My thoughts raced in my mind as the Delta 737 circled SeaTac. The city was just too damn sleepy and sterile up in the air. I should have driven.
Thankfully, I was met at the gate by one of my favorite members of the Bertoli family, Pietro Marconi's son, Jake. Instead of going to college, Jake signed up for a three-year hitch with the Army, figuring that he'd pick up all the training he needed to become better at following in his father's footsteps by working a little bit for the government. He'd gotten out a few months before I graduated, and he looked healthy and happy. "Tommy, it's good to see you."
"Actually, Jake, you can call me Tomasso now," I said with a smile, exchanging brotherly hugs with my friend. "I think I got all the ‘Tommy’ out of me down South. You ever get to Alabama?"
"Can't say that I did," Jake replied. Unlike his father, who looked like he was Italian, Jake always had a bit of a California surfer vibe to him, but who knew where in his DNA the dark dirty-blond came from? His mother, Carla Marconi, had coal black hair like her husband. “The best I could manage was doing infantry school over at Fort Benning, Georgia. Then they stuck me in fucking Korea for the rest of the time."
"Which is probably why if I visited Korea right now, I'd find a ton of little half-Korean, half-Italian kids running around," I joked back. "Seoul's going to need a new Little Italy."
Jake laughed, patting me on the shoulder. "It's good to have you back, Tomasso. You seem different though—more serious than you were, a more focused look about you.”
"We can talk in the car. What did you drive?" I asked as Jake reached for my bag. "No, I got it."
Jake's hand stopped a few inches from the handle. "Really?"
I nodded. "Really. Jake, before I left, I didn't want to be the prince. I still don't. I don't want that handed to me. So I'm going to earn it. That starts with little things like being able to carry my own bags."
He nodded, and I grabbed my suitcase and duffel bag, following him out to the parking lot. "As to your question, I figured you'd be looking for a good ride, so I brought the Cali."
The Ferrari California was one of my favorite cars in the lineup owned by my father, and I whistled as I saw the sleek lines and blue-gray paint job. "Still sexy as fuck," I said, holding my hand out. "Keys."
Jake chuckled and held them out. "I thought you said that you wanted to earn it."
"Hey, the car's still in my father's name," I said with a laugh. "Besides, I spent four years driving a Chevy. Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?" Jake said, tossing me the keys and climbing into the passenger seat.
"Tell me you have absolutely no country or southern hip-hop on the sound system. I think I've had my fill of that over the last couple of years,” I said, climbing into the driver's seat. I'd forgotten how ironically luxurious a firm foam seat felt. I'd gotten too used to soft foam that just mushed out like a fucking pillow under your ass. The Ferrari, though, grabbed your legs, ass and back and told you to sit the fuck down right here. The growl of the engine as I started it up sent a shot of adrenaline down my spine, and I grinned as I flipped the switch to retract the hardtop convertible roof.
"If you drive the way I think you will, it won't matter, will it?" Jake said. "Just remember to try and keep it at ground level, okay?"
Actually, I cruised, enjoying the feeling of the sports car as I drove north along the Interstate toward the Bertoli mansion. "So how's life for you now?"
"Not bad," Jake said. "You know the Don's got me working at the pizza joint?"
"No shit?" I said with a laugh. Bertoli's Pizza was just one of my family's legitimate businesses. No Mafia family can go for long without having some legitimate business to filter all the profits of their other enterprises, and Bertoli's Pizza was a Seattle institution. We'd even catered the summer barbecue for the police union three years running for free. "What's he got you doing? Deliveries?"
Jake laughed and shook his head. "Nah, learning how to actually do business. He's got me working the books in the office and stuff. He told me that the Army took care of the violent side of things, and they taught me about how to organize. Now, it’s time to put the finishing touches on me—his own words. So I've spent six months working in the back offices, doing orders for tomato sauce, cheese, flour, shit like that after I got reacquainted with Seattle. Worst part of it all is, I haven't even seen a slice of pizza the whole damn time. But what about you? You leave a bunch of heartbroken girls back in Alabama?"
"Heartbroken? No way. Broken in? Hell yes." It wasn't the total truth, but I couldn't exactly tell Jake the truth. He wouldn't have understood.