by Bree Porter
“And stole her baby?”
“She was gone by then,” my sister said. “We thought she had abandoned the baby. She left without being seen.”
I looked down at my nephew, trying to see any hint of Adelasia in him. There was none. “Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t know. But I am telling the truth.”
Suddenly, there was a loud slamming of a door. “Cat!”
I snapped my eyes to hers. “Telling the truth, are we?”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t tell them I was coming.”
Dupont came skidding into the church from the back door, face flushed pink from the cold. A few FBI agents followed him, nodding to Catherine in greeting.
Dupont made to go toward us, but I said, “Take another step and I will tell the soldato outside your mother’s home to kill her.”
Dupont paused. He didn’t move. He knew we had visited his mother and he knew I was not making an empty threat.
His eyes went down to the baby. “Catherine, what have you done?”
“Used her common sense.”
I turned as my husband entered the church, his men behind him. He scanned me briefly, his expression hard as he strode down the aisle.
Alessandro stopped a few feet away from us, paralleling Dupont on the other side of us. Catherine and I stayed in the middle, beneath the watchful eyes of the Mary Madonna.
“I told you to come alone,” Catherine said to me.
I shot her a weird look. “And you thought I would?”
She made a face. “I suppose I did.”
Dupont snapped his icy blue eyes to Catherine, his expression furious. “Let’s go. Now.”
“Not so fast, Dupont,” Alessandro said. Straight to the point, my husband went on, “The FBI organized crime unit will leave Chicago today.”
“Why would we do that?” hissed Dupont.
“If you do not, your mother may find herself in a very bad way.”
Catherine flicked her gaze between her man and my husband. “Tristan, maybe it’s time.”
“Listen to your girlfriend, Dupont,” my husband said. “This city is no longer under the care of the FBI.”
“You cannot claim a city, Rocchetti,” Dupont snapped. “Your grandfather couldn’t keep us out.”
Alessandro smiled slowly. “I am not Don Piero.”
Dupont moved to step forward, unknowingly signaling the shadows.
All around us, the sounds of safeties being switched echoed, the noise vulgar in such a holy place.
The FBI agents turned, spotting the dozens of mafiosi instantly. They leaned against columns, stood on top of statues, waited beneath the windows. All of them pointed their guns toward the FBI agents, little red lights marking them.
I saw Dupont grow pale. He glanced at Catherine. A red light was trained on her, dancing over her throat.
He looked to me.
Gracefully, I stepped back from my sister and walked toward my husband. Alessandro welcomed me into the fold, tucking me beside him, baby to my chest.
“Choose your next move wisely, Dupont,” my husband said. “My men will.”
I looked up at him, cataloging the darkness of his eyes, the harshness of his expression. From his smile to his posture, it was clear my husband was in control of this situation, fulfilling his birthright, his namesake. The Godless.
I looked back to my sister. She had not moved.
“Go to New York, Catherine,” I called to her. “Chicago is not for you any longer.”
Her eyes met mine. Decades of memories and shared blood hovered between us.
I saw the blurry video of her shoving Raul away from his gun in my mind.
That was why Alessandro had agreed not to kill her. He was in her debt for saving my life, he had told me. I hoped she knew that. I hoped she figured out this was a choice he was giving them, out of gratitude and not weakness.
And he would only offer it once.
Catherine nodded slowly. “Tristan, let’s go. This church has seen enough bloodshed. A lot at our own hands.”
Dupont glanced at my sister. “They’re monsters, Catherine.”
“And we have done heinous things to punish them for this fact,” she murmured. But the church was so quiet we could hear her clearly. “Let’s go to New York, or mobless Washington. I am done here.”
Catherine leaned down, picking up the graduation photos. The red light followed her movements.
Dupont shifted on his feet, glaring scornfully at my husband. “Your kind do not deserve mercy. You hunt and kill and ruin lives,” he said. “Your reckoning will come. It may not be at my hands, or Cat’s. But it will come, and you will beg for mercy.”
Alessandro looked unbothered by Dupont’s threat. “Go and play with your USBs and bombs somewhere else, Dupont. Chicago is not the city for you.” He glanced down to me, eyes dark. “She will eat you alive.”
Very slowly, Special Agent Tristan Dupont bowed his head. “Enjoy your city, Rocchetti. Enjoy your wife and son, but keep them close.”
I sucked air through my teeth. The FBI had been so close to leaving unharmed. But threatening Dante and me?
Dupont had made a fatal error.
My husband’s expression didn’t flinch. He rose his hand, flicking a single finger.
The sound shot through the church, bullet hitting flesh. Dupont’s cry echoed through the church.
He hit the marble with a crack, blood flickering over the precious stone.
Catherine gasped, darting forward, hands going straight for the wound. Her scream could have shattered the windows.
“Don’t be stupid,” Alessandro said when the other FBI agents tried to step forward, guns at the ready. They stopped at the command in his tone, foot soldiers to a different king, but unable to ignore an order.
He held out his arm to me and I took it.
“Sister,” I said.
Catherine looked up at me, tears coursing down her cheeks. She didn’t say anything.
“Ericson is ours.”
Her lips trembled. “Whatever, whatever! Take him! I don’t care!” She turned back down to Dupont, murmuring his name over and over, hands pressed to his chest.
Alessandro and I left the church, arm in arm, his men following like a murder of crows. My sister’s howls followed us down the aisle and out into the snow.
“He will be fine,” my husband said. “He was shot in the shoulder. It looks worse than it is.”
“You should’ve killed him,” was my reply.
While Dante and Adriano slept, Alessandro and I went to city hall.
Like usual, Ericson was working late. And by working late, I meant entertaining his mistress. As soon as we strolled into his office, she shrieked, ducking under the table, bare skin on display.
Ericson looked furious at the interruption, limp dick hanging between his naked legs. “How dare you!”
“Tell her to leave.” Alessandro said.
The woman didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed her clothes, fleeing out of the office, squealing.
“I will call security—”
“Your security is busy,” I interrupted. “With our security.”
Ericson paled. He knew what that meant. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, we’re not here for you,” I said, smiling at my husband in camaraderie. Like we were strolling through the park. “But he is.”
Salisbury was pushed forward from the hallway, looking a little flushed and confused. Behind him, Nero watched, ready to block the doorway should he need to. Bill’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Ericson and he turned to me.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Alessandro pulled his gun out from his back, laying it down on the desk. The two politicians tensed. I caught my husband’s grin at their stress—he didn’t have a very high tolerance for politicians, but he had agreed to help me.
“Whoever kills the other, can be mayor of my city,” Alessandro said. “My wife trusts you wil
l make the right decision, but I disagree.”
Ericson spluttered, “This is illegal! The FBI—”
“Are gone,” I interrupted. “Quite recently actually. They allowed me to keep you, which was very sweet of them.”
He paled.
I wondered if he was remembering the words I had said to him all those months ago, when we had stood in Sneaky Sal’s.
Your filthy husband isn’t here, and your father-in-law couldn’t give less of a shit about your life.
It’s not them you should be worried about.
Alessandro held his elbow out to me; I took it.
“Think of the power, gentlemen,” I called back as my husband escorted me out of the room.
We closed the door softly behind us.
I had gotten the idea driving back from the church, remembering Anthony Jr Scaletta and the blood he had spilled. It was a common act of the mafia to have young boys kill to become wise guys. After all, if they ever got too lippy, the Outfit could have them imprisoned on charges of murder.
Salisbury was challenging me too often. He needed to be kept on a tighter leash.
“Do you think they will do it?” I asked Alessandro.
“Of course,” he said. “Nothing fuels a man more than power and greed.”
In the shadows, Nero made a noise of agreement.
I leaned against the wall, listening.
There was a loud bang inside the office, which led to some scuffling. I could hear yelling and grunting.
Then, a gunshot.
Alessandro rose his eyebrows as the door open, a bloody Salisbury stepping forward, gun in hand.
“No one will ever know what you did,” I told him. “It will be our little secret.”
Salisbury paled.
As he walked past, Nero clapped him hard on the back, laughing. “You belong to us now, Bill.”
From the look in his eyes, Salisbury knew this. He turned to me, nostrils flaring, “Why—”
I cut him off, clucking my tongue. “No, no. That is not how I am addressed.” I smiled at him, nothing kind or friendly about it. “I’ll see you on Monday, Bill? The Historical Society is voting who they want to be their new director.”
I had already won—we both knew that.
And with that power, I now owned the all the historical buildings in Chicago in everything but name. Whenever a contractor wanted a piece of land, they would have to come to me, have to suck up to me.
I kissed Salisbury’s cheek in goodbye. In response, he passed out.
Alessandro grunted a laugh. “Politicians are little bitches.”
D ays later, I stood in the nursery, leaning against the side of the crib. Dante and Adriano napped side by side. Their little chests rose and fell in sync. A plush elephant separated them, stopping Dante from rolling onto his cousin.
When Chiara ran into the nursery, I pressed a finger my lips, hushing her.
Seconds later, more di Traglias walked in. Including Nataniele di Traglia, patriarch of the di Traglia family. An old man who had been with the Outfit since he was a young boy and scooped off the Sicilian streets by Don Piero. His family was vital to peace in the Outfit, a fact we all knew.
Alessandro followed, running a hand around my back in comfort. We stood together, staring down the di Traglias.
“The child. Adriano,” my husband said, gesturing to the crib.
Chiara went to rush forward but Nataniele grabbed her arm, gently holding her back. He didn’t spare a glance at the child. “Adriano?” he asked.
“It was the closest I could get to his mother’s name,” I said.
He bowed his head.
Chiara’s eyes watered. “I want Salvatore dead! Our family’s reputation has been destroyed, and now we have bastard!”
“That’s enough, Chiara,” I said softly. “If you’re going to be a problem, you can leave.”
She fell quiet.
To Nataniele, I said, “Your family is a very important part of the Outfit. What Salvatore Jr did is unacceptable and was not an action we support.”
His gaze moved to Alessandro behind me, but my husband nodded in agreement with my statement.
“I have been a part of this organization for a long time. The death of your grandfather broke the Outfit in ways we cannot yet see, but his death also caused old feuds and bargains to disappear,” Nataniele said. “Due to an incident with my son, your grandfather stated that no Rocchetti and di Traglia will marry.”
It had been a punishment due to what happened with the Ossanis. A murderous tale that wasn’t mine to tell. But Don Piero had been clear with his instructions.
“We know this,” Alessandro said gravely.
Nataniele glanced around the room, at the plush giraffe and olive-green walls. He glanced at the changing table and Dante’s tiny little shoes. Even the mobile, with little lions on it, caught his attention.
“My family is a respectable one,” Nataniele said, once he had taken in the nursery. “A strong, proud family. The death of Adelasia and birth of Adriano have damaged us. We are unable to arrange marriages for our daughters and our sons are struggling to be accepted by capos.”
I looked to my son, so young and innocent. “I am sorry your reputation has taken such a hit, Nataniele. It brings us no pleasure.”
“Thank you, Mrs Rocchetti,” he said, ignoring the fact that growing up he used to call me Sophia and I called him Zio Nataniele. “There is only one way to ensure my family is allowed back into the Outfit.”
Alessandro did not dance around any longer, growing bored with the sly words and comments. “My wife told me there are no available girls. Portia, your youngest, has been betrothed to Tommaso’s grandson.”
“We would be willing to forfeit that match,” Nataniele said, not sounding convinced.
“No,” I spoke up, “I will not risk alienating the Palermos.” To Nataniele, I said, “The next girl born into your family will marry my son, joining the two families.”
Nataniele nodded. “I want it publicly stated. Our reputation is in tatters.”
Old promises ran through my brain.
I, Alessandro Giorgio Rocchetti, pledge on my omertà vow to never agree to any of my future children’s marriages without their consent or approval.
I, Sophia Antonia Rocchetti, pledge on my beloved Gucci handbag to never sell my children off like broodmares.
Upstairs, in the corner of my bedroom, was my singed Gucci bag. When Alessandro had found me burning it, he hadn’t reacted. Instead, he had held my hand tightly, languishing in his own broken oath.
We didn’t have any other choice. The di Traglias were too important to the Outfit and their reputation had taken too much of a hit.
I’m sorry, my son, I thought, staring at my baby. Hopefully you will find what your father and I have managed to find in our arranged marriage.
Alessandro snorted. “No. When the child is born, we will announce it.” He stretched out his hand. “When the girl turns eighteen, she will wed my son.”
The other man shook his hand, cementing the agreement. “The next girl born into the di Traglia family will wed your son when she turns eighteen.”
And so, the deal was made.
“And Adriano?” Nataniele asked.
“He belongs to the Rocchettis,” Alessandro said. “He is not any of your concern.”
The old man nodded, looking faintly relieved. “Very well. And Salvatore Jr...He has dishonored my family.”
“The kill will be mine,” my husband said. “But you are welcome to do whatever you want with the remains.”
Speaking of the devil, Oscuro poked his head into the nursery, features set. “Your brother is here, Alessandro. He has come for his son.”
Alessandro leaned down to me, hand to my cheek.
“One more to go,” I whispered, knowing this final obstacle to be one my husband would have to face alone.
“My love.” he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Let us go and accept our dynasty.”
Tonight, a new Don would be crowned.
Salvatore Jr stood in the middle of the crowd, waiting.
People stepped to the side as my husband made his way through them, parting like the Red Sea. But instead of a prophet of God, they were making way for the Godless.
“Where is my son, brother?” Salvatore Jr asked, voice cold.
“Adelasia is dead, in case you were worried.”
“I know that,” my brother-in-law said. “She didn’t put up much of a fight apparently.”
I saw the di Traglias shift in the crowd.
“Now, where is the child?”
“Worry about yourself right now, brother,” Alessandro’s voice was deep.
Salvatore Jr’s features did not shift. “Do you challenge me finally, little brother?”
Everyone held their breath.
I pushed to the front of the crowd, ignoring the comforting words and praises my way. Snowflakes fluttered down, catching in my hair, but I couldn’t feel the chill.
Alessandro bared his teeth. “To the death, brother.”
His brother nodded. “To the death, brother. Winner will be Don of the Chicago Outfit.”
“Don of the Chicago Outfit,” my husband agreed.
For a moment, the world was quiet, still. The snow itself seemed to relax and watch.
Who was going to be the next king? Who would lead the Rocchetti Dynasty into a new golden era? Who would be the next Don of the Chicago Outfit?
Then, like a crack of lightning, both Alessandro and Salvatore lunged.
They met in the middle.
I had never seen a fight like this. Not at the church where I was married, or when Alessandro and Toto had destroyed my foyer.
They were both fighting for their lives, their future. Salvatore Jr was older and strong and emotionless, but my husband was fueled by wrath and ambition.