by Zoey Parker
“Well, last time I checked, the 'Vette was worth about twenty-five thou,” Gio said, “and the house is probably worth about a quarter mil.”
“Okay, so you've got plenty of above-board collateral to take out a business loan from a bank,” Carla said. “Good. That should make this relatively simple. You won't have to worry much about interest, either—with the cash that'll be coming through this place, I'm betting you'll be able to pay the loan back very quickly. And how do you intend to use this establishment to launder your illegal profits?”
“You know, the usual way, I guess,” he said. “The money goes into the restaurant dirty, it comes out clean, boom. Like that.”
A long, uncomfortable silence passed between them.
“You don't actually know how money laundering works, do you?” Carla guessed. She suddenly realized why he'd been trying so hard to distract her and keep the conversation away from the business. He didn't know anything about it, and he was too embarrassed to reveal his ignorance to her.
For the first time, she felt a small stab of pity for him. It surprised her, and she quickly suppressed it.
“Hey, I already told you, I'm not stupid,” Gio said through clenched teeth. “I don't know if my father said something to you or what, but I don't need to be talked down to like some kind of fucking kid. So you can knock that shit off right now.”
“Fine,” Carla agreed. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean any disrespect. I'm here to help you in any way I can. If that means you need me to walk you through the process of funneling your profits through this place, I'm happy to do that.”
Gio leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and favoring her with a winning smile. “Nah, I don't need no walk-through,” he said, “but why don't you go ahead and tell me anyway? You've got a sexy voice, and I like listening to it.”
Jesus, this guy just won't let up, Carla thought. If it were anyone else, she might have even found it charming. In this situation, though, it only put her nerves on edge even more than they already were.
“Okay,” she began, “hypothetically, let's say that this week, you get five thousand dollars from...who was it on the North Side? Little Timmy?”
“Little Tony,” Gio corrected her. “And that ain't too likely. That asshole rarely kicks up more than a couple grand, tops. Lazy motherfucker's probably too busy smoking that shit himself.”
“Right,” she nodded, “so you get two thousand from Little Tony. You write up a handful of receipts for imaginary customers, and you've got a perfectly legal explanation for where the money came from. Maybe the restaurant had a particularly busy night, or some big group reserved this back room for a private party. Restaurants are some of the only businesses left that still take in lots of cash instead of relying on credit cards, so when you bring a big bushel of small bills to the bank for a deposit, who's to say it came from selling marijuana instead of miso soup?”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Gio mused. “But my father told me no one ever comes into this place. Ain't the Feds gonna see how empty it always is and know that something ain't legit?”
It was a good question, and Carla was surprised by it. Maybe he's not stupid after all, she thought. He may not have paid attention when this stuff was explained to him before, but now that he is, he seems to be catching on very quickly.
“That's very true,” she agreed, “which is why an important early part of this plan will be to actually try to get more customers to eat here. With enough people coming in and out, the FBI won't have any way of knowing who's buying what, and whether they're using credit cards or paying cash. You can do that by offering special discounts, running promotional campaigns, maybe booking some live music...”
“Yeah, and I can also put that all-you-can-eat place out of business,” Gio said, nodding to himself. “Maybe arrange for them to fail a few health inspections or even burn the place down and have the arson inspector say it was bad wiring or something.”
“Let's stick to legal methods of expanding our clientele for now,” Carla said quickly, hoping Gio's mind wouldn't continue down that path. If the advice she gave him led to innocent people being hurt or intimidated, she doubted she'd be able to forgive herself.
“You can also invite your associates to come in on a regular basis,” she continued, “and to bring their families too. You won't charge them—which will incentivize them to keep coming in—and it'll look like you have plenty of customers to anyone who's watching the place. The main thing, though, is to make sure no one does or discusses anything illegal while they're here. If the FBI or the local cops have any reason at all to suspect the Mancinis are doing their deals and sit-downs here, they'll have no trouble getting warrants to have the place bugged.”
“Uh-huh,” Gio said. “That sounds like a real good plan. Okay, you're hired. So what do we do first?”
“I'll make an appointment with a bank for tomorrow to present our proposal and request a loan,” Carla said, getting up from the table. “I'll give you a call when I've set it up to let you know where and when to meet me so we can do that. Remember to wear a nice suit and a tie. Also, I'll need you to gather the documents that provide proof of your ownership of the house and Corvette.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where are you going?” Gio asked. “We should celebrate! Besides, you ain't even touched your food.”
Carla favored him with what she hoped was a motherly smile of indulgence, though she suspected it was probably more in the realm of a shit-eating grin. “I'm really not hungry,” she said. “Plus I have a lot of work to do before the meeting, and I'm sure you'll find plenty of ways to celebrate enough for both of us. Just remember to show up at the bank on time.”
“Fine,” Gio retorted, “but once the deal is done, you gotta let me take you out to a real dinner somewhere. A little wine, a little music...”
“As long as I can order for myself, you're on,” she said, patting him on the shoulder on her way to the door. “See you tomorrow, Gio.”
Behind her, Gio said, “I can't wait.”
As she left, she was sure she could feel his eyes locked on her hips and ass.
Chapter 9
Gio
Eight Days Later
Gio parked his 'Vette in front of a small, shabby-looking blue house. It was so far west that it was barely within the city limits, and the houses and buildings surrounding it were covered in gang signs and graffiti. Young men in white undershirts and baggy jeans eyed Gio from the street corners as he got out of the car, leaned in through the window, and honked the horn a couple of times so Carolyn would know he was there.
He had enjoyed working closely with her over the past week, and not just because of how she looked—though he still couldn't take his eyes off her whenever they were together. The meeting with the loan officer at the bank went smoothly, with Carolyn handling the money talk and Gio chiming in earnestly about how he'd always wanted his own restaurant.
The Laughing Fish was signed over within the next twenty-four hours, since Shimizu knew what would happen to him if he didn't.
And since the place already had the staff and supplies it needed, the only indication that anything had changed was the “Under New Management” banner draped over the door and the celebration of the first official night with Gio as the owner. The restaurant was packed with almost every middle- to high-ranking mafia member in Chicago, plus their wives and kids. Every table was covered with platters of exquisite maki, and wine and beer flowed like water.
For the most part, Shimizu stayed in the kitchen, rolling and arranging sushi with his head down and his mouth in a tight line.
Gio watched as Carolyn worked the room like a pro—shaking hands with everyone, remembering their names, swapping funny stories and off-the-cuff legal advice. He hadn't met a lot of slick professional women before, and he was impressed.
Seeing her like that only made him more eager to learn what her face would look like when contorted with pain, lust, humiliation, or all three at once.
Her poise and confidence made him desperate to know what she'd look like on her knees, crawling to him and begging.
As the evening drew to a close, Mario walked over to Gio and put an arm around him. “Just remember what I said about the lawyer lady,” Mario whispered, his wine-breath making Gio's eyes water.
“What? You mean Carolyn?” Gio asked.
“If that's her name, then yeah, her,” Mario slurred. “I've seen you staring at her all evening. You keep things professional, understand?”
“Yeah, Papa, fine, I understand,” Gio said dismissively, trying to wriggle away.
Mario's arm clamped him tighter, keeping him in place.
“Don't forget that I did all of this for you,” Mario growled, his muddy eyes staring Gio down like a shark's. “Everything you've got is because of me. So don't you dare fuck it up. You want to play around like some kind of degenerate, you go to those clubs and parties you like so much, but you keep it away from all this. Non merda in cui si mangia. You know what that means?”
Gio struggled harder, but he couldn't break free. Mario's vise-grip on him was starting to hurt. “Hey, Papa, knock it off, okay?”
“Of course you don't, because you're a spoiled kid who never bothered to learn the language of your grandparents. It means 'don't shit where you eat.'” Mario released Gio, giving him a drunken shove. “Now go on, get back to your big party.”
Gio was unable to enjoy the rest of the night, no matter how many toasts people made in his honor.
Carolyn helped him set up accounts under the restaurant's name. Within forty-eight hours, Gio was depositing money from drugs, robberies, and extortion, and marveling at how all the cash was immediately washed clean in the form of business checks he could write to himself. As long as he kept his deposits under $10,000 so they wouldn't be reported to the Feds, and as long as he remembered to justify the checks he wrote himself as legitimate expenses, it felt like a license to print money.
Meanwhile, it had taken six increasingly-insistent invitations to come out and celebrate with him before Carolyn finally agreed, rolling her eyes as she did. Gio understood that it was all part of her act. He'd seen the same behavior in countless other women. They felt like they needed to play a little tug-of-war with guys before the inevitable “yes” came—they liked being chased, they figured it kept them from looking too easy, or maybe they just liked the attention.
But it had been his experience that eventually, they always gave in. Women could never resist him for long, and he knew Carolyn would be no exception. A few drinks, a few laughs, and she'd be his to do with as he pleased.
“Where do you want to go?” Carolyn had asked. “Just tell me what time, and I'll meet you there.”
Gio shook his head mischievously. “Nah, I'll pick you up. That's the right way to do a date, and besides, I want where we're going to be a surprise.”
“First of all, I never said this was a date,” she said.
“Yeah, sure, okay,” Gio chuckled indulgently. If that's how you want to play it, he thought.
“And second, I need to know where we're going so I can choose an appropriate outfit.”
“Just wear something gorgeous, and you'll be fine,” Gio insisted.
Finally, she agreed to give him her address, and he told her he'd be there at 8:00.
Now it was 8:14, and he was outside her home. He'd purposefully arrived a little late. The thought of her waiting for him and peering out the window expectantly gave him a private thrill.
“Jesus, what a shitty place to live,” he muttered, looking around at the neighborhood's boarded-up shops and broken windows.
A muscled thug in his late teens with a red bandana on his head strutted up to the car. Gio could see a large handgun tucked into the man's waistband.
“Yo, you must be one brass-balled motherfucker to come out here in a sweet ride like that an' start leanin' on your horn,” Bandana said.
Gio raised his eyebrows. “You know who I am, kid?”
Bandana grinned, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “You the dude gonna be walkin' home in his socks tonight once I snatch up them fly shoes an' that pimped-out car.”
Gio smirked. “Close, but no. I'm Gio fucking Mancini.”
Bandana's eyes widened, and he cackled. “For real? You the big man's son? You better break out some ID on that shit, homie. I mean, any jive-ass, wop-lookin' cracker can come out to the 'hood an' name-drop, know what I'm sayin'?”
Gio nodded, flipping his ID out of his wallet and displaying it for him. Bandana looked it over and he laughed again, clapping his hands. “Yo, check it!” he called out to the other thugs on the corner. “We got motherfuckin' Al Pacino up in here tonight!”
“Damn right you do. So the next time I come rolling up to this shitheap, I expect you to show me the proper fucking respect. Got it? And make sure you keep your gang signs and crap away from that blue house.”
“Sure thing, homes,” Bandana said, backing off. “You got it.”
The front door of Carolyn's house opened and she stepped out wearing a black cocktail dress and stiletto heels. A tiny purse hung from her arm.
Once they saw her, the men on the corner started whistling and catcalling.
“Pipe down, assholes!” Gio snapped.
“What was all that about?” Carolyn asked, walking to the car. “You know those guys?”
“No, but they damn sure know me,” Gio chortled, eyeing her. “Wow, you look foxy as hell tonight.”
“Thanks,” Carolyn said. Gio leaned in to kiss her on the mouth, but she turned her head away at the last second and his lips connected with her cheek instead.
“Remember what I said,” Carolyn told him sternly. “This is not a date. We're just celebrating as friends and business associates.”
“We'll see,” Gio replied, opening the passenger's-side door for her.
Chapter 10
Gio
As Gio drove, he said, “We gotta move you out of that hole you're living in.”
“I'm sorry you don't approve of where I live,” Carolyn answered, “but it's what I can afford so far, and it suits me.”
“What, that fucking ghetto?” Gio exclaimed. “Come on, I'm not letting my lawyer live in a roach trap like that, it's embarrassing. I'll set you up someplace nice.”
“That's a very kind offer,” she conceded. “But it's not necessary. I'm fine where I am, truly.”
“At least think it over,” Gio insisted. He made a mental note to look into some cute apartments over the next day or two, so he could rent one for her as a surprise. She might pretend she didn't like the idea, but once he handed over the keys, he knew she'd be thrilled.
“And hey, speaking of thinking things over, I got a few ideas about the restaurant that I want to run past you,” he continued.
“More promotional ideas?” Carolyn guessed.
“Yeah, kinda. See, I've been reading all the reviews and stuff about us, and they're all really good, right? Except almost every one keeps hinting at how it's run by the mob, what with who my dad is and everything like that.”
“Yes, I've noticed that too. It's nothing to worry about, though. It was bound to happen, and the Feds would definitely be scoping the place out even without those articles, so I doubt it'll attract any more attention than you'd already have on you.”
“That's just it, though,” Gio said. “I'm thinking as long as the whole gangster rep is kind of tied to the place anyway and there's nothing we can do about that, why not, y'know, play it up even more?”
Carolyn raised an eyebrow. “Gio, I told you, this place has to stay clean or...”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Gio said, waving her concerns off dismissively. “I mean we turn it into a kind of big joke, right? Like, maybe we change up the sign and some of the decorations to goof on the mafia thing. Re-name a bunch of stuff on the menu so we've got The Goodfellas Roll, or The John Gotti. We could even change the name of the place, maybe, to somet
hing like 'Sleeping With the Fishes.'”
“I'm not sure what all that would accomplish,” Carolyn said. She was looking at him in amused disbelief, like he'd just told her he wanted to quit the mob and sell Amway for a living.
“For starters, tourists go nuts for all that cornball Chicago gangster crap,” Gio explained. “We could even find a way to partner up with one of those underworld tours, so they steer business our way. Plus, it's our way of coming right out and saying, 'Okay, yeah, you know who my father is, and I know you know, so what's the big fucking deal?' It takes the whole sinister element out of it and makes it more fun, so people can go back to the folks at home and brag that a suspected mobster brought their food out to them. They'd get a real kick out of it.”