Page 11 of Veil of the Past
Emiliano leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Perhaps you don’tneedus, Costa,” he says, his tone as smooth as the leather on his chair, “but you’d be wise towantus. Folonari Jewelry has a unique reach. We can get your product into places you can’t, places you won’t—like South America.”
Costa’s face tightens again. He’s trying to maintain his composure, but the gears in his head are clearly turning. He knows Emiliano’s right, but he doesn’t want to admit it.
“And what about security?” Costa finally says, shifting tactics. “Our shipments have been targeted recently. I need assurances that?—”
I interrupt him with a chuckle. “Oh, we can assure you, Costa. Our shipments never get touched. Because everyone knows whose shipments they are.”
He glances at me with a blank look before he says, deadpan, “I can’t be assured of that after your Capo decided to crash the wedding between the Morettis and the Guerreros. And take Valentina. How can I make sure that the Outfit won’t try to attack in retaliation?”
“Look,” Emiliano cuts in, bringing the conversation back to the point. “This is a mutually beneficial arrangement—you expand your reach in our market with our help. We expand ours globally with yours. And together, we dominate the market. We’ve always looked out for each other. You’ve always been my advisor for the security of our onlinebusinesses.” The word “businesses” is being used lightly—organized crime is more like it.
Dominico nods, leaning forward. “And as for security, Costa, consider it a non-issue. Your goods become ours, and no one dares touch what belongs to the Folonaris.”
Costa takes a deep breath, weighing his options. There’s a hint of conflict in his eyes. He wants this deal, everyone does. And on the other hand, there’s Chiara. He’s wondering if I’ll keep bringing her up, keep pushing him. Wondering how much he can take before he snaps.
He finally speaks, his voice a bit steadier now. “Alright, I’ll agree to the fifty-fifty split. But I want a guarantee of exclusivity in the European market. No competition from Folonari Jewelry for at least five years.”
Emiliano glances at Dominico, who nods subtly. “Agreed,” Emiliano says. “Exclusivity in Europe for five years. And in return, you won’t step on our toes in the States. Fair?” It’s never fair, regardless of what anyone says. The Camorra doesn’t do fair; that’s why we’re an organized crime syndicate.
Costa nods, but I can tell he’s still not happy. He’s never happy when he’s not outright winning. And today, he’s not winning. To him, an equal field is not a win.
“Good,” Emiliano says, sitting back, satisfied. “Then it’s settled. We’ll draw up the contracts.”
Costa nods again, and his eyes flicker to me, just for a second, as if he’s wondering when I’ll strike again. I grin, a slow, knowing smile, but he seems unfazed as he stares me down. And neither of us backs down from the other’s stare.
Emiliano stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “Thank you, Costa. I know this partnership will be very profitable for both of us.”
Costa stands too, straightening his suit. “I hope so, Emiliano. For all our sakes.”
We start to move toward the door, and I can’t help myself. As Costa passes me, I lean in close, my voice low so only he can hear. “Give Chiara my regards, Costa. Tell her… I’m thinking of her.”
He freezes for a moment, the tension palpable, before he continues walking.
As the door closes behind him, Emiliano turns to me, a slight frown on his face. “Romiro, was that really necessary?”
I shrug. “Maybe not, Boss. Sure was fun though.”
Emiliano shakes his head, but I see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be the death of me, Romiro.”
“Maybe,” I reply, grinning. “But not today.”
* * *
The lightsof the Lower East Side flicker in the night as I step into the casino, the noise of slot machines and the murmur of gamblers washing over me like a wave. Inhaling deeply, I notice the air is thick with cigarette smoke and perfume. The patrons try to mask the scent of desperation—at least most of them do—with the scent of money being made and lost. The place is fancy, all golden chandeliers and red velvet carpets in an attempt to look like some palace in Monaco, but underneath, it’s still gritty, still ours. The casino is buzzing tonight; high rollers and the regulars are all throwing their luck on the table, their eyes dancing with desire.
I spot Mario, the floor manager, by the roulette wheel. He catches my eye and quickly nods, gesturing for me to follow. I weave through the tables, past the sound of chips stacking and the quick shuffle of cards. As I get closer, I see the worry etched into his face like cracks in old plaster.
“Romiro,” he says, his voice low but urgent. “We’ve got a problem. A big one.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What kind of problem, Mario?”
He looks around, makes sure no one’s listening, then leans in closer. “A cheater. Been at it for weeks, skimming us at the tables. We caught him tonight, finally, but the cost was hundreds of thousands.”
My jaw tightens. The thought of someone having the balls to cheat us, to think they could get away with it, sends a spark of anger through me. “Where is he?”
Mario nods toward the back, “we got him in the dungeons. Silvio and the boys are keeping an eye on him. He’s a mess, but he’s still got some fight left in him.”
I nod, my lips curling into a grim smile. “Good. Let’s go have a chat with ourfriend.”
