Mob Lawyer 6: A Legal Thriller Read online

  “Good,” Anthony laughed. “Because that’s what you’re going to be looking at for the foreseeable future.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  The mind-numbing corporate paperwork would be a nice break from defending bogus criminal cases that were either thrown out entirely or pleaded down. I had enjoyed the challenge of defending my various clients, but after months of running from borough to borough, I was ready to just sit in a chair and read for a little while. Especially since I knew that Anthony would break up the monotony with other work before I was ready to blow my brains out.

  I pulled out my laptop and settled in. My email was always the first thing that I checked, and I saw that my paralegal had sent me a few updates on my last case, so I went through that first. The young criminal justice major had become part of my two-man office after his uncle Jovanni, a capo in the family, had suggested him. I’d needed someone to man the office and juggle all of the paperwork and cases while I was in Andorra trying to retrieve the files on the Gryffon server, but the kid had been so fantastic that his trial period had quickly become a full-blown job.

  Anthony’s phone buzzed on the table a half hour into our silent workday, and I glanced over at the mafioso as he frowned and typed something in. His eyes rolled back so far in his head that I thought they might pop out. He slammed the phone face-down onto the table, and then picked it up again to make sure that he hadn’t cracked the screen.

  “What’s up?” I asked before I drank the last of my now cold coffee.

  “I need to have a meeting with the other families,” my client said. “Some of them are still pissed about their hired help being arrested.”

  “It’s like they don’t care that they were about to be murdered by their own protection,” I muttered.

  “Good help is hard to find,” Anthony chuckled.

  “Is it really good help if they’re planning to kill you?” I asked with a smirk.

  “The other families have a different definition than we do,” he replied. “I’ll have to smooth some feathers if we don’t want any more incidents.”

  I rolled my eyes but shrugged since I didn’t usually get involved in that part of the business. The legal work was my domain, and Anthony kept the less legal side to himself so that I would have plausible deniability and could defend anyone who might be caught in the act of committing a crime. Though, since Sal came back I’d started to take on a more hands-on approach than I usually would, and I still wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

  “At least we don’t have to worry about the Serbians as much,” I said.

  Galic, the director of the Gryffon company and the head of the Serbian mob in New York City, had been arrested a few days before by the FBI. The feds had arrested him and his lackeys on live news, and they were currently in Rikers awaiting trial, and I’d helped to put him there. The sleazy man deserved more than that, especially after the attack on the Febbo estate, but I’d settle for seeing him rot in prison for the rest of his life.

  “For now,” the mafioso said with a shrug. “The head of the Petrovic family is already trying to get bail. So far it’s been denied, but as soon as the media coverage in Serbia moves on, he’ll be paying someone off and will be right back on the street with a chip on his shoulder.”

  “Hopefully that won’t happen,” I said. “I heard that the International Criminal Court is getting involved since their business operations stretched all the way to Andorra. It’ll be harder for him to slip through the cracks if there’s more than one country charging him.”

  “That would be helpful,” Anthony said. “I think I’ve had enough shootouts to last me for a while.”

  The younger Febbo had been the target of the recent attack since he was the driving force behind taking the Serbians down. He’d managed to survive by lunging into the back seat of his Chrysler 300, but it had been a close call. Add that to the shootout at Pietro’s and the attempt on his father’s life, and the last year and a half was more riddled with bullets than he could shake a fist at.

  “How are the car repairs coming?” Hank asked.

  He sat at the high-top table by the front door with Anthony’s bodyguard. His temper had flared, and he’d let out a string of Italian curse words when he came back from his business trip to find out that most of the fleet of Chrysler 300s that the Febbo family owned had been destroyed in the shootout, and he’d texted me that he would have to be my shotgun rider until he had another car.

  “It’s going to be at least another week,” Anthony said with a sympathetic smile. “Some of the cars can’t be fixed, so we had to buy replacements, and those won’t be here for another month.”

  The bodyguard frowned but nodded his head as he went back to the card game he and the other man were playing.

  “He’s going to go crazy if he isn’t behind the wheel,” I chuckled.

  “I’d tell him to take the subway like me,” my client said with a grin. “But you have your very own home in Floral Park now.”

  “I do,” I said. “The construction team started on expanding the office this morning. Tommaso is supervising and using the living room for the moment.”

  My paralegal had volunteered to oversee the project, especially since he’d be the one that spent the most time in my home office, and I’d been more than happy to let him handle it so that I didn’t have to be around the mind jarring noises.

  “I can hardly wait until I’m back in my own office,” Anthony muttered as he looked around at the seemingly chaotic stacks of paperwork.

  “Soon,” I said. “As long as your mother doesn’t add any more projects.”

  “Pops is trying to rein her in,” the young Febbo said. “But it’s either stop her adding work to the project or have her sit at the townhouse complaining about not being able to host the whole family.”

  “Tough choice,” I said. “We’re still on for dinner with them and Annie tonight, right?”

  The matriarch made some of the best food that I’d ever eaten. Lately, she’d started to toy with the idea of writing a cookbook or opening her own restaurant, and I’d already told her that I’d visit her establishment three times a week if she opened one. I was addicted to the rich, flavorful cooking, and I’d been lucky enough to be invited to several family dinners over the last year and a half.

  “Yep,” Anthony said with a nod. “We’ll have to leave in the next hour if we’re going to take the subway.”

  “I can drive us,” I said.

  “True,” my client said with a look over at our bodyguards. “They can take the subway.”

  “I’m going to buy a car myself,” Hank muttered over his cards.

  I burst into laughter at the beefy man’s huff, and I only managed to settle down when Sal called. I stifled the last of it, wiped a tear from my eye, and then nodded to Anthony to let him know that I was ready for him to answer his father’s phone call.

  “What’s up, Pops?” the mafioso asked.

  He’d put the call on speaker so that I could hear it. I’d been invited into more conversations over the last few weeks, and some of those had included the discussions about what to do with traitors and the goons who’d attacked the family. I was aware of what that said about Sal’s trust in me, and I was thrilled that the tough mobster had decided that I wasn’t just another lawyer.

  “I’m getting you a car,” the head of the Febbo family said.

  “Pops,” he groaned with a strained patience. “I told you that I can take the subway until we’re back out in Riverhead.”

  “And I told you that I don’t like the subway,” the protective father huffed. “It’s too crowded. We still have enemies that would be more than willing to use those disgusting trains to take you out. And Big Tony lost you this morning.”

  My client shot a look over to the beefy bodyguard that had suddenly become much more interested in his card game.

  “Yeah, well, he’ll get used to the system soon enough,” the younger Febbo said. “And it’s only a
few weeks before the new cars come in. I can wait.”

  There was a long-suffering sigh from the other end of the line, and I could almost picture the made man grinding his teeth together as he argued with his son.

  “That’s too long,” Sal said. “You’ve got business in every borough, and I hear that the other families want to have a meeting. You can’t show up on foot to something like that.”

  The older man had a point. Anthony would never live it down if he showed up to negotiate with the other families on foot, dirty and wrinkled from his ride on the subway and smelling like the sweat of every New Yorker. He had a reputation to maintain, and if he arrived in a cab, then there would be rumors that the Febbo business had suffered.

  “I can borrow a car for that,” Anthony responded with a shake of his head.

  I reached over to mute the phone while Sal went on a tangent about using a borrowed car.

  “You should just let him buy you a new car,” I said.

  “We have several coming in less than a month,” my client huffed. “What’s the point in buying one right now?”

  “He’s never going to give this up,” I said. “He let you have the apartment rather than staying at the townhouse with him and your mother, so you know he’s going to dig his heels in about this.”

  The young mafioso pressed his lips together, unmuted the phone, and then took in a deep breath just as his father’s rant ended.

  “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll let you get me a new car. But nothing flashy. Just something to get me from point A to point B without bringing shame to the family.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” Sal said in a satisfied tone. “Your new ride should be there any second. Bring it to dinner tonight so that your mother can see it.”

  The patriarch ended the call just as a text came in from one of the guys that told Anthony to look outside. The mafioso stood, sighed, and strolled over to the window with me right behind him.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed.

  A pristine condition bright red Ferrari Enzo was parked in the middle of the street with a big bow on the top.

  Chapter 2

  “I’ve never seen one of those in person,” I muttered.

  The Ferrari Enzo was sleek and shiny, like it had just been driven off the assembly line, and the cherry-red color matched the bow on the top of it. It was parked in the middle of the street, and cars were starting to back up behind it.

  The driver, Stephen, stepped out and waved up at us before he looked at the blue beater on his bumper. It looked like the Italian man was in an argument with the guy behind him who had opened his door and started to step out of his car. Stephen reached for his hip and the man noticed the Glock before he immediately shut his mouth and got back in his car.

  “We should get down there,” Anthony said. “I can’t believe that Pops bought that thing.”

  He rolled his eyes but a smirk tugged on his lips as he turned away from the window. The Ferrari had been his laptop backdrop for months, and his father must’ve taken note of it when he decided to buy his son a new car.

  “He’s proud of you,” I said. “You managed to take down the entire Serbian mob, the corrupt politicians that were after the family, and you did it without losing anyone.”

  “Thanks to you,” my client said with a grin. “In case I haven’t told you lately, I’m glad you took my case.”

  “Best pro bono work of my life,” I chuckled. “Now, if you let me sit in the driver’s seat of that Enzo, then I think I might feel your appreciation fully.”

  Anthony’s laughter filled the creaky old lift as it took all of us to the bottom floor. A smile stretched across his face from ear to ear even when we reached the lobby to see that his neighbors had filled the open space to stare out at the bright red luxury car.

  “Whose is it?” a grungy-looking woman in paint splattered overalls asked.

  “Beats me,” a preppy girl in thigh-high socks and a Catholic school girl skirt responded. “I don’t know anyone with that kind of money. I wish I did, though. I could use a sugar daddy.”

  She winked at the artist, who rolled her bright green eyes at the woman.

  “Don’t we all,” the artist said as she turned her attention back to the street. “I think the driver is just dropping it off.”

  “What gave it away?” the preppy teased. “The bow?”

  “Why don’t you go shake that tight little ass and find out who owns it?” the older woman asked. “And see if he’s single.”

  “Want to paint him naked?” the blonde preppy woman asked. “Besides, what makes you think it’s a man? A woman could’ve bought that.”

  “I’ll paint her, too,” the artist laughed. “I’m not picky.”

  “You’re a slut is what you are,” she laughed.

  “Takes one to know one,” the woman sneered.

  “The car is mine,” Anthony said as he stood next to them listening to their conversation. “My father bought it for me.”

  “Oh,” the preppy woman said as her face fell. “Well, if you want to give a girl a ride, you know which apartment is mine.”

  “Yeah, and he avoids it like the plague,” the artist retorted.

  I chuckled to myself as I followed my client out into the street where another crowd had gathered.

  “I’m guessing your neighbors introduced themselves already?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” the mafioso said. “They’re not bad. Tiffany is volatile. That’s the girl in the Catholic school girl getup. And Raz’s breakups are loud enough that it’s like listening to a telenovela.”

  “She’s already broken up with someone?” I gaped. “You’ve only been here for a few days.”

  “Artists,” Anthony said with a shrug. “She’s pretty cute, but I heard her threaten to stab her ex over a tube of platinum white paint, so I think I’ll be keeping my distance.”

  “Good idea,” I muttered with a glance over my shoulder.

  The two women still stood next to the window, and I could have sworn the preppy winked at me when she caught me staring. If they were in a high school movie, then they’d be bitter enemies, but they were still bantering back and forth with each other like old friends when I walked outside.

  I’d learned my lesson to stay away from artists and girls in high socks a long time ago, though Tiffany was cute enough that I might’ve given her a chance if Anthony hadn’t already warned me off.

  I tore my gaze away from the preppy blonde woman as she winked at me again and focused on the beautiful red Ferarri Enzo. It was so glossy that I expected to see a price tag hanging from it somewhere, and I checked the windows just in case. I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford it, the thing cost over two million dollars after all, and I loved my Mercedes AMG. But I had to admit I was curious how much Sal had actually spent on it.

  “The keys are in the ignition, Mr. Febbo,” the driver said with a grin.

  “Thanks, Stephen,” my client said. “You did a great job bringing it over here. How did it handle?”

  “It was like I was on rails,” the young man said with a wistful look.

  “You can take the bow,” the mafioso said as he tugged on the giant pile of red ribbon. “And enjoy the rest of your night.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stephen nodded and strolled toward the subway station with the bow clasped tightly in his arms.

  An alley with a dumpster was just barely visible from where I stood, and I watched as the man tossed his awkward cargo inside before he went back on his way.

  “It still smells brand-new,” Anthony said as he climbed into the car.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, let out a happy sigh, and then looked over at me.

  “Are you gonna move that thing or spend all day looking at it?” the driver in the car behind us shouted.

  He put his hands in the air and puffed out his cheeks in frustration when he saw our two bodyguards, but his face was red, and I knew that the guns would only hold him back for so long.
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  “We should head over to the townhouse,” I said as I motioned to the line of impatient cars waiting to go down the street.

  “Hop in,” my client said. “You guys take the rest of the night off. We’ll be fine on our own.”

  “Sir--” his bodyguard started.

  “That’s an order, not a suggestion,” the mafioso said with narrowed eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” Big Tony muttered. “I’ll have my cell, if you decide you need me for anything.”

  I gave the two men a wave before I climbed into the passenger seat. My Mercedes AMG sat a few spaces away, and I debated whether I should leave it behind. The neighborhood wasn’t great, and I wasn’t sure if it would be okay out in the open like that.

  “I’ll keep an eye on it,” Hank told me when he caught me looking at the car. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Febbo, Big Tony and I can finish up our card game upstairs. He still has money for me to take.”

  “Sure,” Anthony said. “The number for a great pizza place is on the fridge. Tell them to charge me. They should have my information. Get whatever you want.”

  “Thank you, sir,” my bodyguard said as he bowed his head in respect.

  The engine roared as Anthony revved it, and a shiver ran up my spine from excitement. I never thought that I’d be sitting in a Ferrari Enzo, especially when a year and a half ago I had a car that was so old it was basically held together with rust and a prayer.

  “You ready?” my client asked with a smirk.

  “Definitely,” I nodded.

  The ride from Anthony’s apartment to the townhouse in Brooklyn was so smooth that it was like floating on clouds. The supple Italian leather seat cradled my body while we weaved in and out of the late evening traffic. The red lights all turned green as we approached like they knew that a luxury supercar was about to pass underneath them, and too soon, we’d pulled up to one of the empty parking spots in front of the temporary home.

  “Damn,” Anthony whispered as he shut off the engine. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Are you happy that you let your dad buy you a new car?” I laughed as I unbuckled my seat belt.

  “I’m going to hear the biggest ‘I told you so,’” my client said with a roll of his eyes. “But, it is a gorgeous piece of artwork.”