But then some people? They flaunt it.
The Campanelles are definitely in the latter group.
A circular drive shows cars of every kind, custom deals. Teslas and Jaguars, BMWs and Ferraris, Aston Martins and Porsches. Sports cars and luxury cars, vehicles of every type one could imagine. The home has a fountain out front, a garden fit for a king, and staff milling about doing yard work.
I roll up to an iron gate.
“May I help you, sir?” A uniformed guard speaks on a loudspeaker across from me.
“Here to see Carmine, please.”
A pause, then, “And who are you, sir? Do you have an appointment?”
“Please tell him the Rossis need to speak to him, and we come in peace.”
Muffled voices and a series of clicks. “He’ll let us in,” Mario says. “He never misses a chance to show the fuck off.”
He’s right. Half a minute later, we hear the squawk of the loudspeaker, followed by, “Come in, sir. Please leave your car with an attendant.”
“Just do it,” Mario breathes. “They’ll sweep it for bombs and bugs.”
“How do I know they don’t put their own fuckin’ shit in here?”
“You don’t,” he says with another grin, as if welcoming the Campanelles to bug us. “I’ll handle it.”
“So you’re the brains behind this, and I’m—”
“The brawn, you sexy motherfucker.”
“I am so gonna kick your ass when this is over.”
“Aw, Santo, still hittin’ on me? Touché.”
Uniformed men walk to our car and bow when we exit. I hand the keys over with reluctance. “This car is like one of my own flesh and blood,” I warn the guy. “You treat it that way.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir,” he says with a nod.
We walk inside and Mario chuckles at me under his breath. “Come to Daddy, shiny car.”
I grunt under my breath. I fuckin’ mean it.
We’re greeted by another rash of uniformed personnel welcoming us into the house. This shit’s ostentatious as fuck. Gleaming marble floors, life-size paintings of every one of the Campanelles, a chandelier that hangs under a spotlight, casting diamond-like reflections on the floor below. The faint scent of expensive perfume hangs in the air. A minute later, I see why.
“My, my, Mama didn’t tell me we have visitors,” a pretty, feminine voice says from above us. We look up at the landing to see a stunning blonde in high heels, her skirt halfway up to her ass, walking down the stairs.
“Mamma mia,” Mario mutters to himself. “Gonna have to go to confession after this shit.”
“Behave yourself,” I warn him.
“Fuckin’ flirting with me again, eh?” he quips.
“And who do I have the pleasure of meeting today?” blondie asks with her head tipped curiously to the side. She extends a hand to me, her wrists covered in bangles, her nails pointy and red.
“Mario Rossi,” Mario says warmly, turning on the charm. I swear she melts under the heat of that flirtatious look.
“Mario Rossi,” she says to herself. “Now where have I heard that name before?” She thoughtfully taps her chin. “Ooh, you’re not the one that drag races, are you?”
He gives her a boyish grin, and she wags her finger at him. “Bad boy, Mario, now I know you.”
Turning to me, she gives me the full dazzle of her brilliant smile, but she doesn’t even ping my radar. She’s as fake as a three-dollar bill, and as cheap as a cardboard cutout. “And you?”
“Santo,” I say, reaching my hand to her.
“So pleased to meet you, Santo,” she says. I believe I see challenge in her eyes when I don’t return her warmth or cordiality, like I’m a harder man to conquer which makes me that much more appealing to her.
Heavy footsteps sound down the hall. This place is much more modern than The Castle, but smaller. Hell, every house is smaller than The Castle.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t my future brother-in-law.” A hefty guy in a suit lumbers toward us, large and intimidating, with beady black eyes that look oddly out of place, like beetles pinned to a card. He’s dressed richly, and wears so much gold I’m fucking blinded. “And you are?” he asks.
“Name’s Santo. Came to ask some questions.”
“Ah, Santo.” He strokes his chin. “Rumor has it you fell in with the Regazzas and betrayed your family. Surely that can’t be true if Romeo’s sent you to do his busywork?”
“Romeo’s not with us,” I tell him, probing to see if he knows. No flicker of surprise.
“Oh, right. Jail, was it?” He strokes his chin again. “Come, let’s sit in my office and discuss why you’re here.”
It doesn’t take long for us to get to his office, and when I arrive, I’m not surprised to see it’s as opulent as the rest of the house. His men stand on each side of his door holding fucking machine guns like this is a military operation.
Goddammit. Maybe it is.