“My babysitter.” Kostidis smiled regretfully. “One appointment chases the next, and Mr. Howard makes sure that I show up everywhere on time and stay long enough. I don’t envy him.”
He extended his hand to Alex.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Sontheim.”
“Yes, I… I think so too,” she stuttered and sensed to her chagrin that her cheeks were turning red like a schoolgirl’s.
“Allow me to give you some advice, even though we hardly know each other.” Kostidis leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. “Be careful with your choice of friends. Though it may be exciting, swimming with sharks is dangerous. Unless you are a shark yourself, which I don’t believe.”
He let go of her hand and smiled again.
“By the way, you’ll find the restrooms by going downstairs from the foyer.” He winked at her one more time before opening the door and disappearing. Alex was stunned. She dealt with important and influential people on a daily basis and had long stopped being easily impressed by them, but Nicholas Kostidis just managed to do exactly that.
Sergio Vitali entered the warehouse at the Brooklyn docks. The sign above the entrance door said Ficchiavelli & Sons—Italian Wine and Food Company. The last thing he wanted was another pointless discussion with his wayward youngest son, but Cesare had screwed up big time once again. Nelson had bailed Cesare out of jail that morning, and Sergio ordered him to bring the boy to Brooklyn. The offices, warehouses, cold-storage rooms, and loading ramps were deserted on this Saturday morning. There were three men waiting for Sergio in the front office. He greeted Silvio Bacchiocchi and Luca di Varese with a nod and scrutinized his youngest son, who looked back with a mixture of defiance and fear. He remained seated with crossed arms while Silvio and Luca stood up. Cesare was twenty-one, a handsome young man with the same blue eyes and sensual mouth as his father, but unfortunately, he didn’t have the slightest inclination toward any kind of work. In contrast to his older brothers, Massimo and Domenico—who both graduated from high school and college with determination and now worked for their father’s company—Cesare wasn’t particularly bright. Besides that, he had an unpredictable temper that got him into trouble. Sergio was often forced to use his connections to help Cesare. Over the years, he’d donated large sums of money to seven different schools in hopes his son would at least manage a high-school diploma, but all his efforts were in vain.
“Hello, Cesare,” Sergio said. He was not in the mood to deal with this spoiled brat.
“Hi, Papa,” Cesare responded.
“Stand up when I talk to you.”
Cesare raised his nose and remained seated. Sergio’s expression turned as cold as ice. His cheek muscles tensed. Silvio Bacchiocchi was particularly familiar with this expression and he feared it. Silvio was in his late forties, blond and blue-eyed like so many of his Northern Italian ancestors, and had a tendency to gain weight. He had worked for Sergio for twenty-five years. Thanks to Sergio, he’d become a wealthy man, and he showed his gratitude with unconditional loyalty. No one who knew the friendly and constantly cheerful Silvio would have thought it possible that he managed his boss’s business fearlessly and with a iron fist, stopping at nothing.
“Come on, stand up when your father talks to you,” he said to Cesare, who obeyed reluctantly. Sergio looked at his son and noticed his runny nose and the thin layer of sweat on his forehead.
“You’re using that goddamn stuff again, aren’t you?” he asked. Cesare rubbed his hands nervously and wiped them on his jeans while evading his father’s gaze.
“Answer me right now!”
“Sometimes. But not much.”
That was a lie. Sergio had seen enough cokeheads in his life to recognize the tell-tale signs of abuse. He wasn’t even surprised. Behind his loud mouth and his brutality, Cesare was a weak person.
“You got yourself arrested, you idiot! Why didn’t you run away?” Sergio was enraged at his stupidity. “You actually still don’t get it? Your last name is Vitali. You know what that means. Why didn’t you throw the stuff away once the cops showed up? The press will jump on this, and once Kostidis gets wind of it, no one will be able to help you. You’re such an idiot, Cesare!”
There was complete silence in the small office. Cesare’s dumb, confused grin made Sergio even more furious. Kostidis had been after Sergio for years and was only waiting for a weakness, the slightest mistake, or a moment of foolishness—something like this—in order to strike. Sergio knew all too well that Cesare’s mindless behavior could shake his well-established power structure. When it came to assault, the cops sometimes turned a blind eye, but dealing drugs was a crime they addressed with full force. As a result of the fanatic mayor’s tough policies, drug dealing was almost considered worse than murder, and even small-time crack dealers from the Bronx or East Harlem were severely punished.
“Silvio will get a lawyer for you,” Sergio said to his son, “one who has no ties to us. Then we will see what he can do for you. If the cops dig in their heels, then unfortunately there’s nothing that I can do.”
“What does that mean?” Cesare’s grin vanished.
“That you’ll go to the slammer for a while.” Sergio stood up. It was pointless to talk to the boy any longer. He turned away.
“Hey!” Cesare grabbed his father’s shoulder. He quickly turned around as if electrified and pushed his son away. The disgust in Sergio’s eyes made Cesare back off. He had never seen his father so furious.
“Papa,” he began, “you can’t let me—”
“I’ve given you every conceivable chance,” Sergio said, trying hard to keep his composure. “I hoped that you’d grow up one day and understand what life is all about. But instead you get into fights like a child, snort cocaine. You drink your life away. You’re getting dumber by the minute. I despise stupidity. It’s the worst thing on earth.”
Cesare’s face turned red, and he clenched his fists. His father was the only person on this planet he feared. But he hated him to the same degree.
“Don’t act like you’re a saint!” Cesare yelled at him. “Do you think I don’t know how much money you make with this stuff? You don’t give a crap!”
“Correct,” Sergio said, looking at him coldly, “but I’ve never used it myself, and I have definitely never let myself be caught with drugs by the police. That’s the difference.”
“What am I supposed to do now? I’m your son! You have to help me!” Sheer panic shone in Cesare’s eyes. He’d been dead certain that his father only had to make some phone calls to straighten things out.
“I’ve come to the painful conclusion that all of my efforts to make a sensible human being out of you are a waste of time.” Sergio’s voice was gruff with contempt. “You don’t even consider for a second that you have endangered all of us. I don’t feel like rescuing you anymore. All that I have ever received from you in return was ingratitude. If you don’t want to follow my rules, then don’t expect me to help you.”
The corner of Cesare’s mouth twitched nervously. He was freezing and sweating at the same time.
“When they send me to prison,” he said, giving his father an anxious glance, “and ask me about you, then I’ll tell them everything I know.”
Sergio’s expression turned to ice. Silvio and Luca exchanged a troubled glance. That was the worst thing he could possibly have said. Cesare suddenly realized that he had made a huge mistake. His last remnant of confidence fell away, and tears sprang into his eyes.
“Papa!” he cried. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“But you just did.”