Page 11 of Empire of Seduction (New York State of Mafia #2)

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. . .

Vito

Maggie was going to be a problem.

She was stubborn and reckless, chaos in a beautiful package.

The sort of woman who approached strange men in casino bars and propositioned them.

Who antagonized mafia dons without regard for her own safety.

D’Agostino men were ruthless when provoked.

My brother once locked his wife in a cage, for fuck’s sake.

Yet Maggie didn’t seem to care. The more I was around her, the more she fought me.

It only made me want her again.

“God, Vito, your dick is fucking amazing. I think I’ll build a shrine to it.”

I pushed on an exit door, not caring much for where I was going. I needed a cigarette. Maggie was under my skin, little needles of irritation and lust, and I had to calm down.

The cold assaulted me so I quickly shrugged into my coat.

Inside the pocket I found my pack and lighter.

Inhaling my first lungful of smoke, I closed my eyes and leaned against the building.

After listening to Bruce, my mind now churned with ideas.

This winery, it seemed to me, produced too many wines, offering a little of everything instead of a few things perfectly.

Some of the world’s most successful wineries only produced one or two main blends to build their reputation on.

I continued to smoke, contemplating how to approach this problem.

There wasn’t much time. I had to return to Toronto?—

Loud male voices sounded close by. Cristo, what now? It was too early in the day for this shit.

I tried to ignore them, but it sounded like a heated argument behind the kitchen. Putting out my cigarette, I started toward the sound, and as I drew closer, I could hear their conversation clearly.

“. . . have to get me more.”

“Not gonna happen, motherfucker. Not until you pay for what you’ve used.”

“I will, Buzz. I swear it. But I’ve got to get through the weekend. Please. Just a few more pills.”

Madre di dio. Did Maggie and Michael have no control over these people? Drugs were a fact of life in the mafia, but addicts could be dangerous. Was this one of Benetti’s men, supplying the winery staff?

I rounded the corner. A man in a white chef’s jacket was standing with a tall biker, his leather cut atop a black long-sleeve compression shirt. A swastika neck tattoo peeked out from the collar. Cazzo, I hated bikers. They were dangerous, and I didn’t want them anywhere near Maggie or the winery.

The two men looked over at me and both frowned. “You mind, asshole?” the biker said with what was surely supposed to be a menacing snarl. “This is a private conversation.”

“Yeah, I fucking mind.” My voice was flat, in control, my hands loose at my sides. “Are you dealing here?”

He angled toward me and braced his feet. “You a fed?”

The patches on his cut were familiar. He was one of the Red Raiders, a motorcycle gang I’d run out of Toronto last year. “No. I’m the man who will knock out your fucking teeth if you’re dealing pills on the winery grounds.”

Suddenly, the chef stepped in front of the biker to face me. I could see that his pupils were pinpoints even from three meters away. “Dude, everything’s cool,” he said. “Just go back inside or whatever.”

“Nothing’s cool . You think it’s okay to come to work high?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But we’re in the middle of a conversation here.”

“Yeah,” the biker said. “Get fucking lost.”

I didn’t bother arguing. There was no reasoning or talking it out because Red Raiders only understood violence.

Which was perfect for me. I was in the mood.

Stripping off my overcoat, I let it fall to the ground. “I’m not going anywhere. But I will give you one more chance to get off the property. Because if you don’t, they won’t be able to find all the pieces of you after I’m finished.”

The biker charged for me, big and clumsy, like a bull. Chef coat attempted to stop him, but I beckoned the asshole forward. I knew how to fight, thanks to years spent with Enzo and Maz, as well as boxing lessons in my twenties. “Andiamo, stronzo.”

I let him get close. At the last second, I dodged out of the way and twisted my body to land a punch on his kidney.

He stumbled, but came at me again. This time he swung and I saw it coming.

I ducked, then let my fists fly. I hit him in the mouth first. Two rapid strikes of my fist, right in his teeth.

He stumbled backward, but I didn’t let up.

The punches I threw landed anywhere I could reach—his nose, his cheeks, his stomach.

Blood covered his skin as he slumped to the ground.

The back door swung open. “What the fuck?” It was Michael, disheveled and barely awake.

I pointed at Chef Coat and tried to catch my breath. “This man no longer works here.” I shook out my aching hand. I’d need to put ice on it soon.

“I didn’t do anything, Mikey,” Chef Coat said. “I was telling this guy to go away—” he pointed at the biker “—when this Italian asshole walked up and started beating the shit out of him.”

“That Italian asshole is our new owner, Chuck.”

Chuck turned whiter than his chef’s coat. “Wait, what? New owner?” He looked over at me. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t?—”

“You’re fired,” I said. “Get the fuck off the property.”

“Wait,” Michael said. “He’s our chef.”

“Not anymore.”

Michael scrubbed his face with both hands. “Chuck, what did you do?”

Chuck held up his hands. “Nothing. I swear.”

“He’s a junkie,” I explained. “And this Red Raider is his supplier. I want them both gone.”

“Goddamn it, Chuck,” Michael said angrily. “I told you to be careful with that shit.”

“It’s not a problem, Mikey. I have it under control.”

“He’s done,” I instructed Michael. “He goes. Immediatamente .” Bending, I wiped my bloody hands on the biker’s leather cut and snarled softly, “If I find you or any other Red Raiders anywhere near here again, I won’t stop with a broken nose. Capisce?”

The biker groaned. I grabbed a fistful of greasy hair and lifted his mangled face toward mine. “I asked you a question, motherfucker. Do you understand?”

He nodded weakly then pushed to his feet. As he stumbled away, I ordered Michael and Chuck to stay put. Then I followed the biker at a distance, watching as he walked toward the parking lot. There, he found his bike, started it, and drove off.

When I returned, Michael and Chuck were arguing. I had better things to do, so I said over both of them, “Chuck, give Michael your key card or keys or whatever the fuck. Then get in your car and never come back.”

“But—” My expression went arctic. Chuck flinched. Shoulders drooping, he handed his keys to Michael. “Look, I’m sorry, Mikey.”

“Get help, man,” Michael said. “Please. That shit can kill you.”

“It’s not a problem, I swear. I only use occasionally.”

“You’re high now. And you invited your supplier to the winery,” I pointed out. “Leave, right fucking now.”

Chuck exhaled heavily, then he started for the parking lot. Michael jerked his thumb toward the winery. “I’m going to ask someone to drive him home.”

I picked my overcoat up off the ground and dusted it off. “I’ll wait at the bar. Find me when you’re done. We need to talk.”

I followed him inside. The kitchen was quiet, three people busy at work stations, each eyeing me warily as I passed.

I kept going toward the door at the other end, which I assumed led to the bar.

I was right. When the door swung shut behind me, I was pleasantly surprised to find an espresso machine. Finally, some good luck.

The machine was on, recently used from the likes of it, so I began looking for grounds and milk. Everything was close at hand, and Michael came in as I was steaming the milk. “Cappuccino?” I asked over the noise.

“No, thank you.” He took a seat at the bar.

I poured the milk into the espresso, then added some foam. When I finished, Michael whistled. “I’m surprised you know how to do that.”

“I wasn’t always a boss. I was an advisor to my brother for years. I’ve made a lot of drinks.” I took a grateful sip, not even caring that it burned my tongue. “Chuck gone?”

“Yes.” Michael grabbed a cocktail straw and started chewing on it absently. “And we’re fucked.”

“Explain.”

“We have a huge event on Saturday night. Who’s going to run the kitchen?”

That was two nights from now. Plenty of time to find someone. I shrugged. “One of the line cooks. A dishwasher. You. Hire someone. I don’t give a fuck.”

Michael ran a hand through his hair. “Dude, professional chefs don’t grow on trees around here.”

I stroked my jaw and considered this. I wasn’t hiring Chuck back, not after endangering everyone at the winery. I’d rather cancel the event and send the group somewhere else for dinner. “Can we reschedule the event?”

“No. It’s an engagement party and people are flying in from all over the country. And canceling wouldn’t help us with word of mouth for future bookings.”

So we needed to find another chef. How hard could it be? I put my cup down. “What about the guy from Val’s trattoria? Giovanni?”

“I can call and ask. But what about the other events and dinners? We’re booked solid for three weeks.”

“One thing at a time. Call the trattoria.”

Michael picked his mobile up off the bar and dialed. During the very brief conversation, I sipped my drink and listened to what seemed like bad news. Michael confirmed this after he disconnected. “Giovanni is in Italy for the week. His sister is getting married.”

“Anyone else there who can help?”

“No. They’re short-staffed and need everyone there.” Michael dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck my life.”

I stared out the large glass windows out at the vineyards beyond, knowing what I had to do. I didn’t like it. Enzo would hate it. But what choice did I have?

Madre di dio.

Lifting my mobile, I found the correct encrypted message thread and typed:

Get your ass on a plane. I need you

A second later my brother replied.

CHE CAZZO?

I need a chef

TODAY