by Tara Oakes
In my boredom, I reach for my phone and scroll through.
Wine?
Why the hell is Theresa asking me about wine?
I close my eyes and think back to the family dinners, with my dad laughing loudly and heartily at the head of the table. Momma would pass by at some given time carrying plates or serving dishes, with her white apron tied snuggly around her waist.
They’d lock eyes when they thought Theresa and I wouldn’t notice and smile to one another. Sometimes dad would wink and make mom blush. Sometimes, depending on how much wine he had, he’d reach out and grab her around the waist as she passed and she’d land in his lap where he’d kiss her just as if they were a couple of newlyweds.
Theresa and I would carry on about their embarrassing us even though no one else was around except Nonna; but secretly, I was really proud that my parents had that much love for each other. They were old school. They did whatever they had to do to make it work and never gave up on each other.
But most of all, they lived life without ever losing sight of the most important thing… each other.
My thoughts run away with me, eventually settling back on the wine as I picture dad’s glass filled with it, sipping his way through his meal. Every once in a while he’d close his eyes and savor the flavor.
I remember when wooden crates would arrive at the house filled with bottles of the wine packed in straw. I remember the heavy wooden boxes and even remember the black, stenciled letters printed on a slant on either side of the case.
What the hell did those letters say?
I squint my eyes and press my fingers to my temple as if that’ll somehow magically make the image more clear, but it doesn’t.
Hmm….
I’m not about to call mom and wake her up this time of night to ask if she remembers, but I know that the unanswered question will gnaw at me.
I bring my computer to life, all the while trying to figure out what I’m going to do once the system is actually up and running. I enter a search within the hard drive for old purchase orders of wine.
Coming from a large Italian family, the orders are plenty. Between the wedding a few months ago, Christenings, Communions, and sadly enough even funerals like Nonna’s, the numbers are staggering.
I set the search parameters even more specifically to fall within the dates I need. The scanned or manually entered information is now becoming dated. I search further and further back to about three years before my dad passed.
Computers were not Dad’s preferred method of record keeping and I know most of these were added by the accountants after dad was gone, trying to simplify all of the family’s records.
I stop scrolling once I reach a purchase order with a US customs stamp along the header from Tuscany, Italy.
The shipper was listed as Uva Malvagio LLC, or Wicked Grape, once translated.
That’s it! That was the name on the side of the wooden crates that would regularly pile up in the kitchen, waiting to be transported down to the wine cellar. I can’t believe I actually found it.
I read through the document line by line. Dad really bought a ton of this stuff. Then I get to the payment terms and I nearly stop breathing.
$60,000 for 24 bottles!
That works out to be about $2,500 per bottle. No way on God’s green earth would my dad, who was born in a one bedroom house, ever pay $2,500 for a bottle of wine… no matter where it came from.
As if that wasn’t odd enough, the payee is listed as ATH subholdings.
There’s no such thing as ATH subholdings.
Next, I google Uva Malvagio in Tuscany and wait for the search engine to turn up its results. Only one listing pops up, a small mention in a trade wine magazine from four years ago.
There’s not even a website!
Who doesn’t have a website in this day and age?
I click on the article and read through, skimming along. Great flavor, wonderful texture, bold body, yadda yadda yadda. This is why I don’t read wine magazines.
I get to the meat of the article, and something jumps out at me. $49.95 in US dollars. That’s all the wine costs, even all those years ago, and that’s a far cry from $2,500.
Huh. I sit back hard against the back of my chair and steeple my fingers under my chin. Something just isn’t sitting right with this.
Overpaying for wine, and billing it through some type of nonexistent offshoot of the company instead of to dad personally, considering it was a personal expense and not a business expense.
Sure, tons of people fudge expense reports and play around with billing to find tax shelters for personal income, but my Dad was never one of them.
It’s not often that something piques my curiosity like this, and I feel the excitement begin to grow around the mystery.
“Baby, come up to bed. You’re gonna be dead tired tomorrow.”
V’s soft, sleep gorged voice calls out to me from the small landing up at the top of the private staircase to our bedroom.
I watch her standing there with her thin robe hanging loosely around her new shape and can’t refuse. These documents, the wine, the secret company… those are all things from the past.
But that woman calling me… she’s my present and my future, and I’m not going to keep her waiting a moment longer.
~*~
“Promise to call me as soon as you land.” She folds another pair of socks and stuffs them into the small suitcase.
“V, I don’t need more socks. I’ll be home early tomorrow morning.” I take that same pair of socks and remove them from the piece of luggage.
I know she’s nervous. She’s absolutely nowhere near her due date, but I haven’t left her alone yet while pregnant. I lift her hands and hold them together, kissing her knuckles lightly.
“I’ll call every couple of hours and check in. Theresa’s staying over tonight, so you won’t be alone and everything will be fine. And… I’ll bring you home a surprise.”
Her eyes widen in silent curiosity.
“How about a famous Chicago deep dish pizza?” I bribe her.
Being from New York, it’s practically sacrilegious to eat any other type of pizza since ours is the best, but I have a feeling with the cravings she’s been having lately, she won’t be able to refuse the bait.
“Mushroom?” She asks enthusiastically.
I laugh.
“Mushrooms and green pepper.” I just upped the anty.
She nods, “Deal.”
I bend down, placing my lips close to the protrusion of her small belly. “I hope you like the crazy food your momma likes.”
~*~
It doesn’t matter if I’m Dom the CEO of ATH or Dom the boss of one of the most influential and wealthy crime families on the east coast. Either way, I don’t like to wait. For anybody.
The glass door to the guesthouse opens, the pull-down blinds clanking against the frame from the momentum.
“Morning, sunshine.”
He looks overly startled to see me in his space.
“Uh… hey, boss.” He manages to clear his throat mid-sentence while fully entering his small apartment of a guesthouse.
“Early morning? Already showered, shaved,” I move closer to make my inspection, “but yet… wearing wrinkled clothes,” I sniff the dull red stain near his lapel, “that stink of stale wine.”
I swear to God… this kid just doesn’t take a hint unless it’s beating him on the damn head. Time to make myself a little more clear.
“Change of plans, Casanova. You’re going to Chicago with me. Give us some time to chat about things. Nothing too deep, you know-- rules, respect, women, wine.”
The kid turns pale white, my message having been received loud and clear.
“Be ready in ten.” I leave him standing in silence.
~*~
“Thanks, Ellen, I appreciate it. Just send it all to my email. I’ll look it over once I’m in the air.”
The pilot signals that we’re ready to board.
“And, Ellen… enjoy retirement. You take some of that severance package and that hubby of yours on the dream vacation to the Far East you’ve always dreamed of. We’ll have you over for dinner when you get back.”
Ellen should have retired years ago, but her loyalty to the company kept her seated at that desk outside my office when she should have been enjoying life. I probably should have insisted she leave the company, but a small selfish part of me knew full well she could never be replaced.
She started as V’s dad’s secretary her first day out of secretarial school, and put in her time day in and day out far above what was ever required of her. She’s literally saved my ass a time or two with countless hours of overtime.
In gratitude, she’d received the largest severance package the company had ever seen - between that and her pension she’ll have enough to live comfortably for another fifty years.
I know it’ll take her a little while to acclimate to retired life, but I’m thankful she was able to help me out one last time. Her passcodes and access to the company database are still in working order until the paperwork goes through and IT changes the security settings, but that gives me at least a couple of days for her to search for the information I’ve requested.
“Take-off time, champ,” I call over my shoulder to Carmine as I slip my cell back into my pocket.
His sallow face looks up as he lifts his head from between his knees. His color’s not good. The sweat on his brow, the unbuttoned collar, the barely noticeable quivering of his clammy skin… crap.
“S-sure thi-thing, boss,” he forces.
“You ‘bout to puke?” I ask him.
His teeth begin to chatter from the onset of chills. “Pr-probably. But, once I toss my co-cookies I’ll be fine to fly. Hap-happens all the time after I drink.”
You’ve got to be kidding me!
I’m beginning to regret bringing him along.
He kicks his chair out of the way as he hightails it to the men’s room on the far side of the private owner’s lounge of the non-commercial airport. Well, there goes our takeoff time. I waste no time in letting the pilot know that we’re not quite ready.
The loud gagging and hurling is making its way through the thin door, and coming dangerously close to triggering my own nausea. But, I do the right thing and wait.
~*~
The little mini-fridge on the jet is fully stocked as usual, and the half-sized cans of every imaginable beverage are like a myriad of sugar and caffeine heaven.
“Here.”
I toss Carmine a green bottle of ginger ale just in case his stomach acts up again, although so far he’s been true to his word. Since that initial little incident back at the airport, it’s been smooth flying.
The fizzing of the soda is hard to hear over the loud noise of the engines, and it’s gulped down fast enough to force the guy to cover his mouth.
“This happen every time?” I ask Carmine.
He shrugs his shoulders. His complexion’s much better and other than the slight odor of a reminder, it’s as if nothing’s happened.
He nods, embarrassed. “Only if I’m a little hung over.”
I crack a sarcastic smile. It’s like a bit of karma coming to bit his in the ass after whatever he did with my sister last night.
“Get some sleep.” I toss him one of the small courtesy pillows. “I need you on your game when we land.”
With another hour ahead of us, I’ve got plenty of time to see what Ellen’s been able to dig up. Even retired, she’s just as reliable as always. As soon as I open my email, I find not one but two emails from her with several attachments on each.
It’s odd to get an ATH email on my personal account, without all the formality and header info, and it’s… sobering.
The first attachment opens with ease. It’s a spreadsheet of payments. Small, even - all less than $80,000 beginning years ago and ending around the same time my pop passed on.
Wait.
Hmm, that’s interesting.
The payments started about a month after V’s dad died. That can’t be a coincidence. I continue on and open the remaining attachments. ATH Subholdings was created about two weeks before my father-in-law’s untimely passing, and had only one board member. My dad.
It seems like the only payments ever made from the small company were to the Uva Maggio, Inc. wine company, and the only funding ever deposited into the subholdings company were from ATH’s expense accounts.
I push my laptop aside, thankful for the Wi-Fi in the sky, but not the conclusions the information is leading me to draw.
It was a shell company. Nothing more than a shelter to pass money through to that wine company. But, what’s worse, is that it coincides somehow with not only V’s dad’s death, but also my own dad’s. And this is most definitely something I never would have stumbled across if it hadn’t been for Theresa asking about some stupid wine.
I look at Carmine sleeping off his wine hangover and grind my teeth thinking of exactly what made my baby sister inquire about the long forgotten vintage.
~*~
The Chicago skyline is a beautiful one. Nothing compared to what I’m used to in NYC, but it’s a gorgeous on it’s own merit. If I were in a calmer state of mind I could probably enjoy it, but the amount of weight on my shoulders is heavy enough to cloud my thoughts.
On my own turf, I’ve gained enough confidence to navigate the band of hierarchy that controls everything. Taking out Moretti gained me the respect and credibility I needed to gain a foothold in the NY scene. But, to do what I’ll need to do on a national level, I need the full weight of the commission behind me.
It shouldn’t be too difficult seeing as my dad ran dealings with all of these guys, making them a hell of a lot of money along the way. It may have been a long time since they’ve dealt with a DiBenedetto, but my family history was enough to get me in the door.
The rest will be up to me.
The rented Towne car pulls into the obscure parking lot as Carmine eases us into a parking space. The engine is cut, and the clicking begins.
His gun and mine, syncing in unison as we both engage the weapons to be used on command if and when needed. No way would we ever be able to sneak these into the table, and I wouldn’t even try. Such a move would be the highest sign of disrespect.
We’ve all come here together in good faith to form the basis of successful business relationships. No need for guns….
Yet.
We each tuck our piece under our respective seats in case they need to be grabbed quickly later on, and leave the car to smooth our now empty waistbands. The four other black cars parked nearby open doors with men of all sizes stepping out, all dressed similar to us… neat haircuts, pressed suits, hard stares.
Each car’s rider has one companion, a driver, protection. The four of those men walk forward along with Carmine. They pat each other down thoroughly, checking for weapons. Next, they run a sweep with a tracking device looking for wires or bugs. The types of things discussed at times like this are not for outsider’s ears.
When the five associates are satisfied that the others are clean, they nod and return to their employers.
“All clear, boss. The big guy’s a helluva a strong one, but no weapons.”
It’s true. The one in the navy suit has got to be one of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. I look from him over to my own bodyguard. Carmine is cut and hard, but his frame’s got nothing on the other guy.
“Hit the weights more when we get home,” I bust his chops as I leave him behind to watch the car.
I’m the youngest of the men who now make up our small subgroup. The heads of five different families. Some of them watch others distrustfully, having had bad blood between their groups before.
Even in times of peace, there’s always the unspoken rule that your own family comes first. Alliances come and go, like peace and war, they fluctuate with the years. But, no matter the current state of all of our affairs, the table is a kind of sacr
ed place.
Everything else gets put on the back burner for the sake of potential business and prosperity for us all. That’s not to say there haven’t been incidents where things have gotten shot to shit and all hell broke loose. Hence, the guns in the car.
“Dommy boy!” Don Caruso pulls me in close. I’m pretty sure I’ve only met this fat cat once before… at my dad’s funeral. I didn’t particularly care for him then, I don’t really care for him now.
“Mr. Caruso, good to see you, too.”
He nods while taking me in. “Your dad would be so proud to see you today.”
I force a smile. He must not have known my dad well at all. I don’t think he’d be proud at what I’ve become, and even though I miss him something fierce, a small part of me is glad he’s not actually here to see me abandon the company he worked so hard to build only to be here, meeting with these men, living the life he hid so well from the rest of us.
The other men, Dons Abbate, Martone, Nuzzi, and Tramonte, all represent the biggest crime families in Philly, Boston, Staten Island, and Jersey, along with Caruso’s own Chicago.
I’ve met all of these men before in passing and have grown familiar with their names. Although we may have only spoken a handful of times each over the phone, we’ve all been in constant contact lately through “other” channels. Let’s just say ever since I offed Moretti, I’ve been on their radar.
I can’t blame them either. The new hot shot kid in town trying to make a name for himself. I’d be leery, too, in their positions. They called the meeting but they really just beat me to the punch.
Ever since I was given the info from Moretti’s dying lips about the hit on V’s dad, I’ve been working it into my agenda to uncover every last detail. These men are the only ones still alive who would have been privy to the info I need.
“People been talkin’, Dom,” Don Caruso breaks the silence. “Sayin’ things.”
