Ben would have liked to eradicate drugs, guns, and cheap, abused whores from the landscape completely, but he was pragmatic enough to understand that he could not. Turning back the Zapatas had put a damper on trade, but already that hole was being filled.
But Ben’s way had been to refuse to do business with anyone doing those kinds of business. In order to rise to a true level of power in Rhode Island, legitimate or not, one needed to be on Ben’s list. His edict had had the effect of creating two underworlds, one under the other. Church had risen from those grimy depths.
As Nick met man after anxious man handing over a reparation payment to hold the Paganos at bay, as he turned down every request to sit down with the don, he knew that though this way was balanced, its equilibrium continued fragile. Alvin Church wasn’t the first man who wanted to cast off baggy jeans for tailored suits, and he wouldn’t be the last. Ben’s way kept half the underworld blocked from real power. In time, someone else would fight back against the old ways.
And someday, the men who ran the drugs and the guns and the cheap whores might find that their power lay not in taking the place of the Paganos but in making that place obsolete.
Nick knew he would likely be don when that time came. He’d be ready.
~oOo~
That afternoon, Chief Lumley made an unexpected visit to the warehouse. Paganos did not go to the police station, not even on social calls. Ben took great pride in the minimal incidence of arrests within the organization, and he didn’t want a Pagano or associate to be seen even crossing the threshold of the station.
Nick had been pinched twice, years ago, and his cousin Luca had landed in a holding cell a couple of years back—all events had occurred when new staff were on duty and not yet learned in the way of things in Quiet Cove. Nick, having been young and too careless at the time of both incidents, had called Fred and been released both times without even being processed. Luca, the idiot, had not seen fit to contact the other side of the family, and, once they’d learned of the incident, they’d had to do some backtracking to get him out of the system.
But if Irv was visiting the warehouse—and unscheduled at that—he was not making a social call. So something was up. As Nick stood and shook the chief’s hand, he tried not to sigh.
“Have a seat, Irv.”
The chief sat. “No disrespect, Nick, but I was hoping to meet with Don Pagano.”
Nick was handling the fallout from the demise of Alvin Church, and Ben was beginning to slow down. He’d gone home shortly after lunch.
“He’s not available. I’ll have to do.” Nick smiled in a way meant to convey that Irv had been disrespectful and should be careful. But his attention was acute. There was definitely something up.
“I fielded a call this afternoon from a DHS agent. She had a lot of questions.”
“DHS? Homeland Security?” Those were not the Feds who usually had their sights aimed at organizations like the Pagano Brothers.
Irv nodded. “They’re on the Neon bombing. This agent—Amy Cavanaugh is her name—followed some kind of magical trail of breadcrumbs and connected the diner to the nightclub.”
“How the fuck did she do that?” The Paganos weren’t connected in any material way to Sassy Sal’s. Nick had never been in the place until that last night. The owner had borrowed big from Donnie, but there was no fucking paper trail that anyone would be able to find. Donnie kept a notebook—all the shylocks kept paper, not digital—but they kept their books on their persons, and Donnie had devised an elaborate and sophisticated coding system that took the other shys days to learn. And Matty had gotten his book before the ambulances had come that night. So there were no breadcrumbs.
Donnie could simply have been there that night as a friend. The only people alive, who weren’t in the organization itself, who knew that the Paganos were involved in both events were Bruce and Beverly. And Irv.
And Skylar and Mills.
Jesus Christ. Mills had dropped a dime. Letting that realization germinate and flourish, Nick concentrated on the chief. “What does she know?”
“Far as I can tell, nothing. The questions she was asking, she was digging. I’d say somebody tipped her off, but they didn’t have anything but rumor and recrimination. Enough to get this woman wet, though. She sounds young. Might be fresh on the job.”
“Fuck.” Fresh agents were a pain in his ass. They weren’t major threats, because they had no juice at all, and the Paganos had good relationships with their superiors. But they were usually filled with a righteous naïveté that turned them into little terriers. Not unlike his mother’s Yorkies.
And she was DHS—the Paganos had never worked with DHS before. They didn’t have a standing relationship there. Ben would have to contact a senator to exert pressure on this Agent Cavanaugh. And that would be expensive.
“Fuck.” Chris Mills was going to die, and before he did, he would repent all of his sins.
“Nick…I was thinking.”
Nick regarded the chief. He lifted his eyebrows but didn’t speak.
“I was thinking about Chris Mills, what he was yelling about that day I brought him up to your uncle’s.”
Still, Nick waited silently. He knew what the chief was going to say.
“If Mills contacted this agent, I know what your play would be. But he’s a business owner. He’s involved in the Chamber of Commerce. He’s a visible presence in this town and has been for years. He’s a decent guy, well liked. People will notice if he disappears.”
“Is that advice I didn’t ask for?”
To his credit, Chief Lumley didn’t blink. “Take it as you will. A lowlife falling off the radar is one thing—I don’t lose sleep over the trash getting taken out. But this is a regular guy we’re talking about now. Our arrangement has always been about making Quiet Cove better.”
“Are we going to have a problem?”
The chief stared at him. Nick stared steadily back.
“No,” Lumley sighed. “I’m just letting you know that I don’t know how I’d clean that up.”
Nick knew. The sea wouldn’t feed on Chris Mills. He wouldn’t be made to regret his transgressions. He would have an accident instead. He would get a funeral. His friends would mourn him properly.
But would Nick keep the truth from Beverly?
He didn’t know.
~oOo~
Before he went home that evening, Nick stopped at Uncle Ben’s house. In a clear sign of the new peace in Quiet Cove and among the Paganos, Ellen, their housekeeper, answered the door rather than Bobbo or one of Ben’s other guards. The days of twenty-four-hour security were over. Privacy had finally returned.
“Hi, Mr. Nick.” The stocky redhead stepped back and let Nick in. “Mr. Ben is in his study.”
“Thanks, Ellen. Is my aunt home?”
“No, sir. She’s got the church charity fair meeting this evening. I’ve got a meat loaf in the oven for Mr. Ben, if you’d like to stay.” Usually, Aunt Angie did her own cooking, but when she had evening plans, Ellen stayed and took care of Uncle Ben. Angie called it ‘babysitting’—when Ben wasn’t around to hear.
Ellen’s meatloaf was delicious, but Nick wanted to get back to Beverly. “Thanks, but not tonight.”
She smiled and ducked her head, then went back down the hall. Nick went into his uncle’s study.
Ben was napping on one of his leather sofas. Nick was struck by how aged he seemed, lying on his back, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth slightly open. He was pushing eighty. He had slowed noticeably over the past few years, and the fight with Church, cycling the way it had, had taken an obvious toll. The era of the first Don Pagano was nearing its end. But he was still sharp and wise, and he had understood better than Nick the way to finally beat the man who likely had been his final opponent.
Nick walked over and shook his uncle’s shoulder. “Uncle.”
Ben came awake immediately and gracefully. As he sat up, he smiled. “Nicolo. I wasn’t expecting you this evening. Ar
e you keeping me company while your aunt plans tag sales and dunking booths?”
Nick chuckled and sat on the facing sofa. “No, I’m sorry. I need to get back to Beverly.”
Standing, Ben went to his bar and poured them each a scotch. “How is your lovely woman?”
Still reserved and subdued. Nick was growing impatient—not with her, but with himself. He couldn’t find a way to help her return to who she was. His world had broken her, and he didn’t know how to help her heal. “Better, I think. She has a way to go yet.”
“She breaks my heart.” Ben handed Nick his scotch. “I hope the fires of hell are deep and scorching hot for the cafones who hurt her. Going after women. Innocents. Those men were the worst kind of scum.” He sighed. “But you’re not here to update me on Beverly, are you? This is not a family call you’re making.”
“No, uncle. I’m sorry. It’s business.”
He sipped his scotch. “For years, there was no business done in this home. This place was a sanctuary. One of my most closely-held rules—no business at home. And then Church stood up on his mountain of trash, and we seem to talk business here more than anywhere else.”
“I know.” It wasn’t simply Church who had changed that tradition. It was Ben himself. If he were still putting in full days at the warehouse, they could have had this discussion at the office. But Nick knew there was no use pointing that out. His uncle needed no reminders of his waning.
“So tell me.”
“We’ve got a new Fed on us. DHS—Homeland Security.”
“Homeland Security? Is this because we knocked back the Zapatas?” DHS was normally only interested in organized crime when it crossed national borders. With a few discreet exceptions for connections to the homeland, the Paganos kept their business within the country.
But a car bomb was seen as an act of terrorism, and that got DHS hard, too.
“It’s the bombing at Neon. A DHS agent got a tip connecting Neon to the diner, and now we got a freshman agent looking for a commendation.”
Ben tossed back the rest of his scotch and held out his glass to Nick. “Top us off, nephew.” Nick took the glasses and poured doubles for them both.
“What’s his name?”
“Her. Amy Cavanaugh. Do we have anybody in DHS?” Handing the glass back to his uncle, Nick sat down.
“No. I’ll have to call Marjorie.” Marjorie Russo was the senior senator from Rhode Island. “A tip? Who knew the connection?” Ben’s eyes narrowed, showing every bit of the fearsome power he had ever wielded. “Do we have a rat?”
“I think it’s Chris Mills.”
“Bev’s friend, you mean. The bookseller. You’ve had confrontations with him already.”
“Yes. And the last time I told him that if I heard more from him, it would be the last anyone did. Now I have to make good on that promise.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“He’s the likeliest suspect, by a wide margin. And he was threatening this kind of trouble. Of course I’ll confirm before I make the order, but it’s him.”
Ben stared into his glass for several seconds, then released a long, weary breath. “An accident. He can’t disappear.”
“Agreed.”
“And what will you tell your girl? I know they’re on the outs, but her heart is big. She’ll feel his death.”
“I know. But, Uncle, with respect. That’s for me to work out.”
Ben nodded, but he went on nonetheless. “Ogni verità non è a dire. Truth isn’t always the best course. Some lies are kindnesses. We know this. To keep our family innocent of our business, to keep our loved ones well and happy, some truths should stay unsaid.”
To start a life together with Beverly’s pain and his secret between them—what path would that put them on? This was why he’d never had an interest in mating. His life was too dark, too complicated, too cloaked for intimacy. But it was too late for him, and for her, to remember that now. Since he’d known her, what he’d known about himself had shifted and shuffled. His control over his emotions had become something to assert rather than a passive fact of his personality. He needed companionship and connection at a depth he’d never had need of before. His capacity for love was much greater than he’d known.
He didn’t want to lie to her. He didn’t want to hurt her again, ever. She’d been hurt enough because of him. But rats were exterminated. A man who would take the risk to rat once would take it again. Mills was even more dangerous because of his feelings for Beverly, and because Nick was sure she would eventually forgive him. Mills was too close, too incendiary. If he was the rat, then he had to be taken care of.
That put Nick between the horns of an unsolvable dilemma. Lie to her, or hurt her more. Maybe lose her.
“I’ll figure it out, Uncle.” He hoped that, at least, was a truth.
~ 18 ~
“I got you curly fries for a side. Oh—and I got a couple of chocolate chip cookies, too.” Skylar set the tray down on the little round table overlooking the beach and sat down next to Bev.
Bev stared at the tray. Curly fries, chocolate chip cookies, and grinders. And soda—probably not diet. She sighed. “You, too?”
Sky shrugged. “I’m not even sorry. What is it, fifteen pounds you’ve lost?”
Closer to twenty, but Bev nodded. “I’m not starving myself, Sky. I’m okay.”
“Good—then eat. We’ll eat a disgustingly delicious lunch, and then we are going to shop. It’s a beautiful, sunny summer day, we are two women with time on our hands, and I am employed again. We deserve some retail therapy.” Sky had taken a job at a family restaurant not far outside the Cove. When Bruce got Sal’s going again, she’d said she planned to work both places for awhile.
Bruce was home and recovering well, and the odds of his reopening Sal’s had increased to a near certainty when Nick had forgiven his debt as recompense for the attack. Bev had been psyching herself up to ask him to do just that. She loved Nick all the more because she hadn’t had to ask. He might have been a killer, but he had honor.
“Not on Gannet Street, though.” Sal’s and Cover to Cover Books were both on Gannet. Bev picked up her sandwich and took a bite. It was good—the food at the Cove Café was basic deli stuff but always fresh and tasty.
“Nope. I thought we’d do the thrifts and antique shops on Breakwater. And I want to run into The Sea Weaver.”
“The yarn shop? Why?”
“I took a knitting class over there while I was trying to find ways to spend my time. Remember?” Bev nodded. “Turns out, I love it. It’s like my yoga. Or my crack. Either way, I need a fix. Plus, have you ever been in there?”
Bev shook her head. She was not a knitter. She could barely tie a bow.
“You’ll like it—it’s beautiful, and the owner, Andi, is all up in incense and meditation and crystals and stuff. It smells like your place.”
“I’m not into crystals, Sky. I just meditate.” Meditating hadn’t been going so well lately. She couldn’t find her center no matter what she did. But she was back teaching her yoga class. Her neighbor, Carlotta, had taken over for her while she was ‘ill.’ Everybody, including Carlotta, seemed to be glad she was back.
“Anyway, I just want to get some yarn. Everybody is getting knitted goods for Christmas this year, because I have a productive obsession and I’m going to exploit it for all it’s worth.”
Bev chuckled and looked out over the water, quickly getting lost in the view. She didn’t spend much time in the ocean. She preferred to swim in the pool. But there was something calming about being on the beach. She liked to sit and watch the people—children playing in the waves; parents preparing their lunches, everything from simple sandwiches pulled out of tote bags to elaborate meals set out on tables; lovers lying coiled together on blankets; groups of teen girls baking their skin, groups of teen boys ogling them; solitary readers or sleepers. The beach in summertime was a place to find people being happy.
Sitting here, Bev could almost rem
ember that feeling.
“Bev?”
“Hmm? Oh, sorry. Just daydreaming.” She set her half-finished sandwich down, done with it, and picked at a cookie. “Have you seen him?”
“Who? Chris? We’re going to talk about Chris?” Sky set her sandwich down, too, and folded her hands together. “I thought he was verboten.”
It had been weeks since that day he’d come to Ben’s house and she’d found out her most lasting and important friendship had been a fiction. For years, she’d thought she had a real best friend, someone who cared about her and was interested in her just for her, and not for what he wanted from her. She had been completely open with him. He knew everything about her. And she knew everything about him—or she’d thought so. Now, though, it turned out that he’d simply been taking notes and biding his time, waiting for her to come to her senses or something and fall in love with him.
Deep (The Pagano Family Book 4) Page 24