Ruthless People (3 page)

I did not repeat myself but explained, “It means internal fortitude; to remain strong
regardless of the circumstances around you. It seems Barbie is not very fond of the
world she lives in.”

“Well she sure likes the money it brings her. She can’t bite the hands that give her
those nice Jimmy Choo’s.”

Dropping the photo, I waited for him to go on.

“As for her husband, Neal is also a proud graduate of Dartmouth, by the skin of teeth
as it happens
,” Fedel added. “And is also a world-class sniper. When he isn’t killing people from
hundreds of yards away, he is playing baseball . . . a lot.”

“So the brother is an idiot. Olivia’s maiden name is Colemen?” I repeated, focusing
back on his wife as I took another sip. “As in Senator Daniel Colemen?”

Fedel nodded, lifting up a photo of the man in question. “Yes, Senator Daniel Colemen,
a right-wing conservative pushing for a smaller government, and I wonder why? Her
mother is an active left-wing liberal blogger, which is why they are divorced and
the former Mrs. Colemen is now helping the needy children of Africa as the head of
the Callahan’s Global Youth Charity. Both know about their daughter’s new family and
approve.”

I grinned at that. “Is it real a charity?”

“Sadly, yes. When they aren’t stealing cars for the black-market, organizing several
murders-for-hire, or selling heroin, crack, and meth to Suzy down the block, they’re
attending ballets and charity balls to better their community.” He shook his head.

“What about this one?” I asked, pointing to the man beside Liam. He had the same green
eyes as Liam, however the man’s hair was longer and a lighter shade of brown. I figured
the African American woman next to him had to be his wife.

“Ah, Declan Alvin Callahan—”

“Why the fuck do all their middle names start with an
A
?” I asked.

Fedel looked around to see if he had the answer somewhere in his papers. I didn’t
need to know, but watching him squirm was amusing. First generation Italian, like
myself, we looked a lot alike—the same olive skin tone, pitch black hair, and brown
eyes. He was my right hand, and in some ways, that made him closer to me than a sibling.
Nonetheless, I never wanted him to get too comfortable. No matter how ridiculous my
question was, or how pointless it may seem, his job was to get my answer or die trying.

“It seems to be a tradition started in the eighteen-forties after the first Callahans
came over from Ireland,” he said at last. Nodding, I waited for him to continue.

“Declan Alvin Callahan, age twenty-nine, married to Coraline Wilson, age twenty-five.
He is the son of Sedric’s older brother, who was set up by the Valero twenty years
ago, and killed by Chicago PD in the crossfire. Since then, Sedric has raised Declan
almost as his own. Coraline, the wife, is the daughter of Adam Wilson, big shot bank
owner. From what we can tell, Declan was the one who hacked the system this morning
and stole that twenty-seven million from the Russians a few years back. Most of them
still don’t know he did it. Those who did were killed off, most likely by Neal.”

What a lovely family.

“Coraline. I’ve seen her face before,” I stated, staring at the photo of Declan Callahan’s
wife.

“Maybe that’s because if Robin Hood and Mother Teresa had a daughter it would be her.”

I tried not to smile.
“Explain.”

He left a spread of photos across the table. In each one Coraline was either feeding
the homeless, giving blood, rebuilding homes, and so on.

“She spends more time giving away all her shit than anyone in the family. Last year
alone she spent almost nine million on charities and performed over two thousand hours
of community service. It’s like she’s—”

“Guilty,” I stated. Giving was normal. Giving to make yourself look like a better
person was normal, but this went way beyond that.

That might be a problem. Both women seem to love the lifestyle and hate the life . . .
just great.

Lifting the last set of photos, I knew who they were—the world knew.

“Sedric A. Callahan, who is named after the first Callahan, age fifty-four, and his
wife, Evelyn Callahan, age fifty-one, make sure their kids breed well,” he stated,
placing the file down.

“Now Fedel, it’s wrong to judge.” I grinned. The truth of the matter is that I was
slightly impressed, and it took a lot to impress me.

I could tell Liam’s green eyes came from his mother, while his darker features came
from his father. They were all quite good looking, and from what I could tell, all
was God-given with the exception of Malibu Barbie. It was good, but I could tell she’s
had work done. Nevertheless, they all looked Hallmark ready. It was almost sickening.

“Ma’am, why in the hell is Sedric stepping back and allowing his second son to take
over? It makes no sense. I’ve checked into his health records, and he’s fine.”

I took my time drinking in the warmth of the wine as I stared at the photos. Fedel
was right. People like us didn’t just step down. We didn’t retire. We died and then
someone tried to replace us. But I think I knew Sedric a little bit better, after
all my father spoke often of him.

“All I know is he didn’t want to lead but had no other choice after his brother’s
death. Now he’s washing the blood off his hands on to his sons.”

He frowned shaking his head at the photo. “The Irish and their fucking drama.”

“My father lost his elder brother as well, Fedel. We Italians have drama.”

“Yea, well they still need you more than you need them.”

“Are the wives involved in business?” I asked, ignoring him. Evelyn, looked too sweet
to be packing with her sandy brown hair curled gracefully under a large sun hat, but
then again, it was my grandmother who had taught me how to fire my first gun. I was
only seven, and I had never been without one since.

Fedel huffed. “No. They prefer to keep their heads above ground, planning parties,
making sure everyone attends Mass on Sundays, going to charities and monthly dinner
parties. They all know and accept it with open arms, but they aren’t on the same level
as you, ma’am.”

Smirking, I shifted my gaze to him. “And what level am I on?”

Fedel adjusted his tie before sitting straighter, his face void of all emotion, eyes
almost black.

“You, ma’am, are ruthless, and not a soul on this planet would dare cross you. You
would put a bullet in our heads if we were ever disloyal to you or the family. You
are the Boss,” he replied.

When I glanced at the men surrounding me, they nodded, not making eye contact, but
aware that I was looking.

It made me proud. It had taken a lot of blood, sweat, and no tears to make sure that
they, and everyone else, knew that I was the Boss. I may be pretty, I may be young,
but I was a Giovanni. Giovannis were—and always would be—beautiful, but lethal when
crossed.

Nodding, I leaned back in my seat, finishing my wine as we descended. I was the head
of the Giovanni Empire now, a fact that no one other than my men and my father were
aware of. The world still believed he was Boss, but since the age of eighteen, everything—the
drugs, the hits, the money—had been run through me because my father was dying. The
great Orlando “Iron Hands” Giovanni was dying of stage four colon cancer. Ninety percent
of everything out there had a cure, if you had the right credit card. Cancer, however,
was a self-righteous bitch that fell into the ten percent that couldn’t be bought.

The irony was, most people in our world thought that sons were the only way to keep
our underground empire growing. My father didn’t. He felt he was blessed. The men
in our family all seemed to die of the same cancer, but the women were made of tougher
stuff. My grandmother lived until she was one hundred and four before she passed away,
in her sleep, with a gun under her pillow. The reason my mother died was because of
a plane crash.

I was six when I figured out what my family was. I was brighter than most kids my
age, and at seven years old, I was learning to shoot my first gun. By eleven, I was
being homeschooled in college algebra, drug cartels, and at my father’s insistence,
hand-to-hand combat. By seventeen, I knew the business like the back of my hand. Fedel
was right. I would put a bullet in his head in a blink of an eye if he gave me a reason,
and I liked Fedel.

“Ms. Giovanni, we are now in Chicago,” the pilot informed me as I rose from my seat.

Monte, my body guard and third in command opened the plane door, stepping out first,
followed by two other men carrying my things. The moron, Nelson, stood at the front
of the plane trying his best not to make eye contact with any of us as we reached
him.

“Ha-ave a g-good day, Ms. Gio-van-ni.”

Handing him my jacket, he stared at me wide eyed. “Take it to your sister and let
her know how close you came to dying today, and while you are at it, go find your
balls before I see you again.”

With that I walked out and found a shiny black limo waiting for me. Stopping next
to Monte, I tried not to roll my eyes.

Where am I going, prom?

“Monte, see if you can get me a car, in white . . . and soon.” I sighed. I did not
want to be driven. I wanted to drive. I needed to drive. It was one of my four
S
’s. Swimming, shooting, sex, and speed were the only four things that could help clear
my mind.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling out his phone, already speaking to someone. If Fedel
was my right hand, then Monte was my left. He was never taken by surprise. He didn’t
need to be acknowledged or even seen, and only spoke when necessary. Unlike Fedel
and me, he was the only half-Italian. His blond hair made him stick out like Donatella
Versace at a Walmart. His fix? He just shaved most of it all off.

Fedel stood beside me and handed me my personal phone. There was only one person who
had the number.

“
Ciao, padre
,
calling to make sure I got on the plane?” I asked, while Monte and Fedel arranged
for a new car.

He laughed before coughing. “
Il mia bambina dolce
.
²
I would never doubt you. After all, you were the one who renewed the contract.”

The contract stated I would willingly marry Liam Alec Callahan and would merge our
families. Orlando and Sedric had signed the contract fifteen years ago when they first
created it. Then it needed to be signed by Liam and me on our eighteenth birthdays,
and one last time during the first year of the marriage.

“I did. Has he?” I asked, just as a white Aston Martin pulled up in front of me. Smirking,
I turned toward Monte and Fedel and nodded,
that was much better
.

“No, not yet. But he, his father, and brothers will be arriving any moment to do so.”
He practically coughed up a lung, but I was used to it.

Taking the keys from Monte, I slid in and pointed for him to get in, too. He’d done
well. He could ride alongside me.

“So I am guessing that means he hasn’t seen the change yet.” This was going to be
interesting.

“You mean, where you demand to be kept informed and in agreement with his future decisions
involving the business?” Orlando laughed. “It will be quite interesting to see his
reaction. This isn’t the normal position wives play.”

I snorted, pressing my foot on the gas, a row of black sedans followed behind me as
I pulled out of the airport.

“It’s nonnegotiable. If he wants a stake in my empire, then I need to make sure he
doesn’t destroy it. His brother hacked our records this morning. They are aware of
how much we are worth. He’s going sign, and he is going accept that I’m not normal.
I don’t expect normal,” I said, flying down the back roads that would lead to our
Chicago home, despite the fact that we never spent time in Chicago. Now I was stuck
here.

“You
allowed
them to hack into our records.” I smiled.

Monte looked at me while shaking his head, but chuckled as well. He knew what I was
talking about even if he couldn’t hear the whole conversation.

Declan was good—great, even. He was one of three people who could crack my
level one firewalls—the second was dead—and the third was me. If Callahan didn’t accept,
which would make him an idiot, then I would have Declan buried right next to number
two. I hated hackers who were against me.

“My dear, if you were not my daughter, I would fear you.” I could hear the smile in
his voice over the phone.

“It’s because I
am
your daughter that you should fear me.” In his day, Orlando could make grown men
cry and beg for a bullet. If Orlando got his hands on them, pain was guaranteed.

“You are one of the best who has ever been. But don’t count Liam Callahan out. It
may surprise you, but he is just as, if not more, ruthless than you are.” He was right.
Liam Callahan was a name many feared. He was known as the “Boogeyman of the East,”
and I was the unknown “Wicked Witch of the West.”

“Ma’am.” Monte cleared his throat, holding my work phone.

“I will see you soon.
Addio
,”
³
I said to my father before hanging up.