“And that was some first meeting,” Joe said. After a moment they shared a smirk.
Carlo took it all in without moving a muscle, fascinated by the soap opera playing out before his eyes.
Tank grinned. “So, my assignment is already done then, boss.”
“What do you mean?”
“That guy who came to haul that chick outta here? I’d recognize him anywhere—Will Taylor. That must be his daughter or something. You asked me to find out who she was. Well, there you go. Chick Taylor.” He smiled smugly.
“How do you know the guy’s name?”
Tank gave Carlo a curious stare. “Huh, I’m surprised you don’t know. I guess you don’t work that side of town. C’mon, I’ll tell you on the ride over.”
Both men slid into Carlo’s car, and he gunned it, heading to the cemetery. As Tank began to talk, a wicked grin spread across Carlo’s dark face.
34. Family Tree
The amber liquid swirled against the thick rectangular glass as Grant, sitting alone in his apartment early Monday evening, tilted the unopened bottle in his lap. Staring intently at the bottle’s label, he heard his own unsteady voice read aloud, “José Cuervo.”
So, here he was again: contemplating opening the damn bottle, pondering whether or not to give into temptation. Should he allow the Barberis’ clutches to advance along one more branch of the family tree, like creeping ivy—strangling the solid trunk and weighing down the limbs until they were all destroyed? Should he open the bottle? Should he accept his fate as a Barberi man?
Joe had been behaving strangely ever since they returned from the cemetery this afternoon, and when he’d decided to help Roger with his last cruises of the day, Grant had told him he was too tired to join him. But the truth was Grant had wanted to be alone—alone with his hidden bottle of tequila, alone just like he’d been three nights ago when he’d lost Sophie. Since then even more devastating events had occurred, and he was back in the same place—back to square one, back to holding the bottle in his trembling hands, teetering on the edge of obliterating his mind and body with alcohol.
Had his father, Enzo, ever hesitated like this, wondering if he should take that first drink? Grant doubted it.
After Sophie had rejected him on the ship three mornings ago, running away in fear, he had purchased a bottle of tequila on his way home. If he couldn’t have Sophie, at least he could have the memories they shared. She had introduced him to tequila, after all.
But his corruption had actually begun long before he met Sophie. Grant frowned as he trained his gaze on the liquor. A sterile, solitary shot of tequila now would be nothing like the experience he had shared with Sophie, though he’d still get the mind-numbing effects of the alcohol.
Although he longed to be numb, a small part of him did have to admit that his circumstances with Sophie had improved. She’d attended Logan’s funeral—not for Logan, but for him. And, miraculously, she’d hugged him. But would she ever look at him and see Grant Madsen? Or was he doomed to be Grant Barberi, tagged and weighed down by fear and mistrust?
He held the neck of the bottle tightly. Alcohol had a long and storied role in his family. He could remember that history in the making.
Seven-year-old Grant lay splayed out across his bed, making swooshing light-saber sounds as Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader action figures battled in his hands. Across the room, Logan made his own noises—frustrated sighs as he slogged through his sixth-grade science homework. Suddenly their father burst in, a folded belt coiled in his hand.
“All right, which one of you hid my vodka?” Enzo snarled, his wild black stare threatening each boy in turn.
Logan’s surprised gaze darted from the instrument of punishment in his father’s hand to his brother’s wide, frightened eyes, which flashed with obvious guilt. Shit. Logan knew in an instant Grant was to blame for their father’s missing bottle.
Enzo’s eyes narrowed as he fumed. “Goddamn it! You stay out of my stuff, you hear? If I don’t hear a confession this instant, you’ll both get it!”
He raised his right arm in a wide arc, preparing to strike his trembling younger son when Logan shouted urgently, “It was me!”
Enzo swiftly spun around.
Gulping, Logan shakily admitted again, “I did it.”
Grant drew his hand to his mouth, strangled by fear. What was Lo doing? Grant should be the one confessing, not Logan. But his throat was suddenly tight, and he was unable to squeak a sound.
“Logan,” Enzo began, his voice smoother now that he had the situation under control. “Tell Grant where you hid the bottle, and then he’ll go put it back while I teach you a lesson.”
The twelve year old gave his little brother with a desperate glance. “It’s in the basement,” Logan guessed.
Enzo turned and glowered at Grant. “That bottle better be returned to my cabinet by the time I’m done here, or you’ll be learning the same lesson as your brother.”
Grant flew out of the room as the first crack of the belt rang out. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he ran down the stairs, trying to distance himself from the horror in their bedroom. He did not hear Logan cry out in pain. Unlike Grant, Logan never cried.
Grant had stopped breathing, and he had the bottleneck in a death grip. Clouds rolling in had blocked the sun, and it seemed late in the evening, though it was only the afternoon. Blinking quickly, Grant looked around, trying to orient himself, and he finally sucked in a gasping breath.
How many times had Logan tried to save him? How many times had he attempted to protect their mother? Too many to count. But nobody had ever tried to save or protect Logan. Grant’s mind kept replaying the past:
With their father safely snoring away in an alcoholic stupor on the sofa downstairs, Grant and Logan lay sprawled on their respective beds, the room dark and quiet. But neither boy was sleeping. Since Grant had returned after replacing the bottle of liquor, Logan refused to talk to him, a decision that left the younger brother consumed by anxiety.
The bedroom door creaked open, slanting a triangle of hallway light across the yellow carpet. “Are you boys okay?” Karita whispered.
“Yeah, Mommy,” Grant called out. Logan remained silent.
Creeping toward their beds, Karita softly rubbed the black hair on Grant’s head. In the dim light, he could make out the contours of her beautiful face, the lines of worry creasing around her mouth, and the bright turquoise eyes framed by wavy blond hair.
“Grant,” she whispered tenderly, sitting at his side. “I know you’re trying to help, but, honey, you cannot hide your father’s vodka.”
He frowned and looked like he was about to cry. “I’m sorry.”
She cradled his cheek. “You can’t provoke him like that. He’s an adult, and he’s the only one who can control his drinking.”
Logan could remain quiet no longer. “But he doesn’t!” he hissed. “He doesn’t control his drinking at all. That’s the problem!”
Karita sighed and placed her hands in her lap, helplessly gazing across the room at her hostile older son. “How are you feeling, Logan?”
Logan rolled over in bed, turning his back on his mother.
Grant watched his mother look down, seeming to choke back a sob. “We’re going to leave him someday,” Karita promised. “We’ll go live on our own.”
Logan sat up and turned to face her with a bitter sneer. “You always say that, Mom! But we’re still here, aren’t we? He’s still beating the crap out of us!”
Grant pleaded, “Don’t be mad, Lo.” He watched his mother cover her face with her hands, sitting there helplessly, and realized Logan was probably right. They weren’t going anywhere. His father would hunt them down no matter where they went.
Logan sighed. “It’s okay, Grant. I’m not mad at you. Just go to sleep, okay?”
Still clutching the bottle, Grant closed his eyes, picturing his big, strong brother taking care of him. He swallowed hard, recalling the heavy wood co
ffin on his shoulder. Logan hadn’t had one person to save or protect him. Grant desperately hoped his brother hadn’t died all alone.
Hearing a sharp knock on the door, Grant sat up straighter on the couch.
* * *
Kirsten’s face lit up when she saw Sophie come through the apartment door.
“Hey! I thought you were going to stay at your dad’s for a while.”
Kirsten relieved her of one of her bags as Sophie juggled the keys back into her purse and managed to shut the door behind her.
“That was the plan,” she replied bitterly. “Until my dad started acting like a first-class jerk. He treated me like a total child!” She plunked her bags on the kitchen table before grasping Kirsten in a grateful hug.
“I wondered how long the Taylor détente would last.” Kirsten grinned, stepping out of the hug. “What was it this time?”
“Guess.”
“Let’s see, it’s always men or career—I’ll go for men?” When Sophie nodded, Kirsten’s eyes widened. “You told your dad about Grant? Being Logan’s brother?”
“I had no choice,” Sophie insisted, plopping on the couch. “After the detective came to my dad’s house, I had to come clean.”
“Oh, yeah, the detective.” Kirsten nodded, joining Sophie on the sofa. “What was that all about?”
Sophie raised her eyebrows. “You don’t know? Haven’t you watched the news?”
Kirsten shook her head.
“I’m sorry. I should have called you—it’s just, everything got so crazy and then my dad freaked out. Logan Barberi was murdered.”
Kirsten’s mouth dropped open. “When?”
“Thursday morning.” Sophie’s lips tightened. “And I know that because apparently I have an alibi for that time.”
Kirsten’s eyes opened wider. “You were a suspect?”
“Yes. Logan did screw me over, as you know. I had a big, fat motive.”
“How did he die?”
Sophie averted her eyes. “He was stabbed to death.”
“How did Grant take it?”
“Not well, as you can imagine. He was also a suspect, although Detective Fox told me he has an alibi as well. You should have seen him … he was so crushed. I went to the funeral today—huge mistake in my dad’s opinion—anyway, Grant looked devastated. He was a pallbearer for his brother.”
“Oh, Sophie.” They were both quiet for a moment before Kirsten inquired, “How are you feeling?”
She smiled softly at the shrink-style question. “I don’t know … confused maybe? Definitely sad for Logan—what a horrible way to die. I just know there was some good in him, despite all the awful things he did. I mostly feel so badly for Grant. I, um, against my better judgment I gave him a hug at the funeral.”
“Good!”
Sophie arched an eyebrow. “Good?Weren’t you the one warning me off McSailor in the first place?”
“Well, yeah … and I know his family is evil and stuff, but Grant just made you so happy, Sophie. You were getting back to yourself. You know, to how you were before prison. And look how much he’s done for you, getting you not one, but two jobs.”
“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “I don’t know if I can trust him.” She exhaled loudly. “I need some time.”
“And,” Kirsten continued, as if Sophie had not spoken, “McSailor is incredibly hot.”
“Are you coming after my boyfriend, roomie?”
“Well, he’s a much better choice than the fertilizer technician.”
“Oh, no. What happened with him?”
Kirsten sighed. “He was very nice, it’s just that he, uh, he kind of …” She wrinkled her nose. “He kind of smelled.”
A tiny giggle escaped Sophie’s lips. She grinned evilly. “No shit?”
They began giggling, and soon their shoulders shook with hysterical laughter. Finally, they fell into the sofa cushions, sighing after a good cleansing laugh.
* * *
After rapping on the door, Carlo shook his head as he stood outside Grant’s apartment. Fucking Tank and Meat had both bailed on him, making up some bullshit excuse about how Angelo had ordered them to return to the compound. Oh well, it would probably be better to approach Grant alone. Grant Pants might spook easily. Besides, Carlo was much better at manipulating people than anybody he knew. He didn’t need their help.
Waiting patiently, holding a small cardboard box, Carlo noticed a shadow fall across the peephole and tried to make himself appear appropriately mournful. “Grant?” he called.
“What do you want, Carlo?” Grant asked from the other side of the door.
“I’ve got some of Lo’s possessions to give you.”
Grant paused, feeling uneasy. Why the hell was Carlo here? How had he discovered where he lived? Mustering his best authoritative voice, he instructed, “Leave the box and I’ll get it later!”
“Aw, c’mon, cugino,” Carlo said. “Don’t shut me out. I’m grieving, man. I need to talk.” The door remained shut. “We carried his casket together, Grant. We’re family.”
His hand resting on the deadbolt, Grant considered what to do. Could he turn away one of his last remaining family members? Could he ignore his own blood? He was just so tired …
“Please?” Carlo implored, his strong voice resonating through the door. “I won’t stay long, I promise.”
With a frustrated sigh, Grant finally unlocked the door and swung it open, peering down at his shorter cousin. Carlo managed to hide the victorious smirk threatening to emerge. Without a word, Logan’s brother stepped back to allow Carlo to enter the apartment.
Grant trailed him into the living room. “Sorry it’s kind of a mess.”
Carlo glanced at the spotless room. He noticed the bottle of booze and gravitated toward it, setting down the box and picking up the bottle from the coffee table.
“Drowning your sorrows, eh? But why is this bottle unopened, Grant? We should toast your brother.”
Grant collapsed into the sofa, scooping the cardboard box onto his lap and ignoring his cousin’s suggestion. He hardly wanted to get chummy with Carlo.
Studying Grant intently, Carlo slid into a chair next to the sofa and watched him extract some photographs from the box. Grant’s face fell as he flipped through pictures from his nephew’s childhood. “Poor Ben,” he lamented.
Carlo’s jaw clenched. Everyone was feeling so sorry for Logan’s son, but Carlo knew Ben needed to experience this loss of his father to make him tougher, to breed the proper loyalty to the family so he could become a capo one day. Logan had been growing soft and might have led his son astray if not for Carlo.
Tapping his foot with restless energy, Carlo looked around at the bland apartment. “Man, I could really use a drink.”
“Glasses are in the cupboard,” Grant mumbled distractedly, still absorbed by the photographs.
Miffed that he had to retrieve his own glass, Carlo rose from the chair and headed into the small kitchen. He could not locate any shot glasses but did find two tumblers in the cupboard.
“Don’t suppose you got a lime?” he shouted. Preparing to open the fridge, he noticed a written note stuck to the door with a magnet. His eyes narrowed with curiosity, then he inhaled sharply.
He glanced behind him at Grant, who thankfully was still riveted by the pictures cradled in his hands. Who the hell was Bonnie? He thought her name was Sophie. Setting his jaw with resolve, Carlo determined to look into this. He lifted the magnet and removed the paper, quietly folding it and sneaking it into the pocket of his black pants.
Confidently striding back to the seating area, Carlo set the glasses on the coffee table and opened the bottle, pouring a sizeable amount of tequila into each tumbler.
“Salute!” he announced, holding the glass aloft and inviting Grant to do the same.
Grant put down the photographs and grasped his own tumbler, halfheartedly raising the glass and meeting Carlo’s intense black eyes. “Salute,” he listlessly replied.
“To our brother who was taken from us much too young.” Carlo shook his head, feigning heartfelt grief. “May he find peace in heaven. Cent’anni!”
May you live one hundred years. Grant frowned. Why would anyone want to live one hundred years of this miserable existence? Perhaps if he still had Sophie in his life … He brought the glass to his lips and sipped, feeling fire slide down his throat.
Carlo had knocked back the entire glass. With disdain, he eyed the substantial amount of liquor still present in his cousin’s glass and decided to get down to business. He couldn’t stand to be around this vanilla angel any longer than he had to—Grant might rub off on him or something.
Noticing the fading bruise on Grant’s cheekbone, Carlo inquired, “How’d you get that shiner?”
Grant gazed at the glass in his hand. “The man we just toasted. He and I got in a fight before he died.”
Carlo whistled through his teeth. “That must not have looked too good when the cops showed up to question you.”
“Yeah. Fortunately I’d been to my PO’s that morning, so I had an alibi.”
“Lucky,” Carlo responded, his smile of relief not quite genuine. “I was at my dad’s club,” he quickly added. “So I have an alibi too.”
Grant glanced at him curiously. Why was Carlo volunteering that information?
“Speaking of my parole officer …” Grant suddenly sat up, coming to his senses. “You should go. I can’t associate with known criminals or I’ll be in violation of my parole.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving yet. We got some business to discuss.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” Carlo’s black eyes glistened with delight.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We need you, Grant. The family needs you in the business. Whatever rift you had with your brother will no longer prevent you from taking your rightful place. Logan lost us a lot of money, and it’s your turn to help us get it back.”
“I can’t believe you’re asking this on the day I buried my brother.”
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 38