The muted TV flashed images of an old mob flick. He loved the idea of mafia and was always secretly flattered when people mistook his raspy, Jersey accent for a sign that he must be a wise guy. Emulating the suave villains he’d seen in so many gangster flicks, he downplayed speculations about his own involvement. He never believed he might actually be caught up with some very dangerous affiliates of the Russian mob. He knew there were shady deals going down with Fedya, and of course he knew money was being funneled in and out of the club in a dubious way, but he was so caught up in the fantasy of the dangerous cover that it hadn’t occurred to him it might be real. Picking up his beer from the side table, he took a pull from the longneck. Could Fedya have really been responsible for Lena’s death? Could he really be a Russian mobster? Gio always assumed he was rich and like many wealthy men, liked to flaunt power. That’s where he believed it ended. Fedya had regular meetings in the club with various foreign nationals, and the gang of thugs who never seemed to go off duty.
