Deception (Infidelity #3)(11)

“Yes, sir, I’ll jump right to the point.”

The door once again opened. Nikki entered, her tight skirt accentuating her small waist, her high heels defining her shapely legs, but it was the neckline on the silk blouse that demanded Daryl’s and my attention. The large scoop fell low enough to showcase her most obvious assets, however, not too low to have them openly on display.

“Your coffee,” she said as she bent at the waist and sat two cups of steaming-hot brown liquid on my desk.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I replied. “Hold my calls.”

“Yes, Mr. Demetri.”

“You were saying?” I encouraged Daryl, as I reclined slightly, rocking my large leather chair and moving my eyes away from Nikki’s assets.

“Yes, there’s this parcel of land, just south of Danbury.”

“Connecticut,” I confirmed.

“Yes, sir. It was just made available. As you’re probably aware, the population of this area has grown exponentially…”

Being on the receiving line of elevator pitches never got old. For years, ever since I worked to make a name, I was the one delivering the pitch, the one doing what needed to be done.

I wasn’t born to money but worked damn hard for it. Born to a longshoreman, I had a respectable example of hard work. I also saw firsthand who really made the money. It wasn’t my father or the other men who worked their asses off on the docks or out on the boats. It wasn’t their supervisors, because my father made it that far. It was the men who owned the docks.

It was the families that owned the city.

It was the ones who took risks.

My parents wanted me to accomplish something no other Demetri had done. They wanted me to get an education. They believed that would give me the ticket to move beyond the blue-collared world.

I did, but it didn’t.

Oh, it helped. It opened doors, but the real doors required more than a piece of paper or letters after my name.

I worked hard—night shift on the docks doing the same job my father had done, while I took classes during the day. I not only learned about business, I saw it. I watched who was paid to keep everything running smoothly, heard stories of unlikely alliances, and knew the truth about the unions.

I’d heard my whole life how they took their piece of my father’s paycheck. He never complained because, according to him, the union and its representatives were why he made good money—why a man with an eighth-grade education could support a family. They were also why he had health insurance and a retirement plan. He willingly paid his dues, and they took care of him. It was the way it was done.

There were men and women in my classes at New York University who came from money, those with the proverbial silver spoon. I never conceded to their birthright. Most of them had no idea where I came from or that I worked all night to sit in the same class as them. The more I got to know them, the more I recognized that half of them would be eaten alive in a place like the docks of Brooklyn or New York City.

Business was not learned only in books.

I did what my parents—God rest their souls—wanted and completed my degree. In the long run, it did for me what working the docks did—it gave me connections. I knew not only the men and the families I needed to know but also up-and-coming people in the world of business. Some things had been too good for too long. I heard the rumors of change. With my fingers dipped in both pies, I was prepared to move with it.

When I first graduated from NYU, I played the game. I worked for the man. I applied for legitimate jobs in big glass buildings. I wore the best suit I could afford and perfected my pitch. I knew the recession was hitting everyone hard, but I refused to give up. I knew the sacrifices that my parents had made for me and refused to squander them.

I made my name known working my way through the ranks.

It was there in the glass buildings with the fancy views that I learned that it was the same game. Everyone played it. Just like the dockworkers, everyone paid. It didn’t take me long to change my goal. I didn’t long to be someone else’s best employee. No. To truly succeed, I needed to be the one who received the payouts.

I determined that Oren Demetri would be on the receiving end, not the one paying out.

I renewed alliances. My friends had friends who had family. We knew who deserved their cut and who didn’t but got it anyway. It wasn’t the same as my education at NYU; however, it was just as valuable.

The economy improved. Energy was no longer in short supply and business was once again booming. And then the FBI began its stings. Feds began questioning and taping and building cases that didn’t need to be built.

The well-oiled machines that had controlled the docks, the construction industry—from the materials to the workers—and the city since the early 1900’s began to falter. The commission was still strong, but not what it had been. Just last December, Castellano—Big Paulie—was murdered on the streets of Manhattan, and the rumblings stirred something inside me—a drive.

My father didn’t have the same option. Not only because he didn’t have a degree, but because his timing was wrong, and his dedication was to my mother and me. That’s not to say I didn’t care about my family. I’ve always adored Angelina. She’s been the love of my life since I heard her laugh in sophomore English.

I still remember her sitting with three other girls looking at a magazine. If I closed my eyes, I could see her—brown hair, big blue eyes, dressed in jeans and a Metallica t-shirt. She was about as far from the type of girl I usually noticed as possible.