“Hey, Mass,” I called as I climbed out of my car, going into the backseat for the cleaning supplies I’d picked up on my way. And by “on my way” I meant I drove fifteen minutes out of town to get them since I didn’t want to be seen and because there weren’t a whole lot of twenty-four-hour stores open around Navesink Bank.
“Little brother. What is this I hear about you popping your cherry?” he asked, popping his own trunk of his sleek charcoal gray Ferrari Roma.
“Not my first,” I told him, shaking my head.
“What is it? Your third? Might as well be your first,” he said, shaking his head as he pulled out a box of industrial-sized black bags and a six-pack of paper towels, then went back for a box full of cleaners I’d never seen before. Catching my gaze, he shrugged. “I know a guy who cleans crime scenes for a living,” he said, slamming the trunk door with his elbow. “He makes his own cleaning shit. Best in the business, if you ask me.”
“He sells it to you?” I asked, surprised.
“Who said that?” he asked, shooting me a smirk that implied the guy didn’t even know Massimo was in possession of his signature cleaning supplies.
There was your average version of “I do what I want.” And then there was Massimo’s brand of it.
I guess when you got away with being a hitman for a decade or so, it gave you a bit of a God-complex that way.
“I figured I would be called in on this guy eventually,” Massimo said as I led him into the building. “Giving your brother nothing but a fucking headache. ‘Course, I wouldn’t have shot him in my place of business, but shit happens,” he said, shrugging as I flicked the light on in my office. “Nice place,” Mass said as he looked around, paying no mind to the body and the blood splatter for a long moment.
It wasn’t a huge office. There was a surprising amount of staff involved with event planning, so when I’d built on to the existing hall, I’d been economical with my office. But it has the same African wood floors as the rest of the building. I’d put up built-ins behind my desk. I hadn’t done it, but someone had filled the four upper shelves on each side with what looked like design books, decorative boxes, and knick-knacks in soft metallic colors.
I probably should have bristled at someone else fucking with my office, but even I had to admit that it made the space come together. And potential client meetings typically started in my office even when I wasn’t around, so having it staged to look nice was a good idea that I probably should have come up with on my own, but didn’t.
What could I say? It wasn’t like designing and planning was a passion of mine. But when my father tossed the party planning business at me, I’d grabbed it with both hands, knowing that if I staffed it right, it could practically run itself while giving me—and my father and brother who had a stake in it—another source legitimate income to keep the IRS off our backs about the surplus of illegally-obtained money that filled all our coffers.
The general rule was, if you were going to be in the Family, you had to have something legit going for yourself as well. Not doing so was how you got fucked.
So we all had a little stake in Famiglia. My brother and father also had the legit side of the docks that made it possible for all the less-than-legit shit that came through the docks as well. My cousin Lucky had his pizza places. I had the party planning. Massimo owned, of all things, a winery. Why? I had no idea. But that was what he chose to open with some of his extra cash. And Luca wasn’t too picky about what kind of hustle you had, so long as it brought in enough of an income to excuse house and car and lifestyle expenses on your tax returns.
“Oh, this fucker. No wonder you put a bullet in him. Walking around crying the blues about money while he’s got this watch on. And that’s a real diamond in his ear too,” Mass said, looking down at the body.
“I shot him because he was going to shoot me first,” I said, shaking my head. Being a liar might have been enough of a reason for Massimo, but it wasn’t enough for me.
“Yeah, can’t imagine what was going through his head with that shit,” Mass said, shaking his head as he took the gun from the man’s hand. “Who in their right minds pulls a gun on a mafia boss’s brother? I mean it’s bad enough that you are, technically, a capo, but the connection to Luca and Antony, I mean, it was a suicide mission.”