by Sophia Gray
Ricci shrugged. “Congratulations. What's that got to do with me?”
“As you may already know, Myanmar is a jungle hellhole where civil wars rage constantly,” Brock continued. “During his last visit to inspect our fields over there, a group of rebels took my father as their prisoner. Now, for the moment, these assholes don't know who they've got. They just think my father's a wealthy Canadian businessman. They're demanding a ransom of five million dollars. But if they find out who he really is...”
“Ah. Now I see where all of this secrecy comes in,” said Ricci knowingly.
“Exactly. We're a small family, and this fiasco happened before we were able to start bringing this stuff in and distributing it. We need someone to put up half the money for his release, and once he's safe, we'll need some outside muscle to help us make sure this kind of thing never happens again. But if we went to the wrong people about this, who knows? They could use our current instability to seize the fields for themselves, or even make a deal with the rebels and tip them off about who their hostage is.”
“Why bring in outside muscle?” Ricci asked. “Why not use your own guys, or hire from other Canadian families?”
“Well, let's just say there's a reason you haven't heard of any legendary outfits from the Great White North,” Brock said. “When it comes to bribing Mounties, fixing hockey games, or ripping off shipments of maple syrup, we've got some good guys working for us. But anything heavier than that, and they're about as worthless as piss holes in the snow. Robby says you maintain an iron grip on New Orleans. I figure that can't be easy in a town like this, so you must have some serious people working for you.”
Ricci considered this for a moment. “Okay. So you need two and a half million dollars from me, plus a guarantee that I'll lend you some of my people later on an as-needed basis. What are you offering in return?”
Brock spread his hands expansively, putting on his most solemn and concerned face. “Sir, when my father passes on someday—God forbid—I stand to inherit all of his businesses. But, needless to say, this isn't how I want to do it. I love my father very much, and his safety is of the utmost importance to me. It's my greatest wish to see him returned home unharmed as soon as possible. If you're willing to help me do this, then you can name your price. Whatever you think is fair and reasonable. Once our interests in Myanmar have been secured and the opium shipments start coming in, I'll make sure we honor our end of the agreement, whatever it is. You have my word on that.”
Ricci's expression softened. “I admire your devotion to your father. I wish my daughter honored me the way you honor him.”
Brock was starting to wish he had a nickel for every time someone used the word “honor” that evening.
“In exchange for my assistance,” Ricci continued, “I want your assurance that once you start to import and distribute the product, I will be your only point of contact for selling it in the southern United States. Naturally, I'll provide a specific list of territories.”
Inwardly, Brock danced a jig. Ricci had taken the bait. With all that uncut H dangled in front of him, how could he pass up the chance to become the undisputed sultan of heroin across fifteen states or more? As long as he stuck to the south and steered clear of the bigger syndicates in L.A., Chicago, and New York, he'd be unstoppable.
“Absolutely,” Brock agreed.
“Naturally, before I hand over the money, I'll need a sample of the product so my people can test it and ensure it's as pure as you say.”
“I can definitely arrange that,” said Brock. “As I'm sure you can imagine, I couldn't risk traveling with something like that, but I can have it brought down here within the week so you can inspect it.”
“Excellent. Now that we've settled that, there's another matter I'd like to discuss with you.”
Brock tried to look curious, even though he knew what was coming next. Whether the targets were high-powered mobsters or tourists in Akron, a rube was still a rube, and a mark was still a mark.
“I've noticed you don't wear a wedding ring,” Ricci pointed out. “Am I correct in assuming you're currently unattached?”
Brock shrugged, smiling. “You know how it is, Don Ricci. I see girls here and there, but nothing serious. I prefer to focus on my family's business interests.”
“That's commendable,” said Ricci. “And, please, call me Turo. As I mentioned before, I have a daughter. Margherita. She's my only child. She's beautiful, intelligent...quite a prize, for the right man. I've been trying to find a suitable husband for her. Someone young and hungry, who has a good head on his shoulders and knows how to show respect. Someone who could take over my operations when I pass on someday.”
“Not for a hundred years, God willing,” Robby said, raising his glass in a toast. Brock and Crack raised theirs, as well.
“Thank you, that's very kind,” Ricci said. “I realize this request is somewhat unorthodox, but while you're in town, would you consent to a date with her? I can't promise she'll fall in love with you right away—she can be a bit headstrong, like her mother—but if it goes well and you eventually marry, the empire that our two organizations forge could reign in North America for generations.”
Brock made a show of thinking this over carefully. “With all due respect, Turo, I appreciate your offer, and I'm certainly flattered. But I don't know if it's a good idea, given the context of my visit. I get nervous mixing business with pleasure, and if things don't work out between me and Margherita for some reason, I wouldn't want to jeopardize our professional arrangement. Besides, I've been so worried about my father's well-being, I'm concerned I wouldn't be good company.”
And that might be enough for some people to back off, Brock thought. But not you, right, Turo? Because having a billion-dollar heroin connection for a son-in-law makes all the other Mafia creeps who've come to court your daughter look like pikers by comparison.
Ricci leaned in earnestly. “I can definitely understand your concern for your father, and it's admirable. But speaking from my experience with you tonight, I can assure you that you are wonderful company regardless. And as for endangering our agreement, I promise it won't come to that. If you two happen to hit it off, that would be lovely. If not...what's that saying your hockey players up there are so fond of? 'No harm, no foul?'”
Brock gave Ricci his most charming laugh. “Well, when you put it that way, Turo, I won't insult you by saying no.”
“Excellent,” Ricci said with a grin. “Thank you. I'll set it up and call you with the details tomorrow. Who knows? You could be a match made in heaven.”
There's only one match I care about, old man, Brock thought as he shook Turo's hand again. And that's between me and your money.
Chapter 8
Maggie
“Maggie, if you don't stop squirming, this brush is going to end up in your eye,” her mother fussed.
Margherita closed her eyes and took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm as her mother applied the makeup brush to her eyelashes. It wasn't easy—anger rolled and writhed in Maggie's stomach.
It had been five days since her father had gotten the mysterious call from Mr. Nickelson and Maggie had breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't about her. Except that after Nickelson had introduced Turo to this “Gabe De Luca,” it seemed like the young Canadian hoodlum was all her father could talk about. During every meal, as Maggie picked at her food listlessly, he would return to the subject again and again.
“As stubborn as you've been about choosing a husband, I'm actually glad you've waited so long,” Turo told her, transferring another heavy slab of lasagna to his plate and digging in. “I can tell Gabe is a very special young man. He's different from the others. You'll see it too, when you meet him. He's polite, he's respectful to his elders...you can tell from the way he carries himself that he was raised well. He has real class and sophistication. There's nothing petty about him, and he's got a good head on his shoulders. He's got a bright future ahead of him.”
; “It sounds like you should marry him, then,” Maggie said, pushing some beets around her plate. The juice they oozed was blood-red, and she was reminded of the gory pictures of Daniel that had been tossed onto the table in front of her the week before. Her stomach clenched and, for a moment, she thought she might throw up.
Her father paused, his fork halfway to his mouth as his eyes hardened. “I know you like to act headstrong, Maggie, but you'd better not ruin this date with your pouting. A marriage between you and Gabe will secure our organization for years to come. So stop being selfish, and think of your duty to your family for once.”
“And what about my happiness?” Maggie asked hotly. “Doesn't that mean anything to you?”
“Don't frown so much, dear,” her mother murmured, cutting herself another slice of lasagna. “It'll give you wrinkles.”
“How can you say I don't care about your happiness?” Turo demanded. “Haven't I given you the best of everything since you were born? The finest clothes, the most expensive schools? I've spent millions of dollars on you, I've treated you like a princess, and when have you ever been happy? When have you ever shown me the gratitude and respect I deserve?”
“Oh, sure, you've treated me like a princess all right. You've surrounded me with high walls and guards, and kept me locked away in a tower.”
Her father waved her away dismissively. “You're so dramatic. I'll bet Gabe never talks to his parents like this.”
“Why can't I make any decisions for myself? Why can't you just let me live my own life?”
“Because you'd only screw it up,” Turo answered. “You have such good looks, and so much potential. I'm your father, I love you, and as I said before, I want what's best for you even if you throw it back in my face. You could have a perfect life. You could live like royalty, with a husband who provides you with everything you could possibly need.”
“Including beautiful children,” Amelia chimed in. “Good, strong heirs. And a respectable name.”
“But you're weak, and you're spoiled. If I let you do whatever you want, then what?” her father continued. “You'd dress like trash, you'd eat like trash, you'd look like trash and behave like trash. You'd dishonor me by rolling around in the muck with some nobody like Daniel. You'd get pregnant before marriage like some kind of mignotta and flush the family name down the toilet. I won't let that happen, no matter how much you treat me like I'm some kind of monster. I care about you too much.”
Maggie had finished her dinner in stony silence after that. Now she was doing her best to sit still as her mother applied her makeup before her date with Gabe.
“Remember to sit up straight and keep your legs together,” her mother instructed as she applied blush to Maggie's cheeks. “Don't order anything except a light salad, and don't eat more than half of it. You don't want him to think you're a pig who's going to start gaining weight the moment she's married.”
“I'm sure if I eat more than half the salad, our bodyguard will report back to you immediately,” Maggie sighed. “Who's going to be my chaperone this time? Adamo, or one of the other primates?”
“You shouldn't insult your Uncle Adamo like that,” Amelia said with a tsk and a grimace. “The mouth on you. I hope you won't make those kinds of snide remarks when you're with Gabe. Maybe some of his good manners will rub off on you. And to answer your question, you'll be accompanied by both Adamo and Gabe's right-hand man. Rodolfo, I think his name is.”
“Wonderful,” Maggie groaned. “Two thugs for the price of one.”
Suddenly, Amelia grabbed a handful of Maggie's hair, jerking her head back. Maggie cried out in pain.
“Thugs and primates,” her mother hissed. “Is that what you think of our family? Of your father and his friends? Well, for your information, young lady, those men have loved you and looked after you for your entire life. You may look down your nose at them, but they are loyal, they work hard to put food on the table for us, and they deserve your respect. So while you're on this date, you'd better keep your smart mouth to yourself and act like you have some courtesy for the people who protect and serve us so faithfully. Because if your father and I find out you behaved like a stuck-up brat and ruined your chances with Gabe, you're going to find out just how miserable life can be.”
“Okay, okay!” Maggie yelled. “Let go! You're hurting me!”
Amelia released Maggie's hair, then frowned at it disapprovingly. “Now look what you've made me do. We'll have to brush your hair all over again.” She picked up the brush and ran it through Maggie's hair roughly, pulling it hard with each stroke.
Maggie tried not to show how agonizing it was, but tears welled up in her eyes. The rest of her life stretched out before her like an endless corridor to hell. Either she could relent and choose one of her suitors to be her husband, or her parents would take away the few comforts she had and force her to marry one of these pathetic gangsters anyway before she became too old to be considered a valuable commodity.
Because that was all she was. Something to be displayed proudly and sold off to the highest bidder. She couldn't help but think of herself as little more than a whore, and her own father was her pimp. What a sick joke.
And if she played the role of the dutiful daughter and went along with it, then what? A marriage that was little more than a formality, with a man who'd probably have his way with her anytime he felt like it, however he liked it, whether she wanted it or not.
A man who might beat her whenever he had a bad day, while everyone who claimed to care about her looked the other way and said, “As long as she's wearing his ring, it's none of our business.”
A man who'd probably start seeing other women before the ink on their marriage license was even dry, bringing home feeble excuses and diseases.
A man who'd likely end up dead, missing, or in prison, like so many of her “uncles” and “cousins” had.
For a savage moment, she thought about how satisfying it might be to actually take steps to make that happen—to sell her husband out to rival mobsters, or to the FBI. He'd be gone, she'd be free, everything he had would be hers, and there would be nothing Turo could do about it.
But if anyone ever found out, could she really expect her father to protect her? Or would he simply shake his head sadly and wash his hands of her?
Normal girls my age don't have to think about any of this, she thought bitterly. Normal girls my age get to go to college and date around and fall in love and eat whatever they want. They aren't locked away and treated like living dolls by their parents. They don't have their lives controlled by criminals, or worry about the Feds breaking down their doors at two in the morning.
“There,” her mother said, finishing Maggie's makeup. “Doesn't that look better?”
Maggie didn't answer.
Chapter 9
Maggie
Maggie stood on Decatur Street as the sun began to set. A block away, the open-air dining area of the Cafe Du Monde was filled with chattering tourists. They munched on beignets and sipped coffee, laughing and snapping photos of each other with powdered sugar caked on their lips.
Had she ever even been allowed to eat a beignet? She couldn't even remember. She tried to imagine the fried dough and sticky sugar in her mouth, but she had no point of reference. It seemed like she'd been forced to subsist on rabbit food her entire life.
Next to her, Adamo stood like a statue, his eyes scanning for trouble as his hand hovered near his shoulder. Maggie had known Adamo her entire life, but he still made her extremely nervous. Even though he'd always been polite to her, his black eyes reminded her of camera lenses. There was no joy in them, no pity, no detectable emotion of any kind. They simply took in everything they could, darkly reflecting the world around them.
If I ever did betray the family and try to get away, he's the one they'd send after me, she thought with a shudder. I'd wake up one night and he'd be standing next to my bed, ready to press a pillow over my face and fire a bullet through it to silence me forever.
>
The idea was scary, but she found a forlorn comfort in it, too. At least then it would be over. No more tasteless meals. No more being told what to do. Nothing but endless peace where her mother and father could never hurt her again.
“So, two guards this time, huh?” Maggie said, trying to distract herself from these morbid thoughts. “That seems like overkill.”
“It wasn't my decision,” Adamo said in his creaky, whispery voice. “Your father always insists one of his own people accompany you, since he would never trust your safety to anyone else. This arrangement has always been considered acceptable by the young men who've previously escorted you. However, your date this evening said it was extremely important to him that his own bodyguard join us, as well.”
