Page 4 of From Italy With Love

I said nothing. Inside, my thoughts raced: if Kelley sensed weakness or desperation, this deal would collapse, and Giovanni would be left exposed. I focused on his tone, the twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped the desk, a language of threat and power. Every muscle in my body remained taut, ready for whatever message he planned to send.

“What are you moving?” Kelley asked, his gaze cold and unwavering.

“Pharmaceuticals. Electronics. Luxury goods.” I kept my answer clipped, my eyes never leaving his.

“Heroin,” Kelley said flatly. “Cocaine. Maybe some guns if the price is right.” His lips curled as he spoke, daring me to contradict him.

I didn’t confirm or deny. My silence was deliberate, a shield against his accusations and a test of his intentions.

Kelley leaned forward, the harsh overhead light glinting off his rings as his fingers drummed on the polished table, echoing in the tense silence. “Let me guess. You want to run all this through New York. Through ports my brother-in-law runs. Braesal O’Malley’s territory.” His words sliced through the air, blunt and unforgiving.

I met his gaze and kept my tone steady, refusing to let him see the doubt swirling beneath. “We’re prepared to make it worth your while.” If Kelley walked away now, our foothold in New York would vanish before it began, and our family’s ambitions would drown in the East River.

Kelley didn’t wait for me to finish. He cut in, voice laced with sarcasm. “How much? Or are you going to make me guess again?” The distant sound of sirens outside bled through the thick glass, heightening the pressure in the room.

“Fifteen percent of gross. Plus a favor, to be determined.” I kept my answer brief, watching Kelley for any sign he might soften.

Kelley barked a laugh, sharp and ugly. “Fifteen percent? You really think I’d risk everything, my relationship with Braesal, federal heat, a war with the other families, for fifteen percent? Hell, I might as well just hand you the keys and call it charity.” His skepticism was palpable, each word seasoned with contempt.

“What number would make it worth your while?” I pressed, careful not to flinch under his glare. The faint buzz from the lamp grew louder in the silence.

Kelley snorted, not missing a beat. “Thirty.”

“That’s not realistic.” My voice stayed even, but inside, I calculated the cost of walking away versus conceding too much.

Kelley’s jaw tightened, lips curled in a crooked sneer. “Then we don’t have a deal. You stroll into my city, toss me a lowball, and expect gratitude? I don’t need you—I’ve got a dozen families lined up, ready to pay twice your offer for access. Don’t flatter yourself.” He leaned in, the shadows from the lamp deepening around his face.

I kept my voice low, the threat of failure weighing heavy. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

My question hung in the air; the room seemed smaller, tension wrapping around us like smoke.

Kelley finally spoke, his tone all business but his distrust clear. “Because Giovanni Valentinetti asked for a meeting. Because your family has connections in Chicago that might be useful. Because I’m a businessman, I listen. Even to proposals I already know are worthless.” His eyes never left mine, daring me to blink.

I couldn’t help but notice how Kelley’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Even ones you have no intention of accepting.”

Kelley’s smile was sharp and cold. “Especially those. Let’s get one thing straight, Valentinetti—I don’t trust you. I don’t trust your brother. Hell, I don’t trust any Italian who walks into my house pretending we’re buddies. Your people have been trying to muscle into New York for decades. Every time we push you back. So tell me. What makes you think this time is different?”

“Because this time we’re not trying to muscle in,” I said. “We’re trying to do business. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes.”

Kelley’s gaze, cold and calculating, revealed a history rooted in more than suspicion. The overhead light threw sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the lines carved by past betrayals. Kelley had lost too much in the past to trust easily; every percentage point mattered to him now. He sought the angle, the unseen trap he suspected. With people like us, a trap always existed.

“Twenty-five percent,” Kelley said finally, his words clipped and precise. “And the favor is off the table.” The gleam in his eyes was sharp, daring me to push back. His hand hovered near the desk drawer, where I imagined the cool weight of a gun rested, ready if negotiations turned sour.

“Twenty,” I countered, keeping my tone steady, my fingers tracing the wood grain of the desk, smooth but scarred with scratches where business had been hammered out before. “And the favor stays.”

“Twenty-two,” Kelley said, narrowing his eyes, the lamp’s glow catching on the cut-glass tumbler at his elbow. “And the favor has limits.”

I paused, weighing my options. Giovanni had authorized me to go as high as twenty, but I knew conceding too soon could signal weakness, and Kelley would sense more could be squeezed. My palm pressed against the desk’s edge, the cool lacquer grounding me. The risk wasn’t just financial. Giovanni stood to lose not only money but influence. If this deal fell apart, Chicago would see us as vulnerable, and Kelley would make sure everyone knew it.

“Twenty,” I said, voice steady as the distant sirens outside cut through the silence. “The favor will be reasonable and within the scope of normal business operations. Nothing that puts your family at undue risk.”

“Define undue risk,” Kelley said, the question dropping between us like a gauntlet.

“We won’t ask you to go to war for us. We won’t ask you to betray your own people.” I let the silence linger, testing the boundaries as Kelley watched me. “Anything beyond that is negotiable.”