Giovanni Hallett Sr., owned a string of the club district's most prestigious venues, but the real money flowed from his electrical and cementing companies.

Whether pouring a luxury driveway or fitting a rival with permanent concrete shoes, Giovanni held the syndicate's monopoly on both the legitimate and the final solutions. Giovanni's thriving business ventures earned him respect from most people in their circle. But Mickey Rice was never one of them. Giovanni was strict when it came to teaching his children a solid work ethic, yet he always left their actual career paths entirely up to them. He taught his older sons both electrical and cement work, giving them dependable, hands-on trades they could fall back on no matter what. Beyond that foundation, though, their futures were theirs to decide. When his three eldest boys chose to become companions, Giovanni didn’t condemn them, didn’t lecture, didn’t try to change their minds. He simply accepted it.

Mickey, however, made no secret of his disgust. To him, Giovanni’s hands-off approach was permissive weakness at best, and a betrayal of proper Catholic values at worst.

Giovanni saw straight through the judgment. In his view, Mickey was the real hypocrite; a man who wore his Irish Catholicism like armor mainly to look down on others, especially when it came to anything involving homosexuality.

Giovanni, no less devout in his own Italian way, had long since decided that faith didn’t require turning your back on your own children.

Still, the two men kept things civil enough whenever syndicate business forced them into the same room. Collection day was one of those days. The office above Technicolor Tease, Giovanni’s most popular club, sat quiet in the mid-afternoon lull. Downstairs the stage lights were off, the multicolored floor gleaming from being polished earlier, the bar stools still upturned on the bar.

Upstairs, the air smelled faintly of last night’s spilled bourbon and the lemon polish Giovanni’s cleaner used every morning. Giovanni sat behind the wide desk he’d had since the first club, one of his “good luck” charms. The black briefcase lay open in front of him; he was sliding the last banded stack of hundreds into place with the same steady hands he used to thread wire or smooth concrete.

Mickey stood just inside the doorway, green t-shirt tucked neat, blonde hair catching the light from the window. Arms crossed, he watched every bill go in like he was auditing the count himself. “There’s going to be a three percent increase starting next month,” Mickey said.

Giovanni didn’t pause. “Mm-hmm.” “Did you hear me?” Mickey’s voice edged sharper, irritation creeping in. Giovanni stopped, set the final stack down, and looked up. His dark eyes met Mickey’s green ones with matching frustration. “Crystal. Three percent.”

He slid the last bills home, closed the briefcase with a solid snap, spun it around on the desk so the handle pointed straight at Mickey. Mickey stepped forward, took the case by the grip, tested the weight for half a second. “My son may come to collect next month,” he said, tone flat, already turning for the door. Giovanni waited until the latch clicked shut behind him. “Fucking prick,” he muttered to the empty room.