Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
4
Roman
“Here you go, Mr. Genovese,” my chef chortles while placing an exquisite steak before me.
“Thanks Violetta,” I growl. “You’re the best.”
The grandmotherly-looking woman chuckles again, her stout body shaking beneath her apron.
“Si, indeed, Mr. Genovese. You tell me if you like your meat more seared, or if you like more seasoning. I’m happy to accommodate your tastes.”
I grin.
“No, I’m sure this is fine. Thank you again.”
With that, Violetta waddles off, closing the door to the dining room behind her. Most rich men have a manservant on hand for food presentation, but Violetta’s been with me for years now. Hell, she’s been with me for decades, and we don’t stand on formality. As a result, Violetta mothers me like the grandmother that she is, and I eat my fill of delicious fare each and every night I’m home. Besides, bistecca florentina is one of my favorites, and as I slice into the meat, the tender pink succulence makes my mouth water. It’s a special cut of beef cooked near the embers of a grill, seasoned liberally with salt, pepper, and sometimes rosemary. One bite makes me nod with approval. The meat is perfectly cooked, and as usual, Violetta has outdone herself.
Then again, I should know because I’m an excellent cook myself. Most billionaires avoid the kitchen like it’s the plague, but I find it soothing to prepare food. While I know my cooking isn’t Michelin-starred, it’s decent and tasty, if I say so myself.
I take another bite and savor the flavors exploding on my tongue. Violetta has ways of surprising me and beneath the salt and pepper, I also detect hints of thyme, parsley, and even oregano. To be honest, I don’t know why I bother going out to restaurants sometimes when the best chef in New York City works right here in my townhouse. Violetta should get a raise, and I make a mental note to ensure that it happens.
But then, Oliver appears.
“Yes?” I ask my footman. The young man bows.
“Mr. Genovese, your son is here. Should I show him in?”
That makes me set my fork down with a resigned sigh. Goddamit. Why does Anthony have to show up now? Right when I’m trying to enjoy a nice meal too.
“Sure,” I growl. “Why not?”
The next moment, my son strolls in through the door and I cringe at his appearance. Someone’s been watching too many mafia movies because his hair is slicked back with too much gel, the black locks almost gooey under the lights. He’s as pale as a dead fish, and his designer clothes have logos all over them. Seriously, no one could be more flashy with the heavy gold chains and thousand-dollar sneakers.
“Hey Pops,” Anthony greets while taking a seat next to me at the table. “What’s kickin’?”
I sigh. How did my son get this way? After all, I basically raised him on my own, seeing that Anthony’s mother and I went our separate ways a long time ago. Carmella was a one night stand that turned into an accidental pregnancy that she didn’t want. Hell no. As a twenty-one year old woman-child, Carmella was dead-set against the pregnancy, and ready to visit the nearest clinic at the drop of a hat. However, I was able to convince her to keep the kid, and after Anthony was born, Carmella basically took off, leaving her son in my arms. As a result, it’s always just been Anthony and me.
But the boy has been a disappointment for a long time now. He has an over-inflated sense of self, and is constantly invoking old mafia movies, as if we’re on the silver screen ourselves. Yes, the Genoveses are a crime family, but Anthony’s done nothing to earn that kind of respect. That’s what makes him intolerable.
“I’m good, Tony,” I say while patting at my lips with a napkin. “So to what do I owe the honor?”
My son stretches, cracking his back in the process. He’s so thin that his clothes hang loosely off his frame, and the material appears to swallow him whole.
“I’ve been working hard, Pops. You’d be proud of me.”
I cough discreetly.
“Really? How so?”
Anthony shrugs, his face contorting in a loud yawn before leaning back in his chair like he’s an unruly high school student. His high-back wooden chair almost flips over, but at the last moment, the front two legs come crashing down, saving him from near-disaster.
“I’ve been doing some scouting,” Anthony says while righting himself again. “I want to make sure we’re up on the latest, you know? And I’ve landed the mother-load, Pops, hoo-whee! There’s a shipment coming in from the Bronx, and I’ve got the 411.”
I frown because leave it to Anthony to completely misinterpret our business.
“You know we don’t source locally,” I growl. “We get our shipments from abroad.”
My son stands up and strolls around the dining room a bit, still stretching. “Yeah, but the business needs an injection of “new” and “fresh,” get it? Trust me, it’ll be worth it, Pops. I have good intel that this is a particularly valuable shipment.”