Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1

by Di Corte, Bella

  “Mari—” He went to say her entire name, but I shook my head, daring him. “Do you want her last name?” He had caught his breath, but his voice was like sandpaper.

  “Yeah, give it to me,” I said.

  “Flores.”

  “What do you remember about her?” I rolled my teeth over my bottom lip. “Specifics.”

  He caught the gesture and nodded. “Just give me a second.” He took a few deep breaths and then sighed. “Young. Around thirteen, maybe younger.”

  No, you fucker, she looked younger because she was in foster and never had a steady stream of proper meals. Which made his offense even worse. He thought she was younger, and he still put his hands on her.

  “Her face had the potential to become something special. Her nose was weird, but her body was tight. She had nice tits. And that ass? She was skinny, but it was already boom.” He laughed. “We touched each other—” When he caught the look on my face, the roll of my teeth over my lip again, he was quicker and smarter this time. He changed his story. “I touched her. All right! I touched her. She was irresistible.”

  “She fought.”

  “Not at first. She didn’t expect it. The last time she pulled a knife on me. Then she was gone. Took off. They had her down as a runaway for a while, but she was a system kid. No one really looks.”

  “You made her believe that kindness comes with strings.”

  “It does. I took the homeless bitch in.” His face was pinched, but all of a sudden, it relaxed. “That’s her! Palermo’s kid! You’re looking for her.” He was stupid in some ways, but too perceptive in others. He knew if I was asking, there was a reason.

  “The Scarpones have a hit on her.”

  He made a disbelieving noise. “Yeah. There’s money on her head. Has been since that night. It only grows with time. More interest gained with the years. The first one to bring Arturo her severed head gets the entire sweet pot. Man.” He shook his head and whistled.

  I knew he wished that he would’ve pieced it together sooner, recognized her, so the entire sweet pot could’ve been his, along with full access to her pussy before handing her over. The pot wasn’t about the money; it was about being in better graces with Arturo and his attack dog, Achille. If Quillo had to answer to Arturo, he dealt with Achille on a regular basis.

  “I still can’t get over you calling the Scarpones the Scarpones. Man, have times changed.” He sighed and then his eyes widened. “I do remember something else about her. Her lips. Those lips.” His eyes softened at the thought. “You looking for her now? I can help you out. I can’t remember hair or eye color, but it’s really no issue. I know people, and I’d recognize her anywhere. And if you’re worried about me running back to tell your family, you know I won’t say anything. You and my sister—”

  He stopped himself, and lucky for him he did. I was about to sever his head and deliver it to the Scarpone family free of charge.

  “Just offering.” He held his hands up.

  I leaned to the side, took out another small gun from behind my back, and set it on the table. Quillo glanced at it before he trained his eyes back on me. I leaned forward and steepled my hands, my fingers covering my mouth. “I don’t need to look for her, Quillo. I know where she is right this fucking second.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I do. She’s at home, in our bed, sleeping. My wife. You fucked with my wife, Quillo. You touched her when she was a child in your care. What should have been a safe place, you made into a scum prison. You wanna know why I did what I did? Why I saved Marietta Bettina Palermo?” I rolled my teeth over my lip.

  “I saved her because she was innocent. I traded my life so her innocence could live. And then you know what I learn, Quillo? I learn that a sick fuck made her believe that kindness was a nasty thing. That it came with strings. You took all that I sacrificed for her and twisted it up. You took that innocence and made her feel ashamed. You made something that was supposed to be clean, the only time in life it can be, seem filthy by putting your hands on her. How do you think I feel about that, Quillo? What do you think I’ll do to make sure you never do it again? Not to mine. Not to anyone.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while. He didn’t even try to deny it or defend it. He couldn’t. There are some men who will sit and listen to excuses. Not this one. There was no excuse that could save his life. Business matters could be negotiated, but a personal offense? Unforgivable.

  He was sweating again, his lips pursed. “You fell in love with her. You fell in love with Palermo’s kid.”

  I smiled and Quillo moved his head back in response, but he was about to use anger to cover his fear. Old habits die hard, but I never forgot.

  He pounded the table with his fist. The gun trembled. “You fucking love her! The spawn of that fucker Palermo! He was as evil as your father! My sister. She was a good girl. She didn’t deserve what happened to her! And you sat there and watched it. And now you sit in front of me and condemn me when your conscience is as filthy as they fucking come. You watched them tear my sister in two, and you felt nothing! She wanted you to love her! She loved you. And you couldn’t even say it. You didn’t even fight for her! And now you marry Palermo’s daughter. A whore! A bi—”

  I leaned across the table and grabbed him by his throat again, and this time, he tried to fight me. He clawed at the glove but was otherwise subdued. “You’re out of shape, Quillo. All those rich, fatty meals have gone straight to your heart. All that wheezing.” I shook my head. “It’s not good. Careful with that mouth, or I’ll have to take that tongue out. Open your airway up a bit.”

  Once he relaxed and stopped fighting me, I released him, and he fell into the chair again. He wheezed this time, banging on the table for air. I picked up the gun, examined it, and then set it down when he calmed.

  “This is not about love. This is about loyalty. Respect. Something your family never knew anything about. So.” I pushed the gun toward him. “What’ll it be? The gun or me?” I smiled at him, showing some teeth.

  He snatched the gun from the table, put it to his temple, and closed his eyes. He shot me the bird, said, “Fuck you, Pretty Boy Prince. I’ll see you in hell one day,” and then pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  It took a second, but his eyes sprang open when he realized the gun was empty. Click. Click. Click. His finger was frantic as it continually pulled the trigger.

  I threw my head back and laughed. “They might’ve killed me, but some things always stay the same, Quillo. Apparently, the same goes for you. You never learn.” I sighed. “You should know better. I’d never go that easy on you.” Then I rose from my seat and hit him so hard in the chest that I felt his bone crack against my glove. Then I set my hand over his mouth and nose, draining the life out of him.

  13

  Mariposa

  “What do you think, Vera II? Should we add more rosemary? More basil? Or how about thyme?” I lifted it to my nose and sniffed too hard. Then I sneezed and coughed. “A little of that will go a long way. But rosemary? I love the smell of it.” This time, I didn’t put the bottle up so close.

  Vera II looked exactly like Vera I, except her pot was different. After Capo had shown me around, and I started to get comfortable, I noticed Vera II sitting on the table next to my side of the bed, right next to the watch. The original Vera’s leaves were skimpy, and the same was true for Vera II. I could’ve sworn they were the same plant, but I knew better.

  How could he have given me the same plant?

  It just seemed odd, how alike they were. And I would’ve thought that he would’ve bought a plant with more aloe to it.

  This time around, I swore to bulk Vera II up. She already had a dose of plant food for succulents. Every once in a while I moved her around so she’d have equal amounts of light and rest.

  During one of my doctor’s appointments—that was a term during our meeting, I had to see a few of them since I hadn’t in years—I read while in the waiting room. The magazi
ne stated that talking to your plants makes them grow faster. It also said that plants seemed to react to female voices better than they did male ones. So whenever I was home alone, Vera II and I had conversations.

  Since I was making dinner and home alone, she got an earful. I could’ve called Keely, but I decided not to.

  I’d been married for two weeks, and even though I talked to Kee, it wasn’t often, and our conversations seemed…short. I knew she still loved me, but she was struggling with Harrison’s romantic feelings and my platonic ones after he confessed to me how he felt. We were on unsteady ground. We usually talked about everything—mostly how we were going to survive—but since everything had been turned upside down, we traded what we once called “poor people’s problems” for “rich people’s problems.”

  It was an entirely new world to me, and I was still playing catch up. So many things that I’d written in my journal were happening all at once. And somewhere deep down, a dark fear ate at me. I kept waiting for the shoes that fit to disappear, and the ones that were too tight (and used to make me bleed) to reappear.

  I looked down at my feet. They were bare. I loved the way the floors in the fire station felt beneath them. Cool. Clean. And in some rooms, so soft I wanted to cry.

  This place. It smelled like home to me. It felt like home. I never wanted to leave, and since I’d arrived, I’d only gone out to meet with the wedding planners at Rocco’s office, have the fittings for my second wedding gown, and buy groceries. I had a sleek black card that my husband insisted that I use. It had my name on it, Mariposa Macchiavello, and no limit.

  The black card was nothing compared to my new I.D. and passport, though. My eyes welled at that one.

  “How about this, Vera II? Does this consistency look right to you?” I lifted the bowl, showing my plant the mixture I’d made to go between the layers of the pasta boiling on the stove. I was trying to make lasagne al forno. When Capo brought me here after the wedding, a full tray of it had been in the fridge. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted, so I looked in one of my many cookbooks and found a recipe for it.

  As of yet, I hadn’t made a meal that truly tasted good, but since I had nothing but time on my hands, I was determined to get it right at some point. Setting the bowl down, I decided to get the ingredients I’d need for an Italian cream cake. It was sort of like trying to touch the tops of two mountains in one day, but go big or go home. Either way, win or lose, I was square.

  “Fucka me,” I breathed out. The monstrous size of the pantry always shocked me. It was bigger than the apartment I’d rented from Merv the dead perv (Kee’s new nickname for him). And rat free.

  While rummaging around looking for things, a popping sound rang out from kitchen, and at first, I thought someone was shooting at me. I clutched the sugar to my chest, wondering what was going on. Then the smell of smoke assaulted my nose and a loud alarm rang out. “Shit! The pasta!”

  Still holding the bag of sugar to my chest, I ran so fast that when I entered the kitchen, I slid on the shiny, sleek hardwood floor. Capo had beaten me to it, though, taking the pan off the stove and running it under cold water. The pan sizzled and popped, truly pissed off, and more smoke thickened the air.

  He nodded toward the stove. “Turn the fan on.”

  I set the sugar down on the counter and did what he said. It took a few minutes, but the air started to clear, only swirls of white highlighted by the sun lingering. And the smell. It was a mixture between burning plastic and something I didn’t even have a name for, except for gross.

  After he set the ruined pan in the sink, he turned to face me. “Maybe I should have kept this place as is. A fire house.”

  I couldn’t answer. He was shirtless, only a towel wrapped around his slim waist. His skin was smooth and tight, slick from a hot shower. His hair was combed back—true black when it was wet—and droplets ran down his shoulders and chest.

  His eyes were even more electric. They were such a stunning blue, I wondered if the color was stolen from a hidden ocean. Even though the rancid smell still lingered, the shower had made his scent stronger. It was like he had just walked off a beach, but ten times better.

  This was the first time I’d seen him like this, with hardly anything on. His shoulders were broad. His muscular chest and stomach seemed carved out of stone. He probably had seven packs instead of six. The towel rode low, showing two deep indentions on either side of his hips, making a V. A thick patch of black hair peeked out. His arms looked like they belonged in one of those fitness magazines. His legs were long and lean. They seemed strong, but not too bulky.

  The thing about my husband—something I’d learned during our short time together—was, even when a situation became awkward, he didn’t care. He seemed to eat it up. My eyes were glued to him, no shame, and his were glued to me. He wouldn’t try to distract me or pretend like he didn’t know what had come over me. He wouldn’t wave the ruined pan and say dinner, remember? He’d say, you’re not wearing red, and you’re not in my bed, so I know what that means. You’re not ready to fuck me yet.

  Then we’d either explore each other some more, or we’d do something else. We’d watch movies or listen to music or talk about places we could travel or things we could do to the house later. He wanted me to add my own touch to it once I figured out what I wanted. Thing was, it was perfect as is. Even the clothes, shoes, and jewelry he had chosen for me in the closet. It was all such a dream come true.

  Maybe he was, too—on the surface. He hadn’t pulled me into the deep end yet.

  Finally, I made sense of the words dying to shoot out of my mouth. “When did you get home?”

  “About the time you were reading the recipe for lasagne al forno to—” he looked at the plant on the counter and then at me again “—Vera II. She’s not much of a talker.”

  “No,” I said, leaning against the counter. My eyes kept flickering to his towel every other second. He wasn’t hard, but there was a gigantic bulge. I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t curious to know what it looked like. What he looked like. Naked. I took a breath in and released it slowly. “She’s a good listener, but not much of a gossiper.”

  “Got something to get off your chest?”

  “Why? Are you gonna listen?”

  “Isn’t that what husbands do?”

  A huge bubble of laughter exploded from my mouth. “I might not know anything about being domesticated, but I know, know, that men are not good listeners. Selective hearing.”

  “Selective hearing,” he repeated, a suspicious tone to his voice. “Where’d you hear that?”

  I smiled. “Girl’s night.”

  Rocco’s wife, Rosaria, had invited me to join her and the women of the Fausti famiglia for their girls’ nights. Some were just friends, but they were all mostly related by marriage. Rocco had three brothers. Brando, Dario, and Romeo. Brando was the oldest and the most intense. He barely nodded when I’d asked him if he liked the framed jersey his wife, Scarlett, had given him.

  I had invited Keely to come with me one night, but she’d seemed jealous of how well Scarlett and I had gotten along. After that, I didn’t invite Keely again because I didn’t want things to get awkward.

  When Scarlett first saw me, she said, “Told you I’d see you again!” And then she wrapped me in her petite arms and hugged me. She was a famous ballerina, and compared to her husband, so tiny. I couldn’t say what it was about her, but she made me feel lighter. She made me feel like I belonged with them. She and the other wives made me feel like family.

  Girl’s night was always held at one of their houses (next weekend at ours, in the building next to the fire station), and that made Capo cool with it. After our wedding at City Hall, he had upped our security. I had three new Giovannis, which made four, and Capo seemed…a little on edge when we were out in public.

  The nights out were fun for me, though. We talked about books we read, some of the girls crocheted or knitted, and at some point, we’d always end up talking abo
ut our men.

  Our men.

  My man.

  Capo was mine.

  The truth of those words stole my breath.

  I was someone’s wife.

  His.

  I touched the ring on my left finger, a reminder. This isn’t a dream.

  He stalked closer, pinning me against the counter, one arm on each side of me. His wedding ring clanked against the marble when he rested his hands against it. I reached up and tugged at the ends of his damp hair. Droplets ran down his chest.

  “What were we talking about?” he asked.

  I smiled. “See? Selective hearing. Girl’s night—oh.” I started laughing. “You’re messing with me!”

  “You gotta speed up to keep up, Butterfly.” He kissed me on the forehead.

  Butterfly. He had never called me that before. Only Mariposa.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice soft. “If I want to run with the lone wolf, I need to up my game.”

  His mouth drifted from my forehead to my nose, his lips soft but firm. He kissed the bridge of my nose, once on each side and one on the center, before his lips met mine. As usual, I responded to him, starved for his touch. My hands reached out to touch him, to bring him closer, and I skimmed my nails along his side, over his ribs.

  At the light touch, his eyes opened, staring into mine. When my nails moved toward his back, my touch harder, he made a wild noise in his throat and his eyes closed. His tongue moved faster, harder, twirling with mine, and everything around me seemed to fade.

  Lifting my arms, he removed my t-shirt, a shirt I had worn because the color reminded me of his eyes. The kiss broke, but only for a second, not long enough to bring me back to reality. His hands palmed my breasts, his thumbs stroking my nipples. A soft, whimpering sound escaped from my lips. My nails sunk into his skin, wanting more.