Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1

by Di Corte, Bella

  “What do you use this room for?”

  “Private parties, but it’s exclusive.”

  “Exclusive,” I repeated. “Like for the Faustis?”

  “Yes.” He turned me toward the table, and then pulled out a chair for me. It was next to the chair at the head of the table. His spot. He sat, looking at me after he did. “So what do you think, Mariposa? Does it live up to the hype?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “But I need that steak first to say for sure.”

  He smiled at me, his eyes a deeper blue in this light. Sapphire, the same color as the ones on my wrist.

  “It must be nice to be you.” I sighed dramatically. “You own one of the nicest restaurants in New York.”

  “So do you,” he said. “And even though I enjoy the food here, my favorite place is Mamma’s Pizzeria. But don’t tell my aunts when we get to Sicily. They’d have my head on a platter. Some of the recipes we use here are theirs, the ones that never change. Anyone who cooks in the kitchen has to be sworn to secrecy. As serious as the omertà.”

  “Mamma’s. Really? Compared to this?” I had been to Mamma’s. You could get a humongous slice for three bucks, or an entire meal—salad, drink, and a slice—for five. It was a poor man’s heaven.

  “You’ve been?”

  “Yeah. I went with Keely and Harri—” At the look on his face, I stopped. His eyes narrowed and his lips became severe. “I’ve been.”

  “We’ll go one day. Take the bike. You’ll eat here tonight and then we’ll compare after we go to Mamma’s.”

  The bike. He had a few of them, but there was one that he told me he was going to take me out on one day. It looked sleek and fast. I told him sure and then set my hand on a car. Any car. He had only grinned. I think he took it as a challenge.

  A girl dressed in a stylish black pantsuit entered the room holding a glass filled with gold liquid. She set down a napkin and then the glass in front of me. “Enjoy, Mrs. Macchiavello.”

  She didn’t even look at me, and before I could say anything, like, “What’s this?” she was gone.

  “What’s this?” I asked Capo instead. I had seen a woman at the bar with one.

  Capo explained that it was a cocktail called “the golden prince.” He thought I’d enjoy it, so he took the liberty to order it for me ahead of time.

  I took a sip and fell in love.

  Placing it down carefully, I said playfully, “What? No cocktail named after me?” I sipped on it some more. “This is delicious.”

  He grinned, and when the same girl came back in, he told her to bring him the most popular drink on their bar menu. She came back a few minutes later with a dark blue drink in a glass that had a light blue butterfly sitting on the edge. The butterfly was made of sugar.

  “For real?” I laughed. “You do!”

  “It seems a man can’t have secrets around you.” He winked. Then he turned to the girl. “Tell my wife what the name of this drink is, Liza.”

  “Of course, Mr. Mac.” The woman named Liza with the stylish bob haircut turned to me. “That is our Mariposa, the most popular drink on the menu.”

  The Mariposa was sweet. I honestly couldn’t decide which one I liked the best. And then numerous servers started entering the room, one after another, delivering tray after tray of food. By the time they were done, the entire table was filled with steaming dishes. It seemed like every item on the menu had been ordered.

  “How are we supposed to eat all of this?” I looked over our private buffet. “Are we expecting more people?”

  “You can try a bite of everything.” He waved his hand casually, like it was no big deal. “I had them do it family style. That way we can take what we want and not touch the leftovers.”

  “I get that.” My body felt warm from the drinks. “But this is a lot of food. I don’t want it to go to—”

  He took my hand and squeezed. “We’ll give it to people in need after. I’ll have our people box it up. To go.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Let’s eat.”

  Conversation was light as we ate. It was a feast fit for a queen. That was how Capo made me feel. He encouraged me try a little from all of the plates. The steak—so worth the kidney—but honestly, what I thought I’d sacrifice my precious organ for came in second. I fell in love with a pasta dish filled with cream sauce and lemony crabmeat. It was worth a kidney and some blood.

  Capo even fed me a bite or two after I’d made him take a bite from my plate. I was so caught up in food ecstasy that I didn’t even think about him eating here before or owning the place. It was just the two of us, the rest of the world silent, even though they passed by the peeper glass constantly. There were so many people trying to eye themselves when they walked past without really wanting others to see.

  Capo gave a throaty laugh when I called it that—a peeper glass.

  After the main courses, he suggested that we dance, since he requested that dessert come a while after dinner. The dancing in this place was different than the way people danced at The Club. A jazz band had started up, accompanied by a woman who sang with a voice like a bird. Capo taught me a few steps, since I had no clue what I was doing. He was smooth and a surprisingly a good teacher.

  I knew I’d always remember how much I laughed that night.

  “Where’d you learn to dance like that?” I asked, close to breathless as he pulled my seat out again in the exclusive room. I was surprised that the table was still full of dinner foods. I figured after he had mentioned dessert, we’d be getting that soon.

  He took his seat again. “My mother.”

  “You don’t talk about her much.” He rarely talked about any of his family. I knew his grandfather was in Italy, and he had an uncle (since he mentioned him knowing about the secret firehouse) and aunts (since he had mentioned them that night), but other than that, he didn’t bring up his family.

  “She died when I was younger.”

  “It seems we have something in common then,” I said.

  “Seems like we do.”

  Our eyes held. Slowly, oh so slowly, he leaned closer and placed a kiss on my lips. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me with an expression I couldn’t explain. As a few servers entered again, I sat back, feeling light-headed.

  “Mr. Mac? Are you ready for me to clear this—”

  Fucka me. It was Bruno. I hadn’t even noticed him come in the room. I had assumed Capo had given him the night off, or maybe he only worked days. Capo said that Sylvester was his night manager. I had only seen Big Mouth during the day. I had never come here at night. Instead of a fine suit, like usual, he was wearing cleaning garb. Something red was smeared across his forehead.

  At the sight of me, he stopped dead. Even in nice clothes, with expensive jewelry on my finger, wrist, and ears, he recognized me. The shock in his eyes came and went in a flash, and then it was replaced by coldness.

  He hid it well when Capo called his name and then introduced me as his wife.

  Bruno wiped his hands on his dirty apron, and then went to hold his hand out, but Capo shook his head, bringing his drink to his lips, not even looking at the man.

  “Your hands are dirty. Too dirty to touch my wife.”

  My cheeks burned and I looked away. I knew what Capo was doing. I hated it. It only brought attention to something I didn’t want to acknowledge.

  “Of course, Mr. Mac,” Bruno said. His voice was small. “I wasn’t thinking.” Then his voice lowered. “I’d like to talk to you about my position. I don’t know—”

  “I’m out with my wife,” Capo said, cutting him off. He took another sip of his whiskey. “We’ll talk business later. Right now, you have a job to do. And that’s to clean this table. I want it spotless. After, you’ll help Emilio box the leftovers. Then you’ll search the streets for the hungriest people you can find. You’ll feed them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bruno started clearing away everything we’d eaten, and I tried to avoid his eyes and the nearness of him when he cam
e close to grab a dish or silverware.

  It was so fucking awkward that I wanted to kick Capo in the shin with my sharp heels for doing what he did. Who did he think he was? The king of New York? He couldn’t react this way whenever someone was mean to me. Beyond that, this made me feel even worse. It shone a big light on what had been done, and it proved to Bruno that he had gotten to me. He had made me feel small. Insignificant.

  Whenever a server would enter, Capo would dismiss him. He wanted Bruno to handle it all by himself while I sat and watched, like that would make me feel better.

  After all of the plates had been cleared and Bruno had wiped madly, polishing the fancy table, he came close enough to me that I could smell the dumpsters on him. A missed crumb fell in my lap, and he apologized, but when I met his eye, he gave me the coldest look. When I looked at Capo, he was staring straight ahead again, raking his teeth over his bottom lip.

  A second later, Capo was out of the chair, the heavy wood turned over onto the floor, and he had Bruno pinned against the wall. A few servers came in carrying desserts, Sylvester right behind them, and when he noticed what was going on, he shooed the servers in and shut the door. The servers and Sylvester stood clustered in a darkened corner, watching.

  I stood, squeezing my fingers, not sure what to do.

  Capo’s voice was low, but understandable. He was telling Bruno that he knew what he had done to me, when I was out on the street, and when he was cleaning the table, and if he ever saw him so much as look at me again, he’d fuck him up beyond repair.

  I glanced at the servers. None of them would even look at me. No wonder. They were too afraid.

  Without making a sound, I slipped out of the room, passed the dining area and bar, and went out the front door. Giovanni appeared out of nowhere, calling for me to wait for Capo, but I refused. I didn’t stop until Capo grabbed me by the arm, forcing me to.

  His eyes almost glowed in the darkness, looking murderous. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “I don’t know! But I need some space.”

  “Space, ah?”

  He took my arm, leading me out of the way of pedestrian traffic. There was a sports bar on the corner, where televisions playing a variety of games lined the walls. One television played the news.

  I flung my arm out of his hold when we were to the side. “Space, Capo. Do you need the definition of the word?” Damn Caspar. His definition clause had gotten to me.

  Capo took a step back, glaring at me. “Space.” He spelled the word. “Position (two or more items) at a distance from one another. I know very well what the word means, Mariposa. What I don’t fucking know is why you want it.”

  “Ass,” I said. “Do you know the definition of that one?”

  “You’re testing my patience.”

  Oooh, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “You embarrassed me!” I shouted. “No one, not even Bruno, has ever made me feel that small.” I started to pace in a circle, making circles with my wedding ring around my finger. “I’m no better than those people who serve you, and they’re afraid to look at me now! They’re behaving like I’m someone. When I’m not. I’m not—” I flung my arm out. “I’m not you. And that asshole Bruno? You basically told him what he did hurt me!”

  “It did.”

  “So? He didn’t know that! Not until tonight!”

  “As your capo,” he snapped at me, “I protect you. If anyone touches one of the girls at The Club, there are consequences.”

  I’m not one of your employees; I’m your wife! I wanted to shout. But a second later I realized how wrong that was to think, much less share. It was a lie. He was my capo. I even had it engraved on the ring around his finger to prove it.

  He continued, not missing a beat. “Most people know better, but the ones who don’t catch on quick enough. You’re my wife. Your flesh, blood, and bone belong to me, and so do your feelings. Someone hurts you. They hurt me. Capisci? I hunt for you only. And always remember this, Mariposa. ‘It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.’ People will fear you. Why? They see me standing behind you. I don’t cower. I don’t fucking bend. I kneel for no mere man on this earth.”

  I looked away from him for a second. My eyes caught the tattoo on his hand. All that he had just said suddenly made sense—why he had gotten the permanent mark on his body. I don’t cower. I don’t fucking bend. I kneel for no mere man on this earth. That was my husband. All of him. He had never done anything to make me believe otherwise.

  “They all know who you’re married to now,” I whispered. A girl from the streets. A girl who has nothing to offer, only take. No one knew about this arrangement, so from the outside, it looked one-sided.

  “Mariposa,” he said. “That’s who I married. The girl who had a drink on the menu before she showed up at the door.”

  “You named the drink after me before we were married?”

  “It was the first item on the menu. I didn’t name any of the others.”

  “Why?”

  “A reminder.”

  Again, I couldn’t read the look on his face. He was still pissed off, but some of the ice had melted. When I couldn’t hold his stare any longer, I turned from him, staring into the window of the sport’s bar. My eyes narrowed on a strip of news playing at the bottom of a screen.

  Breaking News.

  A picture flashed on the screen.

  Quillon Zamboni found dead.

  Strangled.

  In the end, he couldn’t breathe.

  Neither could I.

  Capo’s hand touched my shoulder, and I looked up at him. He removed my hand from my face. It was covering my mouth.

  People will fear you. Why? They see me standing behind you.

  My husband was the big bad wolf, snarling at anyone who came too close. I hunt for you only.

  I swallowed hard, feeling like my throat was closing up, but the air around me moved, entering my lungs. “Capo.” His name came out solid, though I felt anything but. “Do you know a guy named Merv?”

  “Knew. Briefly.” This time he looked away, at the screen, no expression on his face. “I should have told you. Vera II is actually Vera I. She was a welcome-home gift. Those plants. They seem to have roots made of steel.”

  I took a deep, deep breath, sighed it out, and then, with a trembling hand, slipped mine into his steady one.

  14

  Mariposa

  New York had become a battleground I’d survived for too long. Every sound was a war cry. Every season gave reason to run and hide, some unknown element coming at me. Every smell was bloodied. Every sight was someone fighting to live.

  Italy, Italia, was the promised land after the long and grueling fight.

  Every sound was musical. One friend calling out to another, something in Italian that sounded heated but was actually friendly banter. Summer felt like a warm breeze in the evening against my skin. Every smell held the promise of some new food to try. Every sight was peaceful. People chatted and laughed in the piazza, eating gelato and enjoying life.

  I had never felt so tired but so alive at the same time.

  The flight from New York was long, and I’d barely slept during it, so I swayed on my feet, refusing to move. But I didn’t refuse to move because of the tiredness.

  I pulled at the straps of my backpack. “You didn’t tell me I needed to dress for this.”

  Capo gave me an impatient look. “What you have on is fine.”

  I looked down at myself. A pretty blue sundress and a pair of leather sandals with crisscross straps. Seeing that I was having trouble knowing what to pack, Capo had helped me decide what to bring to Italy for our long stay. I loved everything in my suitcase, it seemed to fit the vibe here, but he didn’t tell me we’d be taking some kind of motorcycle to his grandfather’s place from the piazza.

  “Why didn’t you ask the car to wait? That guy has my luggage. How am I going to ride on that if I’m wearing this? I can’t change now.”

  A car
that looked like it could survive a bombing had brought us here from the private airport, and the driver took all of my things with him after he dropped us off.

  Capo lifted his glasses and then sat them on his head. The bright light hit his eyes, and the blue seemed to explode like stained glass when the sun hits it. He was wearing a tight shirt that showed off all of his impressive muscles, a dark pair of jeans, and leather boots. The tattoo on his wrist looked even fiercer when he wasn’t wearing a suit and his entire arm was on display. His old watch looked exactly like…an old watch. Even if it was an expensive one.

  “Use all of the words, Mariposa. Are you afraid?”

  “No, not exactly.” I hesitated but only for a second. “I don’t want to hurt my oonie.”

  “Your bag? It’ll be fine.”

  “Not my bag, Capo. Who names a bag? My oonie.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You name shit all of the time. Vera. Journey. I figured your bag had a name, too. So if it’s not your bag, what are you talking about? And why would it get hurt?”

  I pointed down. “That’s my oonie.”

  He followed my finger. “I’m not following.”

  “My vagina,” I whispered.

  His features relaxed, then went blank, before he exploded with laugher. “Oonie? Where did you hear that? Or is that something you named it?”

  “No!” I was on the defensive. “Jocelyn. That’s what she called it! She told me to be careful on bicycles, since they could hurt my oonie. After what happened with…Zamboni, I don’t want to…maybe…mess up what still might be intact.”

  Zamboni had used his fingers on me, so I wasn’t sure if he’d done anything to mess me up—my monthly came that night. If he hadn’t, it was important to share that part of me with someone I trusted. It would mean a lot to me to know that he hadn’t altered me physically. Because emotionally, he had caused some damage.

  At the mention of Zamboni, all of the amusement faded from Capo’s face. I didn’t want to bring it up, but he had pushed, and I needed to be truthful about why I was hesitant to ride the bike.