Chapter Eight

Giovanni - The Viper - Lombardo

C rowns Grant, the resplendent estate of the Genolere Mafia Don, Highland Farm Road, Potomac, MD...

"I'm tired of all the fucking excuses." The imposing figure of Giovanni Lombardo stood on the opulent terrace. His voice reverberated across the vastness of polished stone and ornate balustrades. The tranquil fountain nearby seemed to quiver at his thunderous tone, its gentle trickling a stark contrast to the mobster's fury.

The mobster certainly lived large. This expansive mansion stood as a testament to his appetite for luxury and enduring craftsmanship, meticulously constructed to satisfy his extravagant tastes with only the finest commercial-grade materials money could buy. Millions had been spent creating this impenetrable fortress— his private sanctuary where no one could touch him. Not with his army of soldiers and guards stationed around the perimeter fence and patrolling the grounds.

Incompetent fool , he seethed inwardly. His outward composure barely contained the tempest within. The idiot clearly doesn't understand the consequences of failure.

His eyes swept over the meticulously manicured lawn, past the Olympic-sized swimming pool that glimmered like a jewel in the afternoon sun. This sprawling estate, Crowns Grant, was more than just a home; it was a fortress, a symbol of his power and influence.

Lombardo allowed himself a moment of pride. The mansion stood as a trophy to his success, every inch crafted with meticulous attention to detail and no expense spared. It had become a global icon of residential opulence, its very name synonymous with unparalleled luxury as a premier estate in the Capital Region.

As he gazed out over his domain, Lombardo's thoughts turned to his family. Isadora, Sophia Roberta, and Isabella, who were more than aware of the true nature of their lavish lifestyle, enjoyed the fruits of his labor. He offered them a life of unimaginable luxury, and in return, they provided the perfect cover for his illicit activities.

Lombardo didn't get where he was by being careless. To the public eye, everything was done legitimately, though speculation about mafia connections constantly swirled. No one could ever find substantial evidence to have him evicted and imprisoned, and they never would because beneath the polished exterior lurked a ruthless criminal mastermind, one who disposed of threats with chilling efficiency.

"Let them speculate," he mused softly with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "They'll never find what they're looking for."

Those who failed him and potentially could out him to the authorities never had the chance. It was rather difficult to rat him out wearing concrete boots at the riverbed of the Potomac or Hudson Rivers.

The rivers keep their secrets. Their disposal served as a grim warning to any who might consider betraying him.

"Mr. Lombardo, I promise you I have it under control, but remember, I warned you from the get-go, it's going to take time. Jax Crowthorne is highly intelligent and a brilliant businessman. We have to follow protocol. It's a waste of time to attempt to pull the wool over his eyes. If we want to bag him, we have to be clever about it."

Lombardo took a sip of his favorite single malt whiskey before he turned to cast a glacial look on the man attempting to maneuver himself out from under his wrath. A smirk tugged at his lips as his guest shifted uncomfortably under his stare.

Giovanni Lombardo was the puppet master, pulling the strings of a vast criminal empire, and he allowed nothing and no one to stand in his way. He ruled ruthlessly, not only in New York and Washington D.C. No, the entire United States was now his empire. Failure to do his bidding was not an option.

This little shit obviously didn't do his homework before stepping over the line into the world of criminal endeavors... more specifically, into the Genolere world.

Giovanni Lombardo's steely gaze bore into George Larson as he contemplated the man's words. The mobster's imposing figure, clad in an impeccably tailored suit, radiated an aura of menace that seemed to suffocate the very air around them.

"You seem to believe you have it all worked out," Lombardo's voice rumbled, colored with derision as he dissected Larson's every movement, every twitch of discomfort.

This asshole doesn't even realize he's just a pawn in my game , Lombardo mused inwardly. A game piece with leverage... Lombardo's leverage. He served no greater purpose than that.

In my world, no one did.

He watched as Larson shifted his weight as palpable proof of his continued fluster. Beads of sweat formed on Larson's brow, and his eyes darted nervously as he refused to meet Lombardo's penetrating stare. The mobster reveled in the fear he inspired, and he fed off the anxiety that rolled off Larson in waves.

"Believe me," Larson stammered, "if I thought we'd achieve success otherwise, I wouldn't have hesitated. I've known the man from the day he opened the startup to JCP Corporation. I can make it happen, but I need more time. Having him convert willingly will give us so much more power than forcing him."

"I'm not interested in more power, Larson. I want full control." He leaned forward so his massive frame cast a shadow over Larson. "And time," he growled, the word hanging in the air like a threat, "is a luxury we're rapidly running out of."

"Your..."— Lombardo's lips curled into a sneer—"familiarity with the target is the only reason you're still standing here. Don't make me regret this decision."

His weathered face was a map of scars and hard-earned authority. The years had chiseled his features into a mask of intimidation with deep-set eyes that seemed to burn with an inner fire. His strong jaw was clenched in perpetual determination, and his nose had been broken more than once in his early rise to power.

It was rare that Lombardo personally became involved with assets. He had a myriad of Front Bosses who took care of menial tasks of setting up and getting the jobs done. His network of underlings usually insulated him from direct involvement. It was important to preserve his air of untouchable authority.

But this situation was an exception. Time was running out. With Angelo Grecco in jail, one of his best Front Bosses, his hand was forced. The statewide expansion of the Genolere Group's footprint was non-negotiable, and bagging one of the biggest and best property developers in the States was crucial to that plan.

Lombardo's eyes narrowed. Direct involvement was always risky since it left traces and created connections that could be exploited by his enemies or the authorities. But the potential gains... they were too significant to ignore.

"I have difficulty trusting those who turn on their friends, Larson, so it's not wise to push your close relationship with Crowthorne down my throat."

"That's not what I'm—"

"I have learned very early in my career that those who betray the ones closest to them never do it without certain expectations."

"You're paying me a shitload of money, Mr. Lombardo. Need I say more?"

There was another side to the man that only his family and loyal customers to G's Pizzeria and Pasta in upper Manhattan and Washington D.C. knew. He loved to cook, a fallback to the times he had spent in the kitchen with his grandfather. Using the franchises as a front to find a couple of peaceful and relaxing hours a week, he played the part of owner-chef. It was the only place he ever became a different man. Jovial, friendly, and the epitome of a people's man.

It was this look he now cast on George Larson. Lombardo was a brilliant strategist and knew when to switch on the charm.

"Indeed, I do, but I've seen that glimmer in your eyes too many times not to question it. What exactly is it you're after, Larson?"

"I want what that bastard has. A life of luxury, money, and power in the corporate world. I'm sick and tired of playing his lackey. Of being a paid employee. I want to watch him fold, whither, and be forced to live off of crumbs... like I had to all my life."

"You, forced to live off of crumbs?" Lombardo laughed boisterously. "You're such a fucking dickhead. Do you honestly think I don't know everything about you? Even how much you earn down to the last penny?"

Larson paled as he seemingly realized for the first time what a disadvantage he had. That he didn't yield any power in this association.

"You're the kind of fuckface who complains with the white bread under his arm. You're worth millions, and all because of Jax Crowthorne and the shares he gave you over the years. Yes, I know about that, too, so stop pretending you are destitute while he lives large."

Lombardo sat down on a chaise lounge, stretching out his burly frame as he regarded Larson stoically.

"Try again, Larson. Why are you so eager to see Crowthorne crawl among the cockroaches?"

Larson's lips pressed into a thin line. "Fifteen years ago, he took the woman I loved from me, then broke her heart. She committed suicide since she couldn't live with the lifestyle he made her crave... not without him. Her death is on his hands."

"So, you want him dead?"

"No, I want him to suffer... for the rest of his life."

"Well, revenge is an emotion I can definitely work with." His eyes turned speculative. "Perhaps there's a chance that both of us could indeed get what we want from your billionaire friend."