Deep (Pagano Family #4)(29)

“You want to play his game.”

“I want to beat him at it, yes.”

“No. Make him play ours. That’s the strategy for this Jackie Stone thing. Under no circumstances do we end up working with a drug cartel. Drugs are not part of our world, and they will not be as long as I draw breath—and I hope you agree with me. We will give no time to these crazy Colombians who make spectacles of themselves and think they’re sending messages about their power. Those ‘messages’ are nothing more than notes from lunatics. We have a way, nephew. We have a way.”

Nick took a breath and let it out, making sure it did not come off as a sigh. “So, what help do you want from the Marconis?”

“No. What we’re doing is offering our help.”

“Please?” That was a complete inversion of the plan they’d had in place. The sit-down was less than two hours away. But his uncle seemed perfectly calm.

“We help the Marconis drive the Colombians out of Connecticut. That compromises this Stone and gives you the leverage you need to make him turn on Church. It strengthens the Council as a whole, and it might bring all the families together behind us against Church. He’s been pushing business into all the neighborhoods. We can fight him there. Capisce?”

Nick sat back abruptly, stunned to silence. He sat there, his uncle’s eyes steady on him, and worked through everything Ben had said, all the angles he could see. Ben was going at Church from the perimeter.

It was f*cking brilliant.

“It could definitely work. But it’s not a quick solution.”

“The right way never is, Nick.” He put his hand on the arm of the sofa and pushed himself to stand. “Come on. We should get moving.”

Nick stood, too, and followed his uncle toward the door. Before he could open it, Ben put his arm across his back. “When we have time, you and I are going to talk about J.J. You need to get on board with him as a capo.”

Nick didn’t see that happening, but he nodded. Hell, maybe Ben was right.



oOo



The Council never met in the same location. Generally, the family who called the meeting hosted in their neighborhood. But in this case, Ben had called the meeting for a location in Danbury, the scene of the upcoming exchange between Jackie Stone and the Zapata cartel. The Paganos were still hosting, arranging for the room and for the meal that would precede the meeting, but Ben had thought it would resonate more to meet so near the location in question.

He was right, of course.

The Council families had not beefed since Nick had been a lowly soldier. Peace and prosperity had reigned for years. Tensions were simmering on low heat lately, though, because Church was making a lot of noise. That noise brought the Paganos attention in counterproductive ways, and all the families felt it.

So the meeting was overdue. Yet all the bosses met as friends: Enzo Marconi. Gianni Abbatantuono. Vito Conti. Gabriel Sacco. And Ben Pagano. Each man brought his administration—underboss and consigliere—to the table. Soldiers and guards were fed elsewhere.

Ben had chosen a warehouse owned by a business affiliate. Each family had agreed and then sent in a man to do a security sweep. By the time the meeting took place, the space had been transformed into something like an elegant dining room, with a vast, mahogany table, upholstered arm chairs all around, and a uniformed wait staff—handpicked and cleared by the families.

In the way of tradition, the meal was first. Ben had explained long ago, before Nick had even been made, that men who broke bread together had a bond thereafter, and would be respectful and conscientious negotiators. Nick believed that such a bond only held when the men were of a similar mind in the first place, and when it behooved every man present equally to be of that mind. But sitting at his uncle’s right through this meal, he could not find cause to dispute the old way.

Still, it was difficult for Nick to understand the expense his uncle had gone to, on short notice, for the meeting. Everything had been arranged as a celebration. Lunch was osso buco served with risotto on gold-trimmed china dishes and eaten with sterling flatware. Amarone flowed into crystal goblets. Great baskets of mixed breads lined the center of the table. Before they ate, each man toasted his thanks to Uncle Ben, taking his moment to make a little speech, and then Ben toasted his thanks right back for their attendance.

This was the first time Nick had a place at the Council table. He found himself both impatient with and fascinated by the rigors of tradition.

Finally, after more than an hour of toasting and eating and talking about families and complaining about global politics, the staff served large portions of tiramisu with small glasses of Frangelico.

If nothing else, the diners would be too full of food and drink to argue much, Nick thought.

When the waiters cleared the dessert plates and brought coffee urns and cups out, Enzo Marconi leaned his elbows on the table. Marconi was a short, thin, almost completely bald Sicilian in his mid-sixties or so. Ben and Enzo were close allies and, though Nick didn’t know for sure, it was likely that the two older men had spoken off the record already.

“Thank you, Ben, for the wonderful meal and the excellent company. But we’re together today not just for good food and conversation. You have a problem, and you need our help.”

Told earlier to stay quiet, Nick sat back and observed the families at work.

Ben nodded at Marconi. “We do have a problem. We all have a problem. Alvin Church and his band of vermin. They don’t understand the world they’re in, and they are making trouble for us all. He tried to kill my nephew a few days ago. He did kill a good soldier. And hurt innocents.”