Carlo Jr. knew all that history intimately, because a lot of it was family lore. The parts that weren’t, the details about the Uncles’ most lucrative business concerns, Carlo had learned as a warning, when his father had begun grooming him to take over his company. Carlo was proud of his father, proud of the business he’d literally built from the ground up. But he did not want it. He’d tried hard to want it. But he did not. He’d broken his father’s heart when he’d chosen a different path.
And he knew he was breaking it again as he approached the door to the administrative side of the Pagano Brothers building, and one of the Uncles’ grunts unlocked and opened the door. It was just before ten a.m. on Memorial Day, and though the warehouse was running a skeleton crew, this side of the building was closed. The grunt went to the receptionist’s desk, pushed a couple of keys on the phone, and announced him, and, a few seconds later, the wide, burled walnut door to the inner sanctum opened, and his Uncle Lorrie stepped out.
Carlo’s father shared little in the way of physical resemblance with his older brothers. He was eight years younger than Lorrie, eleven years younger than Ben. But it was more than that. Carlo Sr. was a big, bullish man. Six feet and broad like a lumberjack, with hands like mallets. He had not yet gone far grey, but he had a typical receding hairline and kept his dark hair cropped close. He was clean-shaven and always had been.
Ben and Lorrie could almost be twins. They were shorter, slimmer, and appeared softer and weaker—at least physically. Both had thick, white hair and matching mustaches. What all three shared—and what Carlo Jr. shared with them—were weary, light brown eyes, and faces that crinkled around them when they smiled. In fact, overall, Carlo Jr. looked more like his uncles than his father. Just a younger, substantially larger version.
Lorrie smiled now. He was wearing a crisp yellow golf shirt tucked neatly into navy Dockers, sharply creased. His uncles were old school, and this was as casually as they dressed. Usually, they were fully suited in Italian wool. Uncle Ben even wore a fedora when he went outside. The grunt who’d opened the door, a guy in his mid-twenties or so, had been wearing a red, white, and blue track suit, a thick gold chain around his neck. From one end of the cliché spectrum to the other. “Hey, Junior. Don’t see you ‘round here much, buddy.”
“Uncle Lorrie.” They shook hands.
“Well, get in here. Let’s see what’s up.” Lorrie held the door and ushered Carlo into Uncle Ben’s office.
The room was about as typical a shipping company executive’s office as one could imagine. Because it was on the harbor, and because it was a shipping company, most of the décor was boat and truck oriented. Prints of ships at sea hung on the walls, which were paneled in walnut. A scale model of a Pagano Brothers semi had pride of place on a shelf. The carpet was thick and dark blue. The furniture was walnut and red leather. There was a massive ship’s wheel on the wall behind Uncle Ben’s desk.
There was no computer on his desk, neither desktop nor laptop versions. Uncle Ben was past seventy and had no interest in learning ‘new’ technology. Other people took care of that kind of work for him. As Carlo came into the room, he stood up from his massive, red leather chair and came around his desk to clasp his nephew in a hard, sincere hug. He was wearing khakis and a white Oxford-cloth shirt. A navy blazer was draped over the back of his chair. “Junior. Good to see you. Come, sit. Tell me what it is I can do for you.”
Carlo stepped to one of the two red leather armchairs arrayed in front of the desk; Uncle Lorrie took the other. As he sat, he saw that Fred Naldi was seated on the red leather couch on the far wall, khakis and a golf shirt stretched over his rotund body. Fred was the Uncles’ consigliere—their advisor and legal counsel. Surprised, Carlo paused on his way into his seat. “Fred.”
“Hey, Carlo.”
Finishing his trip to the chair, Carlo turned to his eldest uncle, who had returned to his throne.
Uncle Ben smiled. “You don’t make appointments with me, Junior. I figure there’s trouble. If there’s trouble, we’ll need Fred.” He put his arms on the smooth wood of his desk and clasped his hands together. “This is about the girl after Mass, yeah? I know who she is. And you know you’d better not be here to tell me you’re having your way with another man’s wife. So I assume you are not. What’s the trouble?”
He wasn’t surprised that Uncle Ben was as far ahead of the story as that. The man had gotten where he was because he was keenly observant and astute. Because he asked questions and expected clear answers. And because he was ruthless. So Carlo set aside the long explanation he’d practiced and got to the meat. “I’m not—having my way. I’m not. I won’t. But Auberon hurts her. Badly. He’s too powerful for her to get free on her own. She’s sure he’s planning to kill her. I want to help her get away from him, but I can’t do it on my own, either. I’m here to ask for your help.”