by Hazel Parker
I hadn’t meant the statement to be quite so meaningful on quite so many levels.
I did accompany Pierre inside Caesars Palace. It was about ten minutes before our meeting, and we were told that the meeting would take place at a restaurant called Rao’s. I had never been to this particular Italian restaurant, but I was sure that it was like many of the other ones in Vegas—fancy, high-quality, tasty, and a bit on the expensive side.
Much like we had in the airport, I had to keep Pierre focused, for at multiple points on our walk through the casino, he just had to stop and observe everything. The fountains, the “art,” the slot machines with their various themes, the people clapping in celebration at a big craps win, even at noon on a Monday—Las Vegas never slowed down for anyone.
It wasn’t hard to see why this place could provide such a thrill, and why after the thrill, there was a comedown one needed to be aware of.
“Now you know how I feel whenever I visit Paris,” I said. “Just don’t gamble too much when I’m at Cosmo.”
“Please,” Pierre said. “I could buy the whole place if I wanted to. A little gambling would not hurt me.”
I was amused to think of what Pierre’s definition was of “a little gambling.”
For now, though, such questions got put to the side as we approached the restaurant. But before we could even see a waiter, there was an odd sight—there were two men in crisp suits with black ties and sunglasses on despite the restaurant being indoors. I had never seen anything like it at any restaurant, even a high-end place like Voltaire’s in Sacramento or STK in the Cosmopolitan. Had something happened?
And then a man with the same outfit, except a purple tie instead of a black one and without sunglasses, emerged. He had slicked back, greasy black-and-silver hair, a deep tan, and wrinkles that probably came from sitting in the sun for far too long.
“Ahh, Mr. Perocheau?” the man in the purple tie said with an Italian accent.
“Yes,” Pierre said.
“Gio Nimico, pleasure to meet you,” the man said, extending his hand.
The man seemed friendly enough. He was well-dressed, and the smile he gave did not seem particularly slimy. But why did a man that was so well-put-together have two men with him that looked like they could pass for Secret Service agents? I assumed for now that Gio was simply a man of untold wealth who needed security with him, but Pierre, my brother, and my grandfather—all men worth tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions of dollars—never had bodyguards.
Something did not sit right with me. But it was Pierre’s meeting, not mine.
“And who is this beautiful woman by your side?” Gio said.
But he said it in a tone that was not...it was not curious. It was like he already knew the answer.
“This is Layla Ferrari,” Pierre said, his voice suggesting he had not picked up on Gio’s tone.
“That is, in fact, what I thought,” Gio admitted. “Miss Ferrari, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Meet me?” I said. “You sound like you know me.”
He chuckled.
“I admit that I do know you, but I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, at least not since you were a little tot in your daddy’s arms,” Gio said. “No, I know your father and your family very well. We have quite a bit of history.”
I smiled and said that was nice, but the combination of factors was leaving me extraordinarily uncomfortable. I felt like I was being reminded that I was known there, and that anything that happened there would somehow reach back to my father. This was supposed to be a detour of sorts, a mini vacation in which I’d work half-days remotely and then spend the rest of the time with Pierre.
This was not supposed to be associates of my family watching my every move and knowing about my newfound fling before anyone else in my family did.
“Well, I know you two have business to conduct,” I said with a nod to the two of them. “So I will let you have your space. Pierre, I’ll be at the hotel room.”
“Understood,” Pierre said.
I leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. He almost seemed too nervous to turn and kiss me on the lips. I could not blame him, honestly; this was one spot where less affection was best.
I grabbed his bags, ignoring Gio’s offer to have his friends help me with them. I simply pretended to not hear Gio as I left, moving as fast as I could without looking hasty or troubled.
But as soon as I was out of view of Rao’s, I found a pillar and leaned against it, catching my breath. I didn’t want to say it, but…
Well…
It felt very much like a mafia.
I hated that word so fucking much. I hated whenever people used it to describe the Ferrari family; aside from being stereotyping and offensive, I didn’t think anyone had any fucking reason for using it. The biggest “scandal” our winery had ever had, if you could call it that, was when Brett got cited in college for public intoxication. I suppose Leo might cause trouble for the family at some point, but even the press and bloggers seemed to understand Leo was “different.”
But what else was I supposed to think of two men in sunglasses, one man with slicked-back hair who claimed he went way back with my family, and some shady business dealings Pierre was doing that I didn’t know a damn thing about?
I thought back to two years ago, how Brett had magically popped up with a new assistant who would eventually wind up being his wife. He had confessed to me the whole deal, and I’d kept my mouth shut. I still would, but I needed to know for my own sake. I hurriedly grabbed my phone out of my purse, found Brett’s name, and called him as I resumed walking back to Cosmopolitan. I checked over my shoulder at least twice before Brett picked up.
“Back from France, huh?” he said. “Where are you—”
“Brett,” I said, cutting him off. “Who the fuck did you communicate with for Chelsea?”
Chapter 14: Pierre
In my time as a businessman, I had certainly dealt with my fair share of eccentric men and women.
I had dealt with wine owners who were convinced that they held the greatest trade secret on Earth. I had dealt with investors who believed that they would unlock a new type of currency that would revolutionize the world. I had negotiated with people who insisted on negotiating in a McDonald’s, somehow perhaps believing that the odd environment would throw me for a loop.
Essentially, I never got fazed in business. I had seen things much worse and much more stressful than whatever a businessman threw my way, so the sight of two men dressed like secret agents with face of Gio did nothing to disturb me. It was unusual, sure, and something one might expect from gangsters, but I did not fear retribution in such a public setting.
Seeing Layla unsettled, though, did concern me a bit. It would not throw me off during negotiations, but it did make me concerned for her sake. If she could not feel comfortable in Las Vegas, then what would it mean for the duration of our time in America?
“Come, Pierre,” Gio said, placing a hand on my back. “We have a private room so that we may discuss in peace. Let us break bread, shall we?”
And for the first half-hour, that was exactly what we did. We shared bread, appetizers, and a main course. There was no discussion of business; we only talked about trips to our respective homelands, about which football—real football, not American football—team would most likely win the UEFA Champions League, and about the best places to visit in America. It was light, casual, and, I knew, relatively short-lived.
A man like Gio, with two bodyguards, had set up this whole occasion on purpose. The food, the conversation, the wine—it was all done to “fatten me up,” or, perhaps better said, “loosen me up.” I had heard once of a favorite trick by some of not negotiating until a person had to catch a car ride to their return flight, and in a similar vein, Gio was not going to propose a single part of his deal to me until it was time to close the check.
And sure enough, after our dessert had finished and Gio had asked for the check, he turned
to me.
“Now then,” he said. “You are just as affable and charming as they say you are, Pierre. I knew my friends in Polozzi Furniture would not steer me wrong, and you have not disappointed.”
“I would hope not to,” I said. “It would be a shame to come all the way from France to Las Vegas only to be a disappointment.”
Gio chuckled. The two men near him, as they had the whole time, did nothing and said nothing.
“Well, if that were the case, I would not have gone to the effort of ordering us tiramisu,” he said. “But you are a gentleman and a good businessman, so I am sure that you will see the value in what we are proposing.”
He cleared his throat.
“Right now, it is your manufacturing and transportation company that delivers much of the furniture to us, correct?”
“Somewhat,” I said, but it seemed that Gio was already aware that what he had said was not entirely accurate. “For much of what we do, we outsource some of the shipping to a friend of mine in Milan, Marco. You know Marco, correct?”
“Indeed,” Gio said.
It wasn’t exactly said with the warmest of tones.
“Marco does well with some of our ‘first mile’ and ‘last mile’ delivery,” I said. “Once you get it to a dock or cargo bay, I can ship it with ease. But getting it from the warehouse to a plane or first a boat is of greater difficulty than you might think—”
“Mr. Perocheau, with all respect, I understand how the delivery business works; I am no fool,” Gio said. “I know, too, that you are no fool. You understand that whenever a business identifies waste cost, it must do everything it can for the sake of its shareholders to get rid of those costs.”
Wait…
“Mr. Perocheau, we believe that you are capable of handling some of these shipping matters on your own,” Gio said. “We would like to get involved, invest in you, and have you handle this on your own. We would also like you to deliver some of my company’s furniture as well.”
There were multiple problems with this, not the least of which Marco had been the one to actually get me this deal in the first place. Although I had to sadly admit loyalty and gratitude were not always the most common traits in business, I was not about to let a strong friendship with Marco go to waste for the sake of some extra money that I did not need.
There was also the fact that Marco and I had had this arrangement now for several years, almost a full decade. A contract like that might have lasted a couple of years if it was based purely on altruism or friendship, but it was in place now because it was profitable and made both parties happy. What Gio was suggesting would require years and years of development, infrastructure building, and research.
“Allow me to do my due diligence, if I may,” I said.
“Of course,” Gio said, apparently unfazed by this.
“Your company’s furniture? Who do you deliver with now?”
“That’s not important,” Gio said. Actually, it’s extremely important. “They are someone that felt they could no longer do business with us out of some anti-Italian racism.”
That felt like the kind of answer meant to deflect from something else.
“I see,” I said. “And this furniture. Would we need to do any sort of delivery? Any special requirements?”
“Glad you asked,” Gio said.
He looked at his two men. Neither said a word, but there was something about the glance that left me at great unease, like there was some sort of unspoken message being sent.
“Our furniture,” he said. “Is of the highest-quality. It is crafted delicately and with such artistry that one would never find anything quite like it. It is essential that it is given the greatest amount of care and that as few people touch it as possible.”
I knew immediately that Gio was full of shit in at least one regard. No one I knew who actually designed or crafted furniture spoke about their work like that. They were too humble to do so and were fully aware that truly unique pieces would not be so public.
It is essential that it is given the greatest amount of care and that as few people touch it as possible.
I strongly began to suspect that Gio was not so much shipping furniture as he was using furniture shipping as a means to ship something else.
Drugs.
It had to be.
It was the only thing that made sense.
Yeah, maybe I was projecting a bit, letting the worst-case scenario play out to an unfair degree. Maybe there actually wasn’t anything to it, and Gio simply spoke as a rich man, not as a drug lord. But I’d learned long ago that my gut was great at pointing me in the right direction, if not in the logistics of following that direction, and if my gut said that this was probably a front for drugs of some kind…
On the exterior, I was as I always was in business deals—calm, impossible to read, and as stoic a face as possible. Marco, in fact, had once commented that when we had made our deal nearly a decade ago, he felt like he was not negotiating with Pierre, the friend, but someone else entirely different.
But inside, I was feeling very nervous. While Gio had not explicitly said anything, he had to have known that I would figure it out. And even if not, a man like Gio would not take kindly to being told no.
“I see,” I said. “Let me ask this. I understand the desire to cut out Marco. But understand that no matter what we decide, no matter how much money gets invested, at first, there would be a massive spike in costs—”
“Spikes which we have already prepared for and have the means to handle.”
He doesn’t care what the costs are. He can probably control them if he has to.
I had always kept my hands clean of dirty business. There was just no great value long-term in engaging in questionable, unethical decisions, as either the deal would eventually die, would naturally become legal and fair, or would get discovered by the authorities. I stuck to only legal stuff.
But now? Even though I hadn’t said yes to anything, the things Gio was revealing to me were the kind of things that bound me to him one way or another. If I eventually said no, Gio would press on me until I said yes.
That wasn’t to say that there was no way out of the situation, but it was to say that I couldn’t just say no and expect to walk away without consequence. I had unfortunately entangled myself in something dark unwittingly.
“Well, as a businessman, you know that I am always looking for a way to increase profits in the long-run, be it with reducing costs or with finding new revenue streams. It sounds like this decision would quite possibly accomplish both.”
“No ‘possibly,’ Mr. Perocheau,” Gio said with a smile. “Definitely.”
I smiled back. Gio, without realizing it, had given me a chance to delay.
“While I appreciate the confidence, my business mentor long ago taught me that there is no such thing as a definite deal,” I said. “Anything that seems definite is either built on a shaky foundation or is too short-lived to be worth massive changes. So allow me this if you will, Gio. I am here in the United States for at least one more week. Allow me to do my due diligence. Before I return to France, I will give you a final answer.”
“But of course,” Gio said, though his tone was anything but understanding. “Just remember, though, everything said in this room is strictly confidential. It would behoove you to be discrete about who you share this information with. And that goes for everyone, Mr. Perocheau. Not just business allies.”
Everyone.
He means Layla.
The remark was almost—almost—enough to get me to show visible annoyance, but I merely smiled, nodded my head, and said I understood.
“I know that a woman like yours can often be one that opens up a man’s mouth, whether he is complicit or not.”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“Oh, don’t act so surprised, Pierre,” Gio said. It did not escape my notice that he had shifted from formally using my last name to now casually dropping my first name as if we were friends from co
llege that could talk about women as if they were mere objects of desire. “I have known Layla from a distance for quite some time. She’s quite the looker, you know. You are a lucky man to see her as you do.”
I snorted and narrowed my eyes.
“With all respect, Gio,” I said, emphasizing his first name, “my private life is not up for discussion. The relationship between Layla and I is not for discussion here, and frankly, I find it disgusting and insulting. You should trust me well enough to know that I am a man of my word, and that anything that was discussed here would not get mentioned to her. One’s private life is very distinct from one’s business life.”
Gio looked back at his two men, looked to me, and then burst out laughing. It seemed a little bit for show, but there was certainly a disturbing ease to it. I wasn’t sure which was more troublesome: the theatrics aspect or the underlying genuineness of it.
“French people,” Gio said.
And we were just talking about anti-Italian sentiments? Gio…
“I trust you, Pierre, but I hope you recognize that the most dangerous threat to a good business deal is not ‘logistics,’ or ‘details,’ it is often a third-party that doesn’t know their place but feels so inclined as to get involved. It disappoints me when men think with their cock and not their head.”
What the fuck? I rarely even thought in swears, let alone uttered them, in business meetings; Gio had just pushed me so far that I couldn’t help but think it.
Maybe he was aware that by revealing the “true” side of the business, he knew I was trapped one way or the other.
“In any case, Pierre, do not take too long to get back to me about my business proposition. I understand you will be here through the end of the week. It would be of great interest to both of us, I think, if you make a decision before then.”
He then nodded to the door.
“You have no reason to be here any longer. You may leave.”
I knew better than to sit there and wonder if he was serious. He wasn’t asking me. He was telling me.
