Corrupt Me

by Jillian Quinn

  Mark glanced down at his watch and sucked down the rest of his glass. “Yeah, but I have to catch a cab in an hour. It’s almost time to mind fuck the pledges again before initiation.”

  “Just not too hard this time,” I said, keeping his last act of abuse in mind.

  Pledge Sawyer ended up with a bloody nose after Mark slammed his face on the concrete floor in the basement. Another reason I hated being president. Mark was my best friend since we were kids, but he was an asshole. He reveled in the fact that he could torture the pledges and get away with it.

  “Sawyer’s a fucking pussy,” Mark said, adding more scotch to his glass. “He needs to man up. I was just showing him how.”

  I shook my head, too irritated to think straight. “Do you have any idea how many e-mails I had to read this week or the meetings I had to attend because of you? When I say reel it in, you better listen to me. I’m not going to jail for you again. Now, nod your head and fall in line.”

  Mark nodded in acknowledgment. “Sorry, bro. But I’m not going to take it easy on the pledges cause no one cut us any slack. I’ll try not to take it too far.”

  “Good.” I rose to my feet and slipped out from the bar. “Start setting up and find out when the girls are coming.”

  As the hours passed, Mark left to deal with pledges. We hired a couple high-end escorts for the card games to keep our clients entertained. No one on campus knew about our extracurricular activities, and we needed pros.

  I stayed behind the bar, knocking back beers, and smoking cigars with the Hunter. That was typical for poker night.

  No matter what the outcome of the tourney, we each split a cut of the rake. So, we could kick back and relax while they gambled their savings away. Some months we saw action from judges, doctors, lawyers, all wealthy clientele with money to burn. I didn’t feel bad taking a cut of the fifty thousand dollar buy-in. After all expenses were paid, we each pocketed over ten thousand dollars, not including our weekly bankroll from our books.

  Hunter chugged the rest of a German beer, set it down on the bar, and popped the cap off another bottle. “Have you heard from Izzie?”

  “No.” I sighed at the mention of her name. “I should’ve told her about the apartment building. It’s all my fault…” I hesitated for second, flicking the fiery ash from my cigar in the glass ashtray in front of me. “Well, it’s my father’s fault.”

  Izzie refused to answer my phone calls and texts and avoided me on campus. Every day for the past three weeks, I’d sent her flowers, and each time she would refuse delivery. Today was no different. Silvia had told Hunter that Izzie knew about the Pennsport deal, and my father had Izzie in over her head.

  The sale of the apartment building was legit but what he planned to do with the property management company wasn’t entirely legal. And the real estate development company we’d bought the building from had belonged to John Di Salvo, underboss of the Vaccaro family in North Jersey. The deal was about a ledger not the property. Crime families bought and sold debts using cryptic ledgers, one of which now belonged to Angelo Rinaldi. My father couldn’t afford to have my relationship with Izzie jeopardize his business. He thought women were too emotional to separate their feelings from business, but he didn’t know Izzie the way I did.

  Hunter took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look man, I don’t know what’s going on with Izzie and that guy she’s been hooking up with, but Silvia thinks you still have a shot with her.”

  I almost choked as I blew out a cloud of cigar smoke. “No way. Izzie is done with me. This shit with my family is too deep for her to handle. Don’t let her fool you. She’s not some innocent girl not even close. Underneath it all, she’s just like her Grandfather, and she wouldn’t do anything that could hurt her company.”

  Hunter flipped his bottle cap along the bar with his finger and looked over at me. “Maybe one day you’ll be in charge. You could be the Vito Corleone of Philly.” Hunter put his elbows on the refinished wood and leaned into them. “On second thought, you’re more like Michael.”

  I laughed, my attention slightly diverted by the bare ass of a hot blonde winking at me. She had nothing on Izzie though. I turned back toward Hunter and ignored her. “I’m not like either of them, jackass.”

  “Out of your brothers, Anthony is the Sonny of the family. Total hothead and not enough smarts to make a decision without getting himself killed. And Mario is no doubt Fredo, which means you’re Michael.”

  “I don’t want to be Michael. I’d rather be Tom Hagen.” That was true, but I have zero desire to be my father’s advisor, his consigliere.

  When I started college, I’d planned to go to law school in case my father needed me to step up and take over for Frank Catalano as his consigliere. I hadn’t told Izzie, or even my mother, why I wanted to become a lawyer. But plans changed, and over the years, I realized I didn’t want that lifestyle.

  Hunter smacked me in the arm and laughed. “You can’t be Tom Hagen, he’s not even a Corleone.”

  “Yeah,” I interjected, “but I’d rather be consigliere. Then I could still practice law and not have all the pressure of being the boss.”

  “Who do you think the boss is consulting with, bro?” Hunter set his beer on the bar and folded his arms across his chest.

  I nodded. “I’m hoping it never comes to that. I’d like to stay as far away from my father as possible.”

  After I finished my cigar, I slid off the stool and walked over to the table to check on our winnings.

  One of the biggest losers I had was the son of my father’s best friend, Enzo. His son, EJ, had more money than brains and would gamble away his car, if I’d let him. He was a degenerate who couldn’t handle losing, yet he’d come back for more every week, begging like a crackwhore under the el train, jonesing for a quick fix.

  I stood behind a table of eight players, watching over EJ’s shoulder as he shifted nervously in his chair. EJ scratched the corner of his jaw when he saw the river card. He stared down at the two cards in his hands, and then shifted his gaze to the five cards in the center of the table laid down by the dealer. His hand was shit. Even with the Ace of Hearts as the river card, he had no chance of winning. Like an idiot, he pushed his measly pile of chips across the felt.

  EJ’s body shook uncontrollably, making it more apparent to the four men who were still in the game that he was bluffing. But EJ was a tweaker, a meth head. It’d been hours since he stepped foot into my apartment, and he knew he couldn’t smoke or snort that shit in my presence. After the players flipped their cards, EJ sat back in his chair, deflated.

  He looked over his shoulder at me with sad brown eyes that were glassy. “Luca, can I get a marker? I just need a few Gs and I’m back in the game.”

  If any of the men at the table had asked for an IOU against the pot, I would’ve considered it, but EJ was a habitual loser. Allowing him to take a marker would’ve been the same thing as flushing his money down the toilet. The dealer, an older man with short brown hair and a graying beard stared at me, and when I shook my head no, he nodded and began to deal the next hand.

  I patted him on the back. “Nah, man, not tonight. It’s time for you to go home.”

  He shifted in his chair so we were facing and said through clenched teeth, “For real? Do me a solid. I’m good for it.”

  I wanted to wring his neck, but with everyone at the table listening to our conversation, I couldn’t overreact. “You still owe me from the Eagles game last week. C’mon, we’re not doing this here. Let’s go.”

  EJ stood, almost falling over, and pushed his chair into the table. He gripped the chair back, and I took that as my cue to help him to the door. His normally olive skin was an odd shade of yellow, his lanky body thinner than I’d seen him in the past fifteen years, and his greasy hair was mussed up from him digging his fingers through it. I couldn’t believe this was the same person I’d picked up chicks with in high school. The same guy who’d been there for me most o
f my childhood.

  I made a hand gesture at Hunter to let him know I was taking EJ downstairs and to keep his eye on the players. Hunter raised his beer bottle in acknowledgment. I hooked my arm around EJ, dragging him out of the room, his body dead weight, as we made our way down the spiral staircase.

  Now on the first floor, we staggered past the kitchen and over to the couch in my living room. EJ plopped down on the cushion and propped his arm on a stack of decorative pillows.

  Once he looked up at me, I laid into him. “This shit has to stop, EJ.” I couldn’t control my anger as I leaned over, my palms pressed flat against my thighs, and yelled in his face. “You can’t keep coming to my house whacked out of your fucking skull. Have some respect for my family and me. Better yet, get some respect for yourself. We’ve been friends a long time, but that doesn’t mean you get a pass with me. Get your act together or we’re through.”

  EJ rubbed the corner of his eye to wipe away a tear. “I need help, Luca.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let it out, frustrated. “I know. Look, I can talk to my dad. We can get you setup in a nice rehab, one of those country club ones I’ve seen on TV.”

  A look of disgust scrolled across EJ’s face. “I don’t need to go to rehab. I can kick crystal on my own. I’ve done it before. You don’t get it.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, his body trembling. “I’m in deep with some bad people. I needed that marker to pay them off.”

  I sat next to EJ on the couch, trying not to lose my patience. “How much money do you owe?”

  He leaned forward and bit the corner of his lip, afraid to make eye contact with me. “One hundred large.”

  “You’ve gotta be shitting me. What the fuck were you thinking? No one around here loans that kind of money. How did you get it?”

  EJ pulled his knees into his chest, rocking back and forth. “The Irishman came to see me yesterday to collect. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I have a problem.” He stopped moving long enough to meet my gaze, fear registered on his face.

  Waves of nausea hit me at once. By going behind my family’s back, and to the people my father severed ties from after he became head of the Philadelphia crime family, EJ had signed his death warrant. Teddy McGinley aka The Irishman was the henchman for the Irish Mob. They trafficked more meth through Philly than any criminal organization in the city, and the Irish were the only ones willing to front that kind of money.

  But why would they lend to a junkie who leached off his father, siphoning every dollar he could from an account Enzo kept in his son’s name?

  “You have no idea what you’ve done. My father…” My voice trailed off at the thought of what my father would do with this news. Despite his relationship with Enzo Senior, he would never make an exception. He’d had men killed for less. “I don’t have the money to lend you. I wish I did but my rackets are small potatoes.”

  “What about your girlfriend? One hundred Gs is nothing to a Rinadi.” His voice had a certain hopefulness that made it hard to tell him no.

  “That’s not an option. We’re not together anymore, and even if we were, I couldn’t get her involved in this.” I patted him on the shoulder and sighed. “The best I can do is give you back your buy-in from tonight. That should be enough to keep the Irish off your back for a week. Why don’t you sleep here tonight? We can figure something out in the morning.”

  EJ hugged me, his tears falling on my shoulder, as he sobbed like a baby. “Thanks, Luca.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I knew I could count on you.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was nothing I could do to help him. My father would have his head on a spike for his stupidity. And knowing dear old Dad, he’d make sure EJ would disappear, like a fart in the wind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IZZIE

  A month had passed since I last spoke to Luca, and with Silvia attached to Hunter’s side, I had a lot more free time when I wasn’t working at Rinaldi Holdings. I needed to get out of our shared apartment. It was quiet without my roommate, an almost eerie silence that creeped me out. But I could always count on my neighbors and their love of grunge music that hammered through the wall all day and night.

  I slipped into my running shorts and top, grabbed my running essentials, and headed out into the crowded hallway. I secured the headphone buds in my ears and jogged through campus to the beat of the music on my iPod. I glanced down at the watch I used to track my heart rate and miles, making a mental note to run around the stadium one more time.

  I ran in place at the light on Broad Street and noticed a car to my right. An unmarked black Lincoln Town Car drove up next to me, matching my pace.

  The car followed me across the street and down a few blocks until the campus was out of sight. I stopped to remove the buds from my ears, looking at the car as the tinted window started rolling down, and a man in his forties with gelled sandy-blond hair appeared. He had cop written all over him. His face was clean-shaven, and he was wearing a black suit. He had a look that could scare you straight.

  “Isabella Rinaldi?” he said in a scratchy deep voice.

  I placed my hands on my hips and waited for him to flash his badge along with his superiority. “Who wants to know?”

  He did as I’d expected and flipped open a black card holder, showing an ID with FBI written in big blue letters. “I need to speak to you about your affiliation with the Marchese family.”

  I glared at him, the sunlight not even strong enough to break my stare. “You people are unbelievable. I’m sick of this harassment. It’s bad enough that you make the occasional visits to my office, but now, you’re bothering me on the street. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Are you sure about that? The SEC is close to nailing your grandfather for insider trading.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He hit a button, and the sound of the door locks clicking open followed. “Get in the car, and I’ll show you.”

  “No.” I held out my palm. “Hand over your badge. I’m not getting in a car with a complete stranger. For all I know, you’re a serial killer about to go all Hannibal Lecter on my ass.”

  He chuckled and opened the card holder again, holding it in front of my face. “Satisfied?”

  “Special Agent Robert Marx.” I waited for him to nod his head before I walked around the front of the car to the passenger side.

  He put the car in park and reached across the seat to push open the passenger door for me. I looked over my shoulder, hoping no one was around. Then, I slid into the leather seat and closed the door. I knew not to talk to cops, but I had to know what information they had on Grandfather.

  Agent Marx didn’t waste time. He threw a manila envelope on my lap. I stuck my hand inside and pulled out a stack of photographs. At least thirty pictures in full color were inside, some of which I was in.

  I flipped through photos of the day Luca had taken me to South Philly for what I’d considered our first real date. They had shots of us leaving Luca’s house and one with Luca coming out of the bar we’d stopped at after Tony Luke’s. Another set had what looked like an exchange of money between Luca and the dark-haired boy in his early twenties. Even in print, it looked like a drug deal.

  As I combed through the pile, I stared in awe at the pictures of Luca, Mark, and Hunter with women in short skirts, tight dresses, and mounds of fake breasts spilling out from their tops. They sure as hell didn’t look like any girls I went to school with. They were pros.

  I didn’t look up at first, rage bubbling inside me. When our eyes met, Agent Marx had a fuck-you smirk on his lips.

  “Is this supposed to mean something to me, Agent Marx? You think you’re going to bully me into telling you what you want about Luca? I have no idea who these girls are or what he was doing at that bar.”

  “Don’t play games, Miss Rinaldi. You were in the car, which makes you an accomplice. If you give up the Marcheses, I’ll see what I can do about the SEC investigation.”
<
br />   I sighed and sank back against the headrest. SEC investigations were not out of the ordinary at Rinaldi Holdings, and unfortunately, neither were visits from the FBI.

  But I decided to play along. “What do you want to know?”

  “We suspect Luca Marchese of illegal gambling. He’s been operating without the old man’s permission for years. We’re working with a CI who’s close to the family, but if you can get me the proof we need…”

  At this point, I’d stopped listening because nothing he said mattered.

  There was an old Sicilian proverb. Cu è surdu, orbu e taci, campa cent’anni ‘mpaci, which translated to, He who is deaf, blind, and silent will live a hundred years in peace.

  Grandfather had told me about omertà in high school when I first started interning at Rinaldi Holdings. The Rinaldis had been called many things over the years—bootleggers, thieves, war profiteers, and racketeers—but we sure as hell were not snitches. And I wasn’t about to start a new tradition.

  I pulled on the door handle, and before I stepped out of the car, I said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s what I like to hear, Miss Rinaldi. We’ll be in touch.”

  Without looking over my shoulder, I shut the door and ran through the campus three times to lose any tail the FBI might have had on me. Unable to clear my head, I thought about going home. Instead, I kept jogging until the soles of my feet burned.

  Somehow, I ended up at the front door of Luca’s fraternity house. I banged on the door, out of breath and hunched over.

  Mark answered, shirtless and in Adidas track pants that hung low from his hips. His spiked auburn hair was messy, and he looked sexy, his muscles flexing, as he held on to the doorframe—until he opened his stupid mouth.

  “You’re already in position. Ain’t this a nice surprise?” He moved his hands out in front of him and rubbed them together.