me for the Albanian fuck-up, which Father is still blaming me for. My first instinct is to voice this aloud. But then, somehow, I resist the urge. Because I need Father on my side right now. Fair or not, he will not cede power to me if he thinks I can’t do a job as simple as this.
“Of course, Father.”
He blinks in surprise, but then nods. He takes an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and slides it across the table. “There is the matter of the marriage, too,” he says.
I smile grimly. “Yes, of course. I’m still looking.”
“It’s not so hard to find a wife,” Father remarks. “Love like your mother and I have comes along once in a generation, Angelo. You will do yourself a disservice if you are looking for that. Just find a good, steady woman, and we will be okay.”
I clench my fist under what remains of the table. So Father would have me settle for some—what? Some whore?
“Are there any …” He pauses. “Candidates?”
I laugh sarcastically. “We’re not hiring admin staff,” I say, even if that’s exactly what we billed the fake interviews as. I stroke my finger around the edge of the envelope. “I’m assuming this contains the address, names, details, everything for this Boston errand?”
“I’m an old man,” Father says, ignoring me. “You must find a wife.”
“I’m looking,” I say. Then, suddenly, I blurt, “There is a woman, actually. Her name is Dani. We have … we have been seeing each other, I suppose you would call it.”
He narrows his eyes at me. A rare smile touches his lips. “You are blushing, mio figlio.”
“Oh yes, Father,” I scowl dryly. “I am head over heels for her. I pine for my signorina every night. I have hardly slept.”
I’m joking, and yet, how far from the truth is this? I haven’t been pining, exactly, but Dani has been giving me sleepless nights. I want to stand up and go over to the door, but I still have the issue of my cum-stained pants. So I’m forced to wait, trapped behind my ruined desk.
“Will I be meeting this Dani?” Father asks.
I shake my head. “Doubtful. It is nothing, really.”
Finally, he stands and makes for the door. “All the gallivanting you do in the city,” he murmurs. “And never have I heard a woman’s name from your lips, my son. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you can find something like your mother and I had after all.”
I fidget, uncomfortable. “Thank you, Father,” I mutter. “But I really should get down to Boston now.”
He nods shortly. His smile vanishes.
I listen to him walking down the hallway, his guards right behind him, footsteps pounding. That was incredibly odd, the way he was behaving, and I wonder if it has something do with this change he apparently sees in me.
Then I shake my head, dislodging the thought, and open the envelope. I can’t let myself feel something for Dani just because I have Father’s encouragement. I have to focus on becoming don, and yet—what better candidate for my fake wife is there?
After washing and changing in my penthouse apartment, I go down to the underground garage and get behind the wheel of my sleek, black Ferrari SF90. I like it because it’s as fast as a demon and also a hybrid, meaning it’s whisper-silent, too. I pull out of the garage and glide through the city, heading to Boston.
I don’t let myself think about Dani’s breathy voice down the phone. I just drive.
I make it to the Boston restaurant at half past five in the morning. It’s a little pizza joint with a lantern out front and a bunch of mafiosi playing poker. They all glance at the car as I pull up and emerge. One older man makes a sour face. And then I realize my mistake. Mafiosi do not drive cars like this, especially the older ones. It’s gaudy, attention-grabbing.
One of the men comments in Italian, “What a flashy young man!”
I repress a grimace, and nod to the older men in turn. “I’m Angelo De Maggio. I’m looking for Giraldo,” I say in English.
He nods at the door but does not get up. A nod, like I’m a fucking courier here to drop off a package. I bite down, repressing the urge to grab his cards and shove them into his flabby mouth, and instead walk inside.
The man I came to see, Giraldo, is around my age, with a shock of black hair and wire-framed spectacles propped