I follow the accountant out. Filippo speaks softly once we’re out of the office and away from Raf’s earshot. “Be mindful of him. I’d appreciate it if you personally chose someone to run our next location.”
“I have some ideas in mind, but that might piss off the good Don.”
“He’ll survive. Have your wife convince him.”
“We can’t go to that well forever before it dries up, you know.”
“Two years.” The look Filippo gives me is exhausted and stressed. “Two long years.” He walks away without another word, shaking his head and muttering to himself about profit and loss charts.
Poor goddamn bastard. Raf is sick of Filippo, but I suspect their partnership won’t last long. The old accountant’s going to die of a heart attack sooner rather than later.
I poke my head back in the office to say bye to Raf, but he’s already wreathed in smoke again, head buried in papers. I stroll back out into the garage, smiling to myself.
Two more years. Then the Serrano Famiglia will officially be back in good financial health. And my Don’s investment in their organization will begin to pay dividends.
Thirty years ago, mafia life was different. It was short and brutish. Gangs thought about street corners and drive-by shootings. Now, though, life is different. Those old-style thugs have slowly given way to the new generation, one that understands business is more profitable than street wars. Even a guy like Raf gets it.
There’s a place for violence, though. No Famiglia is foolish enough to think it can rid itself of the killers. Stefano’s got his uses. But a Famiglia filled with men like Stefano would quickly fall apart.
This is the new world.
And frankly, it’s not fucking bad.
I find myself slowing as I approach a car bay tucked in the back of the garage. A few older mechanics are standing around pretending they’re doing work, but I can tell they’re all deeply on edge. One of them is called Ernesto, and apparently, he’s known Fiorella for a long time. I have no doubt he’s making sure she’s not pushing herself too hard.
Probably because of the extremely pregnant girl with her elbows in the hood of an old 1978 Mercedes 450SEL 6.9. When they spot me rolling over, they scatter like flies in the wind.
“What did I say about straining yourself?”
Fiorella flinches before pulling back. She’s in jeans and a flowy white top, and she scowls as she grabs a rag and wipes her hands. “I don’t need this from you, too.”
“And yet here you are, getting it.”
“I’ve been lectured ten times today.” She raises her voice and calls past me toward the hiding mechanics. “I’m fucking fine!”
I smile despite myself. I can’t keep up this hard facade with her around. My beautiful wife, pregnant as fuck and ready to burst, looks like an absolute angel with grease on her hands and a scowl on her lips.
Nothing I say will make her stop. And I’ve tried everything—threats, promises, bribes—everything. She doesn’t care. Fio wants to fix cars, and that means Fio’s going to fix fucking cars, whether she’s pregnant or not.
I wouldn’t be shocked if she’s looking at parts while the baby’s crowning.
“At least you look beautiful as always,” I say as I approach her.
Her scowl softens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to compliment me. I’m annoyed.”
“Annoyed and gorgeous.” I pull her into me and kiss her lightly. “Perfect too.”
“Shut up, dickbag.” But now she’s smiling, too. She gets on her toes and kisses me. “How’s my brother?”
“He’s the same as usual. Actually, I saw a miracle earlier. Filippo actuallycomplimentedRaf.”
She rears back. “You’re messing with me.”
“I wish I was, but hand to God, it happened.”
