by Fiona Grace
She yawned as she spooned the soup into a bowl. Then she sat at the bistro table with a glass of water—she was sick of wine, by now—and downed the soup. All the while, she glared at the oranges.
I don’t even like oranges, she thought, wondering what she would do with a hundred of them.
When she finished her meal, she yawned again. So much had happened that day, she couldn’t believe it. She climbed the stairs to bed, Nick at her heels, got changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and crawled into bed, expecting to be asleep in seconds.
Of course, that didn’t happen.
She watched the moonlight, scraping across the plaster wall opposite her, and thought about Rafael. How long had he been active in the mafia? Had he killed people? What other terrible things had his family done? And . . . had he really just shown up on her front stoop with a bunch of oranges, hoping to get to know her better?
Yeah, Brina would’ve just loved it if she brought him home to the States with her. She nearly laughed at the thought. You had Signore Hotness and Mr. Dreamy Abs, and you chose the Mafia Don. You really know how to pick the winners, Aud.
Wait. Was he a Don? Or . . . was he something else?
Scooting out of her bed, she grabbed her phone and Googled “Sicilian Mafia”. It brought up a long Wikipedia page, entirely devoted to the island’s rich mafia history. There was a thick section of the Piccolo family, too. Though Rafael’s name wasn’t mentioned explicitly, the Piccolos had once had factions in towns all over the island, and were noted for money laundering, racketeering—all the typical crimes that most regular, law-abiding people couldn’t define. Of course, there had been murders, too, even a large-scale assassination in Palermo in the 1960s. The Don, Salvador Piccolo, was extremely powerful, and had dozens and dozens of important people in the police, the government, and public service, on the take. But he’d been murdered in the 1990s, by none other than the Grinnelli family.
There was a photo of him—a heavyset man with a pronounced moustache and familiar eyes. Salvador Piccolo looked very much like Rafael. Was he Rafael’s grandfather?
It was so fascinating, she nearly got lost, researching it. There were pages and pages of crimes, associations, events, dates, murders . . . it went on almost forever. When she finally poked her head up from the rabbit hole, she realized it was almost midnight. Nick was curled up by her side, snoring loudly. She nudged him a bit to get him on a quieter cycle.
She wished she only had the problems with G and Mason, or the renovation, to figure out. Now, she had mafia stress on her hands. Why couldn’t she just walk in the other direction? Why did she keep having to get herself in the thick of things?
She set her phone down, pulled the covers up to her chin, and rolled over, hoping she could sleep.
This time, she was just beginning to doze off when she heard a small noise, a bit of a cracking sound, downstairs, in the kitchen. Ordinarily, she’d have thought it was the house settling, but when it came again, louder, Nick’s ears perked up and he stood at attention. Then he raced for the stairs.
She groaned. “Nick. Get back here. It’s probably just a—whatever.”
When he didn’t return, she sighed and threw off the sheet covering her.
“Fine. I guess I’ll go see what it is,” she muttered, climbing out of bed. As she did, rubbing her eyes, she could’ve sworn that Nick let out a bit of a menacing growl.
Oh, great. Another mouse.
The moonlight streaming into her bedroom did little to light the narrow stairwell, so she navigated down each narrow step slowly, gripping the wall for support, since she had yet to install a railing. When she reached the second-to-last step, she fumbled at the wall for the light switch, peering through almost pitch-blackness. The only thing she could see was two shining pinpoints—Nick’s eyes. He was sitting on the kitchen chair, still as could be.
“What’s wrong, Bub? You lose the mouse?” she asked, finally locating the light switch. She flipped it on. “That isn’t like y—”
She froze when she realized that Nick wasn’t sitting on the chair. No, there was a human there.
“Oh sh—” she started, finishing with, “Sugar. What the . . .?” as she grasped at her madly beating heart and pressed herself back against the wall.
In contrast, the intruder was placidly stroking Nick’s fur, as if he hadn’t just broken into a private residence. She had locked the door before bed, hadn’t she? The man, frowning, was large, older, wearing a dark suit, and . . . familiar.
It was Giuseppe. Rafael’s “uncle.”
He hadn’t liked her yesterday, and judging from the disgust in his eyes, he seemed to like her even less, now.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered hoarsely. “You nearly scared the buttons out of me!”
His frown deepened, and he stopped petting Nick and shooed him from his lap. As she did, she noticed the bulge at his side, under his blazer. This was not good. She’d seen this in a movie, once. If it wasn’t a horse head in the bed, it was a late-night, unexpected visit. They do things at night, under the cover of darkness. No witnesses.
He said, “Veterinaria.”
“Yes,” she said, remembering that Rafael had said he didn’t speak any English. Her eyes darted toward the side, to the front door. Could she get there in time before he drew his weapon? “Si.”
“Audrey Smart.”
She nodded and took one single step toward the door, testing it. He visibly stiffened. At that, she decided to take no more. “Sì, che vuoi?” What do you want?
You already know. He wants to kill you. You know too much.
As if to confirm the fact, he brought his hand to his sidearm and rested it there. Maybe Rocco and Blocko had told him of the little dust-up they’d had on the street, earlier. She braced herself.
Then he said, “You know why I’m here.”
She blinked. “Oh. You can speak English? Rafael said—”
“I taught him English, when he was a boy,” he said disdainfully. “He make a little joke.”
“Oh.” She let out a nervous giggle, even though the joke wasn’t funny then, or now. “And you are here because . . .”
“Because you need to watch yourself. I saw you yesterday. I know your type. You are a chiacchierona. You talk.” He moved his hand like a jabbering mouth. “Too much. And that is bad for us.”
She swallowed. “Is that a threat?”
He let out a short laugh. “Not from me. I’m the last person you have to worry about, bella.”
She started to relax. “So . . . you’re not here to kill me?”
“No. Of course not. But there are others in our business who do not like the people who chitter chatter all day long. And you will be wise to avoid them. Avoid all of us. You understand?”
She nodded. “The thing is, I’ve been trying to. But it seems like I keep getting caught up in it.”
“You need to get yourself un-caught. Stop asking questions and keep your distance, mi senti? You can get hurt if you do not. This is not a war you want to be part of.”
She’d been crossing her arms and realized now that she had goosebumps all over them. This was weird. Standing in her kitchen, after midnight, talking about her safety with the mafia capo who’d just broken in. She’d spent all her life thinking the mafia were evil guys, and yet the ones she’d met so far had been some of the nicest men she’d come across. He’d come all this way to warn her.
She almost told him that she wished he’d have picked a better time, one less prone to giving her a heart attack, but then she remembered her conversation with the cousins. They needed to lie low. “Thank you for your concern. I will try.”
He stood up. “Good.” He took a step toward the door, but hesitated. “I can only imagine what you must think about us. But Rafael is a good, good boy. I can promise you that Rafael and my boys had nothing to do with the murder.”
“Then who did?” She asked, exasperated. By this time, she didn’t expect an answer. So many pe
ople--Rafael, Rocco, Blocko—had sworn up and down that the Piccolo family had nothing to do with the murder. But when she asked this question, they all simply shrugged.
So she was surprised when he said, “Pietro Grinnelli may have been a Grinnelli, but he was a little like Rafael. Rafael learned from me. We were trying to keep peace. Pietro, he was not the worst of the Grinnellis. He wanted peace, too. According to my nephew, he said he had some information for Rafael, and had come here to deliver it. He never made it.”
“Information? What information?”
He shook his head. “I suppose we will never know. But all I know is that it’s not for you to care about. It’s our business, and we will handle it.”
“You’re going to handle it when the Grinnellis come for payback, and there’s a full-out mafia war on the outskirts of Mussomeli?” she asked.
He nodded. “I hope it will not come to that. But yes. We do not want to hurt innocent people.”
He went to the door, opened it, and nodded at her before passing through. A second later, he was gone, disappearing into the blackness like a vapor, as if he’d never been there before.
She closed the door, and this time, made absolutely sure it was locked. By the time she climbed into bed, she was wide awake.
Was there going to be a mafia war, right outside her bedroom window? If so, she couldn’t just let it happen. She had to speak to Rafael and end this, somehow, once and for all.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Audrey yawned as she stepped outside to start the day, and blinked her bleary eyes in the sunlight, then downed a few strong gulps of the coffee she’d made to wake her up. She planned to go and talk to Rafael, after her one early check-up appointment that she needed to make it to. That is, unless there was a message on the voicemail, cancelling it, just like all the others had been.
“All right, Bub,” she said to Nick, who was sniffing the ground curiously. “Keep me awake. Know any good jokes?”
He barely noticed her, so busy was he, sniffing whatever trail he’d caught. She would’ve rolled her eyes, but she didn’t have the energy.
She’d barely slept, the night before. It wasn’t just the upcoming mob war that was on her mind, though she’d made a mental note to say something to councilman Falco about it. It was so much more, all of it grating at her. The two men she couldn’t seem to choose between. Poor Bambino, who she hadn’t been able to help. As wonderful as life in Mussomeli had turned out to be, all of these recent problems made her wonder if she’d made a mistake, dropping everything in Boston to come here.
You question whether moving here was the right choice almost once a week, she reminded herself. Get over it. Things will get better.
And they usually did.
Once the murderer was found.
Which only made her more eager to find out who’d killed Pietro Grinnelli. Yes, she’d made a promise to stay away from the mafia, but sometimes, the only way over was through. Maybe she needed to perform a little sacrifice in order to get action.
Besides, if she could prevent a mob war in Mussomeli, wouldn’t it be worth it?
The only problem was, how could she find the killer if she completely avoided the Piccolo clan, like she’d promised Rafael and Giuseppe? She had to butt out. That was clear. A mafia warning was serious business.
But the mafia hadn’t taken into account that the police thought she was responsible, too. And so that meant she was already implicated.
Rafael and the rest of the Piccolos couldn’t come into Mussomeli. She couldn’t go into the orange groves. Maybe . . . just maybe she could find out the information about the murder without leaving the town proper. Maybe she could find everything right here, under her nose.
Suddenly, an idea came to her, an idea even better than begging Rafael to keep her out of the brewing mafia war. She rushed up the street toward the clinic, so fast that even Nick had a hard time keeping up. She found Luigi at il Mercado de Pepe, bringing out that morning’s fresh fruits and vegetables. “Luigi!” she called, breathless as she rushed to him. “Just the man I wanted to see!”
He frowned at her. “You no listen to me,” he said, pouting a bit. “I told you those men were no good, and the next thing I know, I see you talking to them?”
She winced. She hadn’t realized he could see that far down the street. “Well, they were outside my clinic and I had a question to ask them. That’s all.”
He eyed her dubiously. “What do you need help with?”
“Yes!” She pointed to the bin of oranges outside his shop. It only made sense that someone was collecting them for sale, and that whoever was might have seen something at the grove that day. “I was wondering if you could tell me where you got them from?”
His doubt increased. “Dottore Smart . . .” he began in a warning tone.
She shrugged innocently. “It’s not about the mafia! I just have a . . . keen interest in oranges.” She smiled, knowing how foolish it sounded.
He waved her off. “I get all the produce from Bucci’s wholesaler. On via Milano.”
“Milano?” Mason lived on that street. That wasn’t far away. She checked her phone. She could probably get there and ask some questions before the clinic opened up. She rushed off, calling behind her, “Thank you!”
“You be careful!” he called after her as she rushed up the street, toward the clinic. Milano was only two blocks over. If she got there quickly enough, she’d have no problem making it back by nine. But as she reached the front door, she saw Concetta there, juggling her bag and her keys.
“Hi, Concetta!” she said in a breathless rush. “I think all the morning appointments were cancelled, but the nine. You mind if I run an errand afterwards?”
Concetta blinked, a little startled at first, but then smiled and tossed her hair. “Sure. You can leave now. The nine was cancelled.”
“Oh, it was?”
She nodded. “I checked the voicemail from home. I hope you’re not getting yourself into trouble, are you?”
“No . . . not at all. Just thinking about oranges,” she muttered absently, crossing the street and heading past the main piazza, with the fountain. She reached the via, trying not to notice as people seemed to swerve around her, and then walked up the street until she found the wholesaler, a nondescript brick building with many bays for trucks, and burly men unloading crates of goods.
She slipped inside one of the open garage doors. There was a man there, with a flat cap and a moustache, standing by a small truck, full of orange crates, as it was unloaded. She walked up to him. “Ciao,” she said. “Did you just pick up those oranges?”
He studied her, chewing on a toothpick, an amused expression on his face. “Americana?”
“Oh, scusi.” She pointed to the oranges. “Dove . . . avete . . . preso le noci di . . .” Ugh. What is the word for orange?
He seemed to enjoy watching her struggle. Finally, he put her out of her misery. “Arancia.”
“Right. Arancia? Dove . . .”
He laughed. “Don’t bother. I got the oranges from the grove outside. That’s where I always get them. I’ve done it as long as I’ve worked here, some thirty years.”
She blinked. “You did? You mean, from the Tivoli estate?”
“Yes, signorina.”
“But I thought the place was abandoned for a while?”
“It wasn’t abandoned. It was just that no one was living there. They had someone take care of the grove, though. Brought in good money, I’ll suspect.”
“I see. Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who was taking care of the grove?”
He shrugged. “I never saw him. I think it was a company. I never dealt with them. The pickers they hired would fill the crates and load them up on the side of the road for me, every other day. That’s all.”
Audrey scratched the side of her head. If that was the case, there’d been pickers there. Maybe not when she’d been there, but in the morning of the murder. “So you have
no idea what the name of the company was?”
He pointed to a crate at the back of his truck. It said, DeLuca. “That’s the most I know.”
“So you’ve been going there for thirty years. Have you noticed any strange things going on there?”
“Strange things? Yeah, plenty. Especially lately. It was a large property with no fencing and a boarded-up home. A lot of people went there that weren’t supposed to be there, and I’m sure plenty of things went on there that weren’t technically legal.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, you’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? You’re asking about mafia stuff?”
She nodded.
“None of that. When the Piccolos lived there, they were always pretty quiet and kept to themselves. That body they found out there was the first one that I know of.”
“So you saw people on the property who weren’t supposed to be there?” she asked.
“All the time.” He pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and spit off to the side. “The pickers were the only ones who should’ve been there. They were mostly kids, I think. Twelve, thirteen years old. But then there were others . . .you know, thieves, transients. There was a poacher I kept seeing, again and again.”
“A poacher?”
He nodded. “I assume he was a poacher. Don’t think killing animals on private property is legal. But there was nobody there to stop him, so he kept doing it. Went by the name of Ricardo. Had a truck like mine, but with a red front.”
“He was killing animals?” Audrey asked, horrified.
“Yes. Rabbits, mostly. Other small game. Sells them in the market at Abruzzo.”
Though the idea of hunting animals disgusted her personally, she understood that people had to eat. Understanding that necessary evil was what had kept her from becoming a vegetarian, all these years. But little bunnies, with twitchy noses and fluffy tails? Her heart clenched at the thought.
Right about the same time, something occurred to her. “If he was poaching, then he had a gun. Right?”