Respect Page 8

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then Peterson referred to that same store when he questioned Russo.”

  I shook my head. “It’s true that I own a chunk of that store. It’s in Costello territory. Why the hell would anyone think I’d run Bonetti money through there?”

  “Exactly. Luchi started asking questions on the street after Russo was questioned. Wanted to know more about the store. Wanted to know how the feds knew about it—I mean, fuck, there’s a store on every damn corner of every fucking block and they ask about one with your name on the deed. He wondered if you were helping or double-crossing Johnny.”

  My head was spinning as I sat. It was all I could do to keep my lips closed.

  “He also wondered if it wasn’t a double cross,” Vincent went on, “why you, the newest member of the Costello family, why you’d be cleaning dough for Bonetti and how he could get in on the action. Like cackling hens, one starts squawking, and pretty soon it’s a damn barnyard. Gioconda took bits and pieces and weaved it together to come up with a conspiracy. He wanted you called on the carpet.”

  I shook my head. “We’re gone for two fucking weeks, and everyone’s gone mad.”

  “It’s no secret that Gioconda has had a stick up his ass since you proposed to Angel. He doesn’t know you, which means he doesn’t trust you. He’s looking for a beef.”

  I was beginning to understand more of Carmine’s reasons behind Vincent’s and my recent time together. It wasn’t just my crash course; it was Carmine’s proof to Gioconda. Vincent was my spokesperson, my personal public relations—make that, family relations—representative.

  “Thank you.” I meant it. This was new to me. Yes, I’d grown up around it—in it—but not as a part of Cosa Nostra. I had the right blood—ancestors from Sicily—and according to Rose Costello, the right religious affiliation, but that didn’t make me much different than any other Italian-American in New York. From Carl Gioconda’s perspective, there was nothing ensuring my allegiance, nothing other than my marriage that connected me to the Costello family. Apparently, Carmine had named Vincent my other connection—my tether.

  Vincent simply nodded at my gratitude.

  “Why didn’t your father say more tonight, explain any of this?”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  That wasn’t encouraging.

  “But,” Vincent went on, “you were called to the table tonight for one reason. It wasn’t to call you on the carpet though I’d bet that balloon that was exactly what Gioconda expected was going to happen. Pop called everyone who’s important into his office for the show. You were the main attraction.”

  A balloon was a thousand dollars. I’d take Vincent’s balloon and see him another, except I agreed. Gioconda was obviously unhappy with the way things went down. Taking a deep breath, I stood up and looked around my kitchen. Maybe a beer wasn’t a bad idea.

  “Listen,” Vincent said. “This isn’t like the businesses you showed me. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no board of directors, no negotiation. Right now, the only opinion that matters is Pop’s. You were in his office tonight because he wanted everyone in that room to know that he trusts you. He’s standing behind you. Church tomorrow and dinner. It’s a message. You and Angel will sit with the four of us in the pew. One big happy family.”

  “Okay. We’ve sat together before.”

  “But now it’s different. Now she’s got your name. It’s official.”

  Why did it feel more like I had her name?

  I was still trying to process everything I’d heard. Though the queasy feeling hadn’t gone away, there was relief in hearing Vincent’s words.

  Finally, I concentrated on the positive. “Your father believes in me.”

  “Hasn’t had a reason not to. You don’t plan on giving him one...do you?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “You know,” Vincent said, “the only other way to make this more official.”

  “This? My marriage?”

  Vincent stood and laid his hand on my shoulder. “Knock her up.”

  I had to laugh. “Thanks for the advice. I thought the priest and crowd at the church, oh and the license we signed...” I lifted my left hand. “...the rings. I thought all of that shit made it official.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I’m asking you to head to a drop. Besides, putting a bun in the oven’s not as tiring as bagman for the late-night action.” He wiggled his brows. “The late night is the same. Just more fun.”

  Concentrating more on what he wasn’t asking me to do, I said, “So that’s done?” I was asking about being a bagman.

  “For now. Mancini’s accusation has Pop thinking about the possibilities. Work on Demetri Enterprises. Let us assign someone else to collect taxes. You do the legal shit, doing what you do. You own buildings. If you’re not there, how do you know what goes on in the backroom? Stay away from the gambling. Focus on legit. Concentrate on the bigger fish. From what you showed me, the construction and real estate are the fucking whales. Make sure the books are spotless. Keep everything clean while Peterson snoops around. He’ll get bored and move on. The feds always do. They want their names in the fucking paper—Giuliani’s minions. Don’t give Peterson anything to take to that rat.

  “Gioconda’s issue will help you with Peterson,” Vincent went on. “Let the prosecutor see you at church, Sunday dinner, and drinks at Evviva’s. It ain’t a crime. Then, when the time’s right, we’ll look into other opportunities.”

  Fuck, the queasiness was back with a vengeance.

  “Okay.” I wanted the legit side. I always had. “What about outside?” I tilted my head toward the window.

  “Pop wants to make sure everything quiets down. He made his stand tonight with the family. None of them would be stupid enough to go against him. That still leaves the Bonettis and Luchis in this mix. It doesn’t seem like this is worth starting another war over, but if one of them assholes thinks it is, you’re protected. Your house is being watched.”

  I recalled the Met. “Do you remember Franco Testa?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m thinking about hiring him.”

  “In what capacity?” Vincent asked.

  “Angelina’s driver. I don’t like her being by herself.”

  He nodded. “You trust him?”

  “Hell, I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “Let me ask around,” Vincent said. “Testa’s done some jobs for me. He’s been on Morelli’s crew for years. Longevity is a good thing. If he’s as good as I think he is, it sounds like he’s getting a promotion.”

  “Thanks...for everything.”

  “Don’t make me regret it.”

  “Like I mentioned,” I said as I led Vincent toward the front door. “I don’t plan on it.” I patted his shoulder. “Congratulations on the kid.”

  “I wasn’t lying about the hormones. You’ll see soon enough.”

  As I locked the door, I had too many things on my mind to consider that he might be right.

  Chapter 10

  Sundays came and went as we sat in the same pew near the front of the cathedral, listening as Father Mario talked about the trappings of this world and extolled the path to heaven. He encouraged confession of sins. I often wondered as I gazed around the congregation at the men seated about me if Father Mario could handle the truth that could be revealed behind the curtain.

  Were the sins forgivable? Could saying a Hail Mary make up for the things that were done?

  One thing was certain: if Father Mario did listen to all of the sins of the members of the congregation, his schedule would be fuller than mine.

  Christmas came, and the New Year was upon us.

  Each Sunday after Mass, the six of us would head to the Costello brownstone. Vincent and I’d join Carmine in his office as the women prepared our feast. I didn’t select that word lightly. Sunday meals were more than a dinner, more than a supper. They consisted of course after course of the most delectable food ever
known to man.

  Truly, if we were being watched by anyone besides the soldiers patrolling the exterior, on most Sunday afternoons and into evening, our greatest crime was gluttony.

  It was a Sunday afternoon in January, with only Vincent as my witness, that I broached the subject of Angelina’s new driver and more importantly, the reason.

  “I’d like to hire Franco Testa as Angelina’s driver.”

  Carmine’s dark eyes lifted from whatever he’d been studying on his desk and peered at me through the smoky haze of his cigar. “You think Angel needs a driver?”

  I supposed I should be happy that he didn’t mince words.

  “Yes. She accepted a part-time position in the city working at the Metropolitan Museum.”

  “You allowed this?”

  Though internally I was running a marathon, externally, I was pleased to see that the glass of whiskey in my hand was ripple free. “Yes. She worked hard to get it. I want her happy.”

  “She’s not happy as a wife?”

  I didn’t turn his way, but Vincent’s deep exhale signaled I was in for a tongue-lashing or at least a difficult road. “She is. Of course, when children come she’ll be home, but now I’m gone a lot. She has her degrees and wants to use them.”

  He leaned back and eyed me up and down. “Is it money?”

  “With the addition of Testa to my payroll, her job will cost more than it earns. It’s not about money.”

  “Part-time?”

  This was ridiculous. Angelina was my wife. I was simply requesting the hire of one of Carmine’s soldiers, advancing him from Morelli’s crew to a driver and bodyguard. “Yes, sir.”

  “You say she worked hard for this? Yet it happened in the last month...since your honeymoon?”

  “Sir,” I began, unsure how much to tell him and not throw Angelina to the wolves—one wolf. “It began at NYU. It continued in Italy. Angelina is more than beautiful. She’s intelligent and talented. This job is designing sets for the Met. The people there see her for what she is.”

  “A Costello.”

  “A Demetri,” I corrected, “who will help them by utilizing the knowledge she’s acquired over the last decade of her life. She’s already helped them by securing a grant.” I placed my whiskey on the table beside the chair and leaned forward. “I admit to being busy, but her desire to work isn’t new.”

  “She doesn’t need to work.”

  “She doesn’t. She wants to.” It was a good thing that I wasn’t connected to a stress test or EKG. If I were, it would be sparking from the speed my heart was racing.

  Vincent nodded and added, “She used to go to the city to the museum a lot.”

  “She’s always liked that stuff,” Carmine added.

  “Yes, sir.” I didn’t tell them that the reason of her recent visits was that she was applying or interviewing for the position.

  “It sounds like you’ve already made a decision. Yet you come to me?”

  “Out of respect. Angelina and I made the decision together. I think it would be better for her to have someone with her. She’s content to take the subway. I’m not. Her safety is my number one concern. I’ve known Testa since NYU. He’s on Morelli’s crew. I won’t ask for him if you don’t approve of him leaving the crew to work for me. Or if you have a better suggestion.”

  “Than her working? I can think of a few.” When I didn’t respond, his lips came together as he leaned back, rocking his large chair. Finally, he looked to Vincent. “You knew?”

  His head bobbed. “I knew Oren wanted to hire Angelina a driver. It got me thinking about Bella. Now that she’s carrying my kid, I don’t think having someone there when we can’t be is a bad idea.”

  “Your mother, she’s never had a driver.”

  “Pop, she has you or Jimmy. She has for years. Before Jimmy, there was Rocco.”

  “They drive me.” Carmine seemed to reflect for a moment upon his recent response. “And her.” His hand came down upon the desk. “Work! A woman working. I don’t understand that. Rosa, she has been satisfied to be a wife and a mother...and an aunt.”

  There was no more to say. I lifted the glass and took a drink of the amber liquid, the rich bold flavor heating my lips, tongue, and throat.

  “Vincent,” Carmine finally said, “talk to Morelli. Make sure he can handle the loss. Make sure his crew can fill in.” Carmine raised his chin toward me, his jaw tight. “Safety. I’m glad you’re thinking of her safety.”

  “Always.”

  “I don’t like it, but our Angel has always been strong-willed.”

  “Yes, sir.” I slowly let out the breath I’d been holding. I wasn’t sure that discussion went any better than I imagined, but it hadn’t gone worse.

  “It’s why you’re here,” Vincent said to me with a grin.

  I nodded, returning his smile.

  The subject at hand changed, letting me know that the decision had been made. I’d talk to Vincent later and learn when he would talk to Morelli. In reality, Angelina’s job had already started. I’d just rearranged my schedule, taking her to the Met and meeting her once her day was done. I liked having the time together in the morning and evening, but it wasn’t always practical. By the time I reached my office, there were usually twenty urgent messages.

  Now with the new technology I’d bought, I could make telephone calls from my car. The car phone consisted of a bag on the floorboard of the sedan with a handset attached by a cord and an antenna that clipped to the window. The mornings I didn’t have Angelina with me turned my commute into productive work time. That wasn’t possible with her at my side.

  The nice part of my schedule over the last month had been the return to mostly Demetri Enterprises. Doing as Vincent had said, that was where my energy was focused. If Peterson were looking into my holdings, he was doing it without my knowledge. I was learning the ins and outs of keeping my business secure. It was difficult to be ahead of the feds, but any business needed security. There were firewalls and secure servers.

  There’d been a few subpoenas for appearance before a recently convened grand jury. They’d been issued to all members of the Luchi family. The focus was heroin.

  If I’d dodged a bullet with the shift in my attention, I was grateful. If I’d simply had my name thrown out there to bring Gioconda’s eyes to me, I’d take it. I’d work hard and avoid losing the trust that Carmine had given me.

  Chapter 11

  Time continued to move, and the weather began to warm. Sprigs of green popped from dead branches, forming leaves on the trees outside our brownstone, a sign that life was renewing. It turned out that new leaves weren’t the only sign.

  I’d made it home in time for dinner. On the days that my angel didn’t work, I tried. She wasn’t necessarily alone all day. Besides her aunt living near, Bella and Vincent’s home wasn’t far away, as well as other cousins who lived close to us. After all, this was where she’d been raised. She had friends and family all around the neighborhood. Each time we saw Bella, Angelina would fawn over her growing midsection. I hadn’t really paid attention to all the changes that occurred during pregnancy. But that was all about to change.

  I wouldn’t say that coming home to dinner cooking on the stove was the best part of marriage. There were many perks. I’d take having Angelina in my bed as number one. However, anyone who knew what it was like to come home to an empty house and has a stomach would agree that opening the door to the savory aroma of something cooking was fucking fantastic. They say that some of the strongest memories were tied to our sense of smell. All I knew, without a doubt, was that opening the door to a cloud of deliciousness was second only to the pleasure of having her beside me in our bed.

  In the few months since we’d married, I’d become like Pavlov’s dog. My mouth watered in anticipation as I ascended the stairs. As I opened the door, I realized it wasn’t only the smell, but the noise too. An empty house was too quiet. Once I entered, I stood and listened. A television played from the back of the
house as dishes rattled. I couldn’t help the rising of my cheeks as my grin grew. This was what I’d always wanted. I hung my coat on the hall tree and walked softly down the hallway.

  There was an old heavy door that swung both directions to close off the kitchen. We never closed it, leaving the room open to the rest of the house. In the summer, having it closed made the kitchen too hot. The rest of the year, the warmth from the stove helped heat the rest of the house. Standing in the doorframe, I stopped and took in my wife, my presence not yet registering to Angelina.

  Each day was like the one before; she continually took my breath away. In blue jeans, stocking feet, and a soft pink sweater that hung lower than her ass, with her hair piled on her head, she was stunning. Her attention was on the evening news as she tapped her fingernails on the counter.

  It took me a second to realize that she was upset. I saw it in the way her shoulders quaked. Could she be crying?

  Had something happened?

  I was too busy with everyday life to worry about world events, and yet I knew that often news of family doings would first be brought to light by some reporter on the street. I came up behind her. “Mio angelo.” My hands grasped her shoulders as I leaned closer. Her perfume was light with a hint of jasmine. Its sweet scent replaced whatever she was cooking as I kissed her cheek. “What’s happened?”

  She shook her head, her muscles going lax as she melted against me, her back to my chest. “Oren...”

  My name disappeared as her face fell forward.

  I spun her around and lifted her chin. Her blue eyes were red, as if she’d been crying for a while. Wrapping my arms around her, I held her, unsure of what had happened or how to fix it. Finally, her muscles found the ability to support herself as she stood taller.