I’d like to press all of your buttons, just to see what they do.
I return to the arm chair, and pick up the financial documents. I’ll have to put my dick away for now. As much as I’d like to make my pretty little tenant my next project, I have a bigger target on my radar.