Ruthless People Read online

  “Look how much I care.” I nodded at the driver who ended our call for me.

  I needed a moment, but all I could think about was the little Giovanni that was about to be part of my life. Taking the ring out of my jacket pocket, I stared at the massive diamond that would seal our fates. She was Italian, which meant Catholic, just like us, and that meant:

  Rule Four: No bloody divorce.

  “Let the games begin,” I whispered to myself. I was going to make this work or die trying. But, if she was anything like the females I had in the past, she would be dancing in the palm of my hand, and I couldn’t wait.

  TWO

  “Even in killing men,

  observe the rules of propriety.”

  ~ Confucius

  MELODY

  “Ms. Giovanni, we will be landing in h-half an h-hour,” the flight attendant stammered.

  Nodding, I simply raised my glass, but the moron was so scared, he couldn’t even pour the wine right. I narrowed my eyes at the red stains on my new white Armani jacket before glaring at him. I snatched the bottle from his damn hands.

  “I’m so—”

  “Don’t say sorry,” I said in a low hiss. “You aren’t even on the threshold of sorry yet.”

  His eyes widened before taking a step back and backing straight into Fedel, who already had a gun pointed at the back of his skull.

  “All we really need is the pilot, ma’am,” Fedel said simply.

  Stripping off my jacket, I stared at the moron at the end of the nine-millimeter. He was young, only a few years older than I was. What would make him take the job as a steward on my jet? A better question would be, who cleared him to be a steward on my fucking jet? Things spoken in here were more sensitive than the damn Watergate tapes.

  “Fedel, how did this fool get on my plane?” I asked, only mildly interested as Monte handed me another file.

  “His sister racked up quite a large debt. I do believe he is trying to pay it off,” he said, waiting for me to give the go-ahead. He was so trigger-happy sometimes.

  “Is that why you’re here? Your sister is a crack whore?”

  He frowned, swallowing the lump in his throat before speaking again. “Crystal meth.”

  It’s too early in the morning for blood. I shook my head at Fedel. He sulked for a moment but did what he was told and lowered his GLOCK.

  “If you want to pay off your sister’s debt, it would be wise for you to stay alive and not spill my Romanée-Conti, or ruin nine-hundred-dollar jackets,” I told him before turning back to the file in front of me.

  “Yes, M-M-Miss G-Giovanni. It will n-never happen a-again.” His voice sounded like a dying dog’s. I almost pitied his sister. Was he all she had coming to her aid?

  “Count yourself blessed Nelson Reed, 997-00-4279, 1705 Blue Ridge Road,” Fedel said, making sure the moron was aware that we not only knew his name, but his social security number and address. Just because we didn’t kill him today didn’t mean we could not destroy his life tomorrow.

  Fedel sighed before taking a seat in front of me. “It was a nice jacket. You should have let me kill him.”

  “My father wasn’t pleased with the bloodstains I left in the last jet.” I smirked, lifting the picture of my future husband.

  Husband. I cringed at the word.

  I wouldn’t deny he was attractive—highly attractive, in fact. But I would need more than green eyes, dark brown sex hair, and a charming smile. He wasn’t very muscular either, but he looked fast and strong.

  “His full name is Liam Alec Callahan, age twenty-seven. He graduated high school at fifteen, Dartmouth at twenty,” Fedel said, sorting through the photos.

  “Let me guess, top of his class?” I added, waiting for him to pour more wine in my glass.

  Fedel did so before nodding. “But of course, nothing less than perfection for the Irish mutt. That doesn’t only apply to the schools, but also their fancy half-a-million-dollar suits, luxury cars, vacations houses, parties, and whores.”

  That got my attention.

  “He uses high-end hookers?” It shouldn’t surprise me much, all men had their toys. I would have to put an end to it when we were married, but I understood. The marriage contract our fathers signed fifteen years ago stated neither side would tolerate infidelity. It had less to do with romance and more to do with strategic reasoning. Hookers and lovers almost always led to the fall of an empire. The moment you became comfortable with one another, secrets were spilled, and information was stolen in the dead of night. It was just easier to do without it.

  “None that we could find. Instead, he just buys them pretty, shiny things like diamond bracelets, expensive purses, or thousand dollar shoes. They all like their shoes,” he said mockingly, sliding over photos of all the women Liam had been with. It was quite a list. At least he would be an experienced lover, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was good in bed.

  “Is he clean?” If he wasn’t, we could buy whatever drug was needed. Ninety percent of everything out there had a cure . . . with the right credit card.

  “As a damn whistle,” Fedel said, almost disappointed. “From his current health records, he is healthier than a racehorse, which is surprising with amount of brandy he drinks. His beverage of choice—Camus Cuvee. He has a damn glass, or even the bottle, to his lips in every photo. He isn’t depressed or an alcoholic, he’s—”

  “Just Irish.” I added. They could drink every day, from dusk until dawn, and still walk a straight line.

  “Exactly. From what I’ve gathered, he’s the brains and is also highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat, boxing being a pastime of his. It looks like daddy dearest has spent most of his time forging him to take his place.”

  “Doesn’t he have an elder brother?”

  “Yes, he does. Meet Neal Aiden Callahan, age thirty-one. Married to Malibu Barbie, aka Olivia Ann Colemen, age twenty-nine, three years ago.” He lifted up a photo of the happy couple. Neal was all muscle with brown hair and hazel eyes, while his wife looked like a life-sized Barbie doll. On her wrist was a small tattoo of a Celtic Knot in the shape of an oak tree.

  “A Dara knot.” I told him looking over the lines.

  Fedel’s eyebrow rose. “A what?’

  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.