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)
I squint at him.
“But it’s local, Anthony. We don’t do local, no matter how high-quality the product.”
Anthony winks at me. The boy literally winks.
“Yeah, but this is next level, I swear. Have I ever let you down, Pops? Just give it a try.”
I stare at him, trying to keep my temper in check.
“Other families source locally because they don’t have the right connections overseas. But we’re different. Our specialty is exotic imports, and that’s why clients seek us out.”
Anthony merely yawns again, running a hand through his goopy hair. His palm is covered with slime afterwards, and unembarrassed, he reaches for a napkin to wipe it down.
“Yeah, but everyone has to adapt, Pops. Don’t you get it? It’s a new world out there. People want new, new, new, fresh, fresh, fresh, and doing things the old way is going to destroy our business. Don’t you know that people want to shop local now?”
I roll my eyes.
“We’re in the business of trafficking women,” I say in a dry voice. “I don’t think ‘shopping local’ was intended to describe our particular industry.”
Anthony shrugs.
“Maybe, maybe not. But just give it a try, Pops. Take a look at least. Why not? You have nothing to lose.”
I stare at him.
“You’ve come to me with an idea that doesn’t fit with our business plan, much less what our clients expect. Top-tier exotic imports are what our customers want. Girls from Moldova, Belarus, and Morocco. Girls from Egypt, Israel, and even Spain. It’s what the Genoveses are known for, and we’re not sourcing anything locally, and especially not if you’re picking up product from the Bronx. Are you fucking kidding me? That’s about as far from ‘exotic’ as you can get.”
But my son’s not dissuaded and merely yawns.
“You’re such a snob, Pops, and you’d be surprised at what can come from the most unexpected of places.” In a smarmy voice, he adds, “This shipment is particularly tantalizing. Just you wait.”
I stare at him.
“Again, I don’t want it.”
He shrugs.
“Just take a look. It’s only one girl.”
I stare at him.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’ve gone to all this trouble to hype up one girl?”
He shrugs and then winks. He literally winks.
“Yeah, because she’s that good. Listen, I’ll bring her over tomorrow night, okay? If you’re still singing the same tune, then I’ll eat my words. But I have a feeling you’ll be changing your mind the second you see this particular chica.”
I stare at him.
“We’ve had supermodels come through our channels. I’m not going to be impressed.”
My son just shrugs, already strolling out.
“Tomorrow, okay, Pops? Be ready to get your head blown off.”
With that, he disappears and I’m left to the solitude of my meal again. What the fuck just happened? My son is well and truly insane if he thinks I’m going to change the family business model just for him, and just for one woman too. It’s totally ludicrous.
Even more, what Anthony doesn’t know is that I’m planning on taking the Genovese crime family legit in the near future. We make a shit-ton from our bars and clubs, and there’s no reason to be importing women anymore. Our clients can get that shit somewhere else, or the girls can be brought in through legal channels. There’s no reason to risk being taken down when the money from trafficking isn’t even that great anymore. These days, I make the bulk of my fortune from alcohol sales, and it’s a hundred percent legit too. As a result, the risk-reward trade-off just isn’t there anymore.
But no one knows of my plan yet, and to be honest, there will be a lot of disappointed folks. Our family has been in the business of importing exotic women for decades now, and while still lucrative, it’s time to move on. Like my son stated, times are a-changin’. Besides, there will be plenty of hungry young bucks to step into the gap once the Genoveses exit. Let them deal with the sordid aspects of the business, because I’m too old for this shit.
At that moment, Violetta emerges from the kitchen carrying two cannoli with creamy ricotta spilling out the ends.
“I heard the boy come in, so I figured you could use these.”
I laugh mirthlessly.
“You spoil me, Violetta, but Anthony’s already left.”
Violetta shrugs.
“Then you eat both, Mr. Genovese. You work too much, and work out too much too. Cannoli is what you need to keep meat on your bones.”
I sigh while grinning again.
“Okay, okay. Maybe you’re right. But hopefully, my work stress is going to ease up soon.”
Violetta shrugs, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Maybe, but you eat more, okay? My business is the food, not the work.”
With that, the elderly woman bustles off again as I cut into my cannoli with a fork. The ricotta is almost unbearably sweet as it melts on my tongue, but Violetta’s right. The dessert improves my mood, and I sigh, contemplating my son’s offer again.