Gio

 

Gio parked his Corvette in front of the Evanston address he'd written down. He looked up at the sign for The Laughing Fish, a small sushi restaurant with a sign depicting a cartoon fish smiling even as a silver knife chopped its tail into neat sections. Then he looked down at the address again to make sure he had the right place.

 

Sure enough, this was where Mario had said he wanted to meet, and his champagne-colored Lexus was parked out front with his driver and bodyguard Bobby leaning against the hood. Bobby waved to Gio, who returned the gesture, confused.

 

Mario had said he wanted them to have lunch together, but why would he choose this place? As far as Gio knew, Mario had never even been inside a sushi joint. He tended to limit his dining to places specializing in Southern Italian cuisine—the kinds of commonplace Chicago eateries with red checkered tablecloths, recorded opera music, and huge platters of sausage and veal drenched in heavy red sauce.

 

Gio reached for the handle on the front door, then pulled his hand back when he saw the “Closed” sign hanging on the glass pane. Before he could give it too much thought, he heard the door unlock and a hunched, wizened Japanese man with bushy white eyebrows opened it.

 

“You are Gio?” he asked in a wheezing, tremulous voice.

 

Gio nodded.

 

“Right this way, please,” the man rasped, gesturing for Gio to follow him. Gio stepped in and the man locked the door behind them, leading Gio to a private room in the back. He looked around for other patrons or wait staff, but he couldn't see or hear any. There were small potted bamboo plants on the tables, and huge silk fans decorated the walls. Gentle flute music lilted through the sound system, eerie and haunting.

 

Ever since he'd been waylaid by the men in ski masks when he was 17, Gio had developed an extremely sensitive antenna for potentially dangerous situations. Associates and soldiers in crime families generally had to be somewhat wary in their day-to-day lives, but as Mario's son, Gio knew he was a tempting target for rival gangs who might want to ransom him or use him as leverage. Whenever he got a bad feeling about a situation he was walking into, he tended to trust that instinct.

 

Gio knew that some people might call him “paranoid.” But he was pretty sure those people had never caught someone taping them with a hidden microphone or been smacked around by a van full of strangers with baseball bats.

 

Slowly, Gio reached for the gun in his shoulder holster as they approached the door to the back room. The Japanese man opened the door and Gio saw his father sitting by himself at a table set for four. Gio's hand closed over the handle of his pistol—as the door opened wider, he half expected to see men on either side of Mario, holding him at gunpoint.

 

But the door opened all the way, and aside from Mario, the room was empty.

 

Mario stood, smiling and gesturing at Gio's hand in his jacket. “Hey, what's this? One day as a made guy, and you're already thinking of whacking the boss and taking over?”

 

Gio realized he was still gripping his gun and withdrew his hand, returning the smile. He suddenly felt pretty silly for suspecting an ambush. “Nah, I just thought...forget it. How are you, Papa?”

 

“I'm good,” Mario said, embracing Gio and patting him on the back. “You? Still recovering from your party last night?”

 

Gio thought about his encounter with Katie and bristled inwardly. “Yeah, thanks again for that,” he replied. “It was a lot of fun. So why did you want to meet me here? I didn't think you ate cooked fish, let alone raw.”

 

Mario grimaced. “You got that right. If it ain't smothered in pasta, I don't want to hear about it. But I know you're a big fan of all this chopsticks-and-rice crap, right? So I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Schmoozie here.” He pointed to the Japanese man standing in the corner.

 

“Shimizu,” the man sighed quietly, bowing to Gio.

 

“Sure, sure,” Mario said dismissively, sitting down again and frowning at the menu in front of him. “Hey, what do you have to drink around here? I can't read a word of this nonsense.”

 

“Uh, they've got sake, which is like a rice wine,” Gio said, sitting down across from Mario. “And they've also got Kirin and Sapporo, which are kinds of beer...”

 

Mario waved him off, reaching into his pocket for his billfold and peeling off a fifty. He flapped it at Shimizu. “Hey, there's a liquor store across the street. Why don't you go pick me up a bottle of grappa and keep the change, okay? And keep the front door unlocked. We're expecting two more people.”

 

Shimizu accepted the bill gingerly with his thumb and forefinger, his mouth tightening in disgust as though it were a square of soiled toilet paper. He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

 

“Friendly, ain't he?” Gio pointed out.

 

“He's just pissed because he's been running this joint for twenty years,” Mario said, “and last year, an all-you-can-eat place opened up a couple blocks away and took all his business. Now he can't even afford the rent on this place, let alone the rest of his overhead. That's how I was able to buy it from him for such a low price. He can stay on as the head chef, though, or if you don't like the prick's attitude, you can fire him. Whatever, it's your place now.”

 

“Jesus, you bought this place?” Gio asked, surprised. “For me? Why?”

 

“You're a made guy now, kid,” Mario said. “That means that as your boss, I'm gonna need you to kick up eight thou to me each week, which means you're gonna need to start running rackets of your own. As your father, I figured I'd snatch this place up for you and hand it over as an early birthday present, just to get you started.”

 

Gio shook his head, trying to make sense of this. “So, wait...what, I'm a made guy now and you want me to run a fucking restaurant? And a failing one, at that? What's that got to do with running rackets? How am I supposed to kick up eight K each week slinging green tea in this dump?”

 

Mario pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Gio, smarten up, will you? How many times have I told you it's not how you make the money, it's how you launder it? Jesus, all those times I tried to teach you the family business, and I may as well have been talking to a block of fuckin' parmesan.”

 

Gio had often tried to understand the lessons his father taught him about how the Mancinis invested their money, but he found the subject too boring to follow, and he was usually distracted by thoughts of his Special Room and who his next guest might be.

 

“This place is basically a license to steal,” Mario continued. “You want to make your bones dealing coke or H? You want to start collecting protection money from a few places? You want to get into hijacking, whores, card games, whatever? You can funnel every dime into this place, and it'll be untraceable. It's mostly a cash business, so all you gotta do is write up a bunch of receipts for fake meals each week and boom, it goes into the bank just like a normal deposit and you can take out what you want when you want without the Feds or the IRS crawling up your ass. Starting to get the picture now?”

 

Gio nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think so. Hey, thanks, Papa. This was real thoughtful of you.”

 

“That ain't all,” Mario said. “Since you're gonna be running your own rackets from now on, you're gonna need your own lawyer to help you manage all this shit.”

 

“But what about Louie?” Gio asked. “He's always done good work for us before.”

 

“We gotta keep things separate from now on,” Mario replied. “Or at least, that's how we gotta make it look. Otherwise, the Feds could try to get to you through me, or vice versa. Plus if we both got pinched at the same time, God forbid, there's no way the courts'd allow Louie to handle us both. To them, that's a conflict of interests.”

 

“But how do you know we can trust this new guy?”

 

Mario raised his eyebrows. “Kid, I said you needed a different lawyer. I didn't say we were gonna find one for you in the fuckin' Yellow Pages. Louie's got someone he trusts who's worked in his office for a couple years. Officially, she's gonna leave his employ to go into business for herself, and you're gonna be her first and only client.”

 

“'Herself?'” Gio echoed. “It's a she?”

 

Mario rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they give law degrees to women now, ain't you heard?”

 

Gio heard the door of the restaurant open and the sound of footsteps approaching the back room.

 

“This is probably them now,” Mario said, standing up and gesturing for Gio to do likewise. “And try to watch your mouth around this broad, okay? She's a real lady, not one of those spaced-out bimbos you like to use for punching bags.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Gio asked.

 

“Never mind what it means,” Mario snapped, “just behave and keep your hands to yourself, understand?”

 

The door opened and Louie waddled in, followed by a woman in her mid-twenties. Her auburn hair was impeccably styled, without a single strand out of place. Her suit was sleek and no-nonsense, her high heels looked sharp enough to kill, and her full lips were painted blood red.

 

But Gio had developed keen instincts when it came to women, and it wasn't her clothes or makeup that hypnotized him as she entered the room. It was the way she carried herself—she looked so proud and confident, so above it all.

 

Her green eyes projected a fiery independence, like a wild horse that refused to be tamed or saddled. She looked like a woman who would rebel against any attempt to degrade or humiliate her, and the promise of that rebellion made her all the more attractive to him.

 

Gio had never desired anyone more in his life, and as they shook hands and his nostrils filled with the scent of her perfume, he knew he would do absolutely anything to have her in his Special Room.

 

“Carolyn Aspen,” she said. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mancini. I look forward to working together.”