Vittorio
The BMW coasted smoothly across the bridge into Brooklyn, bumping only on the ragged asphalt on the curb as they came to a stop. The Anafestos’ club was a rundown old burlesque joint named “Tipsy’s”. The Y in the pink neon sign was a martini glass with a pin-up curled in it, legs kicking out back and glowing nipples proudly on display.
Vittorio and Marcello loped up to the door, where they came face-to-face with a nasty looking bouncer. He was bigger than Vittorio, had a shaved head, pockmarked cheeks and an underbite like a bulldog. He crossed his hugely swollen arms over his barrel-like chest.
“Name?” He growled.
“Are you looking to die? Don’t you know who this is?” Marcello gestured his hand at Vittorio.
Marcello wasn’t a big guy but the hardened set of his jaw and narrowed eyes made him look like someone you didn’t want to fuck with. Vittorio liked Marcello. The man knew his place within the organization and didn’t overstep his bounds or beg for respect like so many of the other bootlickers did. He worked hard, did what Vittorio told him without second guessing. He understood his role and what he was supposed to do. He and Vittorio had been friends before Vittorio’s sudden “promotion” and, naturally, Vittorio had brought the efficient, trustworthy man up with him.
Loyalty was an important trait in Vittorio’s game.
The grizzly bouncer gave them both a skeptical once over. But when he finally recognized Vittorio’s face, the grizzled expression slipped off his face and became an appropriately fearful one. He gestured for them to enter.
“Apologies, Don Contarini. I was just—” the man stammered to apologize.
“Doing your job.” Vittorio said coolly. “But look closer next time before you pull this hardass bouncer shit again.”
Vittorio never got tired of that feeling: the force of his reputation coupled with his family status that inspired instant fear and respect in the eyes of anyone that knew who he was.
The inside of the old bar was just as seedy as the outside. The walls were decked out in cheap crimson velvet wallpaper. Photos of scantily clad women in playful poses were scattered everywhere in tacky gold frames. Sticky tables were arranged in a horseshoe around a catwalk stage that had definitely seen better days. The scent of rich bourbon, illegal cigars and the expensive cologne worn by the men packed into the tables made the venue smell almost oppressively masculine. Vittorio could practically taste the testosterone in the air around him. His finger twitched, itching for a fight.
A young woman, maybe twenty years old, approached Vittorio and Marcello with a cheerful smile. “Looks like we’re about to get started, gentlemen. We’ve only got one table left, right back here.” She led them off to a corner table; indeed the only empty one in the bar. She wiggled her hips as she walked, accentuated as they were by the tight confines of her little maroon skirt.
“Can I get you guys anything to drink?” she leaned down and asked, her fluttery blue eyes beaming right at Vittorio.
“Lagavulin 16, neat.” Vittorio said, ignoring her gaze with a disinterested air.
As she stood back to take his order, he clamped his hand around her wrist. “Oh, by the way. When you address a Don, you say sir.”
He released his hand and she quickly pulled back. There was no need for him to play the Don card, but for all he knew, she could be an eye for the Anafestos, and he had a reputation he needed to keep.
After she had scurried away to retrieve the drinks, he turned to Marcello. “Who specifically are we here to look for?” Vittorio asked.
Before Marcello could answer, a microphone screeched over the surround sound as it came to life and a deep, masculine voice boomed throughout the bar, “Good evening, gentlemen! Welcome to our first auction of the new season!”
The man was really trying for that auctioneer enthusiasm, but his demeanor had him sounding more like a carnival barker.
Vittorio rolled his eyes. These Anfestos sure love their theatrics. Seasons? Fucking overdramatic assholes, he grumbled to himself.
The announcer was directly across from Vittorio, at the very base of the scuffed old stage. Vittorio had seen him before but couldn’t immediately recall the man’s name. He was comically overdressed in a plush purple coat with a ruffled silk scarf at his throat. His mustache was combed into a smooth little line over his wet red lips, which were curled in a used-car salesman’s smile.
“I hope you all came ready to buy, because we’ve got some real lovely beauties this evening. Let’s give a big round of applause for our first lot!” The announcer bellowed.