DEEP
The Pagano Family Series
Book FOUR
Susan Fanetti
THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS
Deep © 2014 Susan Fanetti
All rights reserved
Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI
The Pagano Family Series:
(Family Saga)
Footsteps, Book 1
Touch, Book 2
Rooted, Book 3
The Signal Bend Series:
(MC Romance)
Move the Sun, Book 1
Behold the Stars, Book 2
Into the Storm, Book 3
Alone on Earth, Book 4
In Dark Woods, Book 4.5
All the Sky, Book 5
Show the Fire, Book 6
Leave a Trail, Book 7
To the Freaks, for everything.
And to Irene and TeriLyn. The reminders of your support have perfect timing.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
Chose love not in the shallows but in the deep.
Christina Rossetti, from “Cardinal Newman”
Prologue
Nick Pagano stood in the center hallway of his Uncle Ben’s house on Greenback Hill and watched people coming in through the front door, a steady, seemingly endless stream of people—friends, family, business associates. They all came up and shook his hand, or hugged him, offering empty words, and then they all left him alone. He wanted to be alone, and he knew how to make that happen with nothing more than his posture.
He could hear the women congregating behind him, in his Aunt Angie’s kitchen, already doing what women seemed to do in these situations—in every situation, as far as he could tell: cooking. And yakking. Though he was making an effort not to hear their blather, words broke through his barrier occasionally—right in his own yard; Betty found him; so much blood; Did you see Nick? At that, he doubled up the barrier. The last thing he needed in his head was a bunch of hens clucking about how angry he looked and what they thought he was going to do about what had happened.
About the murder of his father.
He was standing near the entrance to Aunt Angie’s prissy little sitting room. Peering around the corner, he saw his mother sitting on the sofa, with his Uncle Carlo and Adele, Uncle Carlo’s wife. She was resting quietly on her brother-in-law’s shoulder, pale and empty. She hadn’t cried, as far as Nick had seen. He wondered if she would.
“Nick.”
He turned and saw his Uncle Ben, Don Beniamino Pagano, standing at the doorway to his study. He didn’t answer.
“Come, nephew. It’s time to talk.”
Nick walked down the hallway and followed Ben—his uncle, godfather, and don—into his study.
Like the rest of Uncle Ben’s house, the study was large and luxuriously appointed. As President and CEO of Pagano Brothers Shipping, and as majority or at least substantial shareholder in several other legitimate business ventures, Ben had ample cover for a comfortable lifestyle, and he’d married a woman who’d wanted to be pampered. Their home was one of the finest—if not, in fact, the finest—homes in Quiet Cove. And their competition for the slot was all on the same street.
Most of the home had been decorated with Aunt Angie in the lead, but this room, and the rooms of the cellar, were Ben’s domain. The study was done like an old school men’s club—heavy, tufted-leather sofas and chairs with nailhead trim, dark walnut paneling and ceiling, dark walnut tables, a massive walnut desk in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that looked over the bluff and the ocean below. The effect was imposing, and Nick remembered, when he was younger, being intimidated simply to be called into the room.
When he was younger. Not anymore.
Uncle Ben sat in his deep, tall leather chair behind his wide, long desk. In the room with him were the officers of the other branch of the Pagano Brothers’ business. Fred Naldi, consigliere. Dominic Addario, capo. Giulio Nicci, another capo. Nick, the third capo. Nick’s father, Lorenzo “Lorrie” Pagano, Uncle Ben’s brother, had been underboss. But Lorrie was on a morgue slab now, his face blown off. The position of underboss was empty.
The heavy, maroon draperies were drawn over the window behind the desk, and all the table lamps were illuminated. It was long past dark, but still the closed drapes had the effect of making the large space seem oppressively close. The silence among the men assembled didn’t ease that impression.
Nick sat in an armchair facing his uncle’s desk across a long, low table. Fred and the other capos sat on the sofas. And they waited for Ben to speak.
His uncle was tired. His normally baggy eyes seemed doubly so on this terrible night, and they were rheumy and red-rimmed. Nick knew that his father and uncle had been close even by the standards of close-born brothers who’d worked side by side their whole lives. But it was more than losing Lorrie that made his uncle so weary. For nearly eighteen months, the Pagano Brothers had been embroiled in battle after battle to preserve their place in their world. The random months of truce only seemed to be dulling Ben’s edge more quickly, making him slower to respond each time the war fired up again.
Since Alvin Church had announced his offensive two autumns ago, by killing Fred’s nephew and nearly killing Nick’s cousins Luca and John, the Paganos had beaten back every attack. The effort had taken a toll in all parts of their world—family hurt, business impaired, scrutiny from every level of law—and Ben, who was closing fast on eighty, had grown tired and dull.
Nick saw it. He knew others did, too. And now his father, who had grown tired and dull himself, was dead because the Paganos could not shut down Alvin fucking Church and his bullshit band of associates.
Not could not. Would not. The Paganos were on the defensive, and had been since the first shot across their bow, because Ben and Lorrie had refused to fight the war they were in. They fought the war they thought it should have been. They thought they were ‘going to the mattresses’ with these sons of bitches. But this wasn’t a family war. This was a gutter war.
And now Nick’s father was dead. Shot on his own front lawn and left for Nick’s mother to find.
Uncle Ben cleared his throat and began speaking. At first, he didn’t look up; he stared at his hands, which were folded on the blotter in front of him.
“This is a dark, sad night. It should not be a night for business, and my home is not a place for business. I want to mourn my brother. I want to bring his wife comfort.” He looked up and scanned the faces of this part of his family. “But we have no choice. There is business that must be done. The loss of Lorrie is greater than family. He was my right hand for more than fifty years. Our business can’t run unless we fill the hole he left.”
Nick looked to his right and his left at the men ranked high enough in the borgata to be part of this discussion. Julie Nicci and Dom Addario had been capos for years. Decades. Both were old school, as his uncle was. Either of them would serve Don Pagano in the way he wanted—they would work to preserve the world the Pagano Brothers had built and strengthened all their lives.
Julie was the steadier of the two. Dom tended to fray along his edges and lose control of his temper; Nick had cleaned up his messes a few times. It should be Julie.
Actually, Nick thought, it should be him. This organization needed fresh blood. They needed someone who would see the world as it was. But he and his Uncle Ben had not been seeing eye
to eye since Church had first raised his head. With every injury, every hit they took, every retaliation it was Nick’s job to deliver, every turn around this endless goddamn cycle, Nick became more infuriated and less reserved in showing it.
And Julie and Dom both hated Nick. They kept it buttoned up around the don, but Nick knew perfectly well that they saw him as a young turk who’d jumped to his position early because he was a Pagano.
That was bullshit, of course. Nick had earned his position in other people’s blood. For twenty years, he’d been the one who would do anything, handle any problem, clean up any mess, find anyone, get any answer, no matter what. He was up to his shoulders in blood.
Uncle Ben continued, “We don’t have the luxury to wait and mourn Lorrie decently before we open the books. I need a right hand, and I need it now.”
Julie and Dom both stirred in their seats, subconsciously jockeying for position, consciously preparing to hear the don say one of their names. Nick—who, by the nature of his job as enforcer, assassin, and interrogator, had become a student of all manner of communication—watched them closely.
“I need fresh eyes at my side. I need someone I can trust to see the future, because my own future grows short and dim. So I name Nick to succeed his father as underboss.”
The old man had perhaps at last seen reason. Too bad it had taken the loss of his blood brother to clear his eyes.
There were no shouts of outrage, no murmurs of protest. Tired though he might be, old though he was, Ben Pagano commanded respect. But Julie and Dom turned from him to Nick, and then they let their shock and displeasure show, in the slack set of their jaws and the deep creases in their brows. Fred quietly sat and took in the show.
Nick, for his part, ignored them all and simply nodded, focused on his uncle. “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll do my father proud. And you, as well. Of course.”
Ben nodded, too. “I know you will. We’ll celebrate when the time is better for it. For now, I give you a day to think before you offer a name to replace you as capo.”
“I don’t need a day, Uncle. I name Brian. Brian Notaro.”
That got the shouts of outrage and protest. Even Ben’s impressive, white eyebrows went up.
Julie said, “No! Don, I don’t agree. Brian is not capo material.”
Dom shouted, “He’s half-blooded! It’s an outrage even to offer his name.” He swiveled back to Nick. “Who do you think you are?”
Nick held his eyes and spoke calmly. “Your boss. I’m your boss now, Dom. Watch your tongue.”
Dom blinked. And then he shut up.
Julie, calmer, pushed again. “All respect, Don Pagano, to you and to Nicolo”—Nick smirked a little at the transparent attempt to show additional respect and connection by using his Italian name—“But Brian is not full-blooded. No one has risen higher than soldier without tracing his full history back to Italia. Brian is a good soldier, a real earner, but his mother is—what? Polack?”
Nick’s smirk grew at the word Italia. The full body of Julie’s personal experience in the country of Italy was his two-week honeymoon thirty years ago. Brian’s mother was a European blonde of one kind or another. Her maiden name was Polish, yes. But the point was irrelevant in Nick’s eyes, and he didn’t answer Julie’s question. He said nothing at all.
“Julie has a point, Nick,” Uncle Ben finally said. “Make your case.”
Julie and Dom both gaped at his uncle. Even unflappable Fred looked shocked. Nick, too, was surprised that his uncle had not simply shot him down. Now, he spoke. “Brian has been with us as long as I have. We were made together. He’s been my right hand. He knows my work better than anyone. He can step into the role I filled and not miss a beat. No one has my trust like Brian. He should have the trust of every man in this room. I don’t care where his mother’s family came from. His name is Notaro. He has blood ties. And he is ready to bathe in blood so you don’t have to. That’s what we do.”
“Not you anymore, Nick.” Uncle Ben’s voice was low. “As your father rose above, so now do you.”
Nick shook his head. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I want my father’s shooter. And I want Church. I’m rolling up my sleeves until Church is done. If I can’t do that and stand at your side, then maybe Julie is your better choice.”
Everybody turned back to Ben. He stared across the room at Nick, and for several moments during which the tension was literally audible, in the rustle of fabric over shifting bodies, in the rasp of deep breaths, and in the solid tick of the mantle clock, the room held and waited.
“There’s no one better to gain vengeance for your father. And you deserve that respect. But I want you at my side. Stand with me with your sleeves up until that work is done. But to name Brian capo is to change our world too much. Take the day, bring another name, or I will name someone myself.”
Julie and Dom relaxed on the sofa, somewhat mollified that one offense had not been topped by another. Nick, however, was not mollified. Brian was his best friend—more than that, in the borgata, he was worth ten of Julie and Dom. He was smart, he was steady, and he was loyal as hell. That he couldn’t rise above the rank of soldier because his mother was a blue-eyed blonde European mutt—that was old bullshit. The kind of old bullshit that was going to bring the Pagano Brothers down.
Someday, Nick would be don. When he was, real change would happen.
But now, he would mourn his father.
And then he would avenge him.
~ 1 ~
Nick woke and eased a slender arm off his chest. He stood and stretched, then went to his bureau and pulled out a pair of track pants. He stepped into them as he walked out to his kitchen. He could already smell the coffee his coffeemaker had started brewing ten or so minutes before.
As he reached up to get a mug out of the cupboard, he caught a look at his hand and pulled back. He still had blood around the edges of his nail beds. He’d washed, he’d thought thoroughly, several times since he’d been in a situation to get blood on his hands.
Standing there in his kitchen with his hand on the cupboard pull, he thought about his life in the hours since he’d had his hand in a man’s guts. The afternoon with his mother. A family party to send his cousin Carmen off to Maine with her man and their baby girl. And the night with Vanessa.
Nick used gloves when he did wetwork, of course, but yesterday’s work had been particularly wet. The mess had been all over his hands and arms by the time he’d stripped out of his protective gear. It had been years, though, since he left a job like that with any trace of it lingering on him. He fucking hated for one side of his life to cross over into the other. Bringing another man’s blood into his mother’s house? Around his family? Into his own bed?
He closed the cupboard door and went to the sink to scrub his hands until they were red and shiny, digging deep around his cuticles until he was sure he was clean. No longer in the mood for coffee or breakfast, he went around the counter to the living room and grabbed his smokes from the table near the front door. Then he went out onto the balcony.
The day was still young, and so was spring, and the sky was heavy with clouds, so the sea breeze off the water was on the brisk side. Nick took a deep breath, letting the chill and the salt air clean out the gunk in his head. He let it out with a cough; he didn’t smoke nearly enough to hack up a lung every morning the way his father had, but he felt the effects occasionally.
Felt them, and ignored them. He lit a smoke now, needing the calm it brought, and looked out over the beach to watch the morning waves roll up and back. The ocean fascinated Nick—not like it did his cousins, though. They were all of them surfers and sailors and beach bums, constantly throwing some party or another on the sand, always out ‘getting wet,’ as they called it. Nick had never been into any of that. He was active in other ways.
He’d bought this seaside condo not because he wanted quick access to the beach so he could surf or dive or whatever. What he wanted was proximity to the power of the sea—the roar and crash of the
surf, the vast miles to the horizon, the blow of storms at his windows. He stood on his balcony on a morning like this, with his head dark and his thoughts snarled, and felt an elemental kinship with the ocean. Maybe that was arrogant, maybe it was delusional; maybe it was just absurd. But it was nonetheless true.
The ocean was a place of darkness and mystery, full of predators and secrets, and infinitely deep.
He didn’t sail, but he had a cabin cruiser he took out frequently, sometimes even recreationally. More often, though, he had business to conduct out in the deep. That was what the ocean was to Nick: a place that swallowed secrets and fed beasts.
Movement on the sand broke his reverie, and he shifted his eyes from the horizon and the overcast sky down to the beach. A group of six—no, seven—people, all women but one, were arrayed on the flat sand near the tideline, standing on long, narrow mats in various colors. He hadn’t noticed them when he’d first come out, but he knew who, or at least what, they were—a yoga class organized by the condo committee. They’d started doing their thing on the beach the week before. A group of granola-eaters doing some kind of tantric voguing didn’t hold much interest for Nick, so he hadn’t done more before today than register their existence. But this morning, his mind was feeling mired and indolent, and he was slow to shift his attention away. He watched them for several minutes, his focus moving from one body to the next. A couple of the women were slender and lithe, moving their bodies with obvious ease and expertise. A couple were heavyset and struggling to follow the leader.
Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) Page 1