by Dana Delamar
“Blood and honor,” Nick answered, remembering the ritual responses Cris had taught him.
“Why? Don’t you have it?”
“I have it to give and to take.” So far, so good.
“As you know, one goes in and comes out of the ‘Ndrangheta with blood. It is time to test your courage.”
Nick’s heartbeat revved up again. Cris hadn’t mentioned any test.
Cris produced a switchblade from his pocket and held it so that the point was sticking straight up in the air. “Place your hand above this knife.”
Nick extended his hand, feeling the prick of the blade’s tip in the center of his palm. Dario stepped forward, the ceramic bowl in his left hand. He held it below the knife. Christ, that bowl was to catch blood. A lot of blood. His blood. Dario’s right hand hovered over Nick’s.
“Ready?” Cris asked.
Tensing for what came next, Nick nodded. Why hadn’t he stuck out his left hand instead of his right? Dario raised his hand in the air. Soon that hand would slap Nick’s onto that knife. His stomach lurched and he struggled to hold his hand steady. He had to do this. All these other men had survived this ritual. So would he.
Dario’s hand swept down toward Nick’s, and Nick fought to keep his eyes open. At the last moment, Dario’s hand veered away, and it took Nick a second to realize the move was deliberate.
The men of the cosca clapped and whistled. Nick had passed.
Relief shuddered through him, even as he pictured that knifepoint protruding from the top of his hand.
Cris beamed at him as he set the knife on the table, before turning back to face the men. “With the permission of all assembled here, I present this man to you for approval. From now on, I recognize him as my faithful companion. I will eat with him, divide right and wrong with him. I will defend his flesh, skin, blood, and bones to the last drop of blood. If he fails and fails again, swindles and stains honor, these crimes are his own charge and to the discredit of the society. And he then shall be punished with death.”
Cris motioned Nick toward the table and the bowl. He picked up the knife again. Taking Nick’s right hand, Cris pricked the tip of Nick’s index finger. The knife was sharp as a scalpel; Nick didn’t feel the cut until Cris squeezed his finger to draw the blood out. Dario brought the bowl and one of the cards forward, and Cris squeezed harder, causing several drops of Nick’s blood to fall on the female saint.
It was time to take the oath. Nick took the card from Cris and a burning candle offered by Dario. He lit a corner of the card. “As this paper burns, so must my flesh burn if I betray this society.”
The card blackened and curled at the corner, the flame steadily eating toward the drops of blood in the center. “I swear on my honor to be faithful to the ‘Ndrangheta, as the ‘Ndrangheta is faithful to me. As this saint and these few drops of my blood burn, in the same way I will pour all of my blood for the ‘Ndrangheta, and as this ash and this blood cannot go back to their former states, in the same way I cannot leave the ‘Ndrangheta.”
The solemnity of the oath struck Nick in the chest. In the car, the oath had been just words. Now it was a vow. A vow that couldn’t be undone. Not without his death.
Nick dropped the burning card in the bowl as the heat began to bite at his fingers. Cris placed a hand on Nick’s shoulder and addressed the men. “Are there any objections to this candidate’s membership?”
When no one spoke, Cris continued. “With your approval, he has been made into a man.”
A low buzz started up, and Dario addressed the crowd. “Before we proceed to the formal welcoming, there is one more thing we must do today. My son has conferred a great honor upon this man, who has saved his life. He wishes them to be joined by the blood bond, the vincolo di sangue.”
Another murmur of comment sprang out as Nick and Cris turned to Dario, who picked up the knife from the table. Cris and Nick each held out their right hands, and Dario made swift cuts on the tips of their index fingers, then he pressed their fingers together for a moment, before smearing their combined blood on another holy image.
He handed the card to Cris and Nick. They each held one end of it, while Dario touched a candle to the center.
As the flame burned outward, Dario said, his voice solemn and full: “From now on you are brothers. The blood of one is in the other. Only more blood or an infamous action may untie this bond.”
His heart in his throat, Nick looked up at Cris as they let go of the card, then Cris embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. Nick returned the embrace, his hands trembling with the import of what he’d done. How could he ever betray his new brother?
They descended the stairs, where Nick, Cris, and Dario formed a sort of receiving line. The first member came forward and embraced Nick by clasping his shoulders and kissing his cheeks, then concluded by sucking the bloody tip of Nick’s finger. What the hell? We aren’t vampires, for Christ’s sake. “Your blood is my blood,” the man murmured. Then the man moved on to embrace Cris and Dario. The next man, and then the next, stepped forward, each repeating the same ritual.
Nick accepted it all in a daze. These hardened killers, these men with scars on their faces, one of them missing an eye, several missing fingers—these men had welcomed him into their ranks, virtually without question. Because Cris and Dario had recommended him. Because he’d saved Cris’s life. Because Cris had joined with him as a blood brother.
A humbling sense of duty fell upon him. As of this moment, these men and he had sworn to lay down their lives for each other. To trust each other. If necessary, to kill for each other.
Delfina had been right; he hadn’t understood a damn thing. Not until this very moment.
And now it was too late.
As if he’d conjured her up, Delfina flew into the clearing, out of breath, anguish on her face. “Is it finished?” she cried.
Nick nodded, and when she covered her face with her hands, heat flushed his cheeks. He should’ve listened to her. Why was he always ignoring her good advice?
Right behind Delfina, his father and at least ten men poured into the clearing, all of them packing Uzis. “What is the meaning of this?” Enrico demanded.
Dario answered, and the smug look of triumph on his face deepened Nick’s shame. “Your son has joined my cosca.”
“That is not possible. I forbid it.”
“He is of age. He does not need your consent.”
Enrico raked a hand through his hair. “He is ineligible.”
Dario raised a brow. “Please explain.”
“He is illegitimate, as you well know.”
“I have consulted with my uncle Benedetto on this matter. Because you have legally and formally acknowledged the boy as your own, and because you and my sister had no children, he feels an exception can be made for you, Don Lucchesi. Are you not happy to have your son as part of our society?”
All eyes shifted to Enrico. He looked down at the ground, then back at Dario. “He is my son. He should be part of my cosca.” His eyes sought Nick’s, and in a raw, broken voice, he said, “Nico, why did you do this?”
Nick couldn’t tell the truth. So he gave the answer Dario would believe. The one his father would believe. “You never wanted me to be part of your cosca. So I have chosen another family.”
“Nico—”
Dario interrupted Enrico. “Come now, Don Lucchesi. We are joining the families. Do you begrudge me this extra gesture? Your son has rendered great service to my family. I thought it only fitting to reciprocate.”
Enrico’s eyes narrowed. “We should talk about that ‘service’ for a moment. I assume this includes the fire last night.”
“You will have to be more specific.”
“The one where my godson was killed.” Christ. Fedele was his father’s godson?
“A tragedy.”
“You ordered it. Do you deny that?”
“Not at all.”
Enrico crossed his arms. “You puzzle me, Don Andretti. You pledg
e your daughter to my son, you offer an alliance between my family and yours, and yet you kill my godson?”
“Yes.”
Surprised noises swept through the assembly.
“Tell me why I should not gun you down this instant.”
“Fedele was plotting against you. He didn’t like the promotion of your orphan boy to capo di società over family members. He approached me and asked for my cooperation… in eliminating you.” Dario paused again as the murmur of voices swelled. “I will accept your apology at any time.”
Enrico’s gaze flicked to Nick before returning to Dario. He bowed his head. “I am most grateful for the assistance, Don Andretti. Please accept my apologies.” With one final glance at Nick, a glance that pierced him, Enrico turned and left.
Ruggero stepped forward, his eyes blazing, and hawked a gob of spit at the ground before following his boss. Was that meant for me, or Dario, or both of us?
As he watched his father go, Nick rubbed at the ache that had formed in his chest. For the first time in many years, Nick longed to run after him, to throw his arms around his father and never let go.
But now that was impossible. He’d just made sure of it.
CHAPTER 18
Nick and Cris returned to the house, where a great feast had been laid out under the trees on the back garden terrace. The men of the cosca streamed through the house and out back to the groaning tables. Dario offered everyone a humidor full of cigars, and the maids brought out grappa, sambuca, limoncello, and whiskey, along with steaming carafes of espresso. Then they withdrew, leaving the men to their celebration.
Except Nick didn’t want cigars, alcohol, or a feast. Dario’s head was the only thing he wanted brought to him on a platter.
Cris picked up on his dark mood and pulled him aside. “Listen, I know your father was upset, and maybe Papà could have handled it better, but aren’t you happy that you helped rid your father of a snake in his midst?”
“Did I? How do we know your father is telling the truth?”
“What other explanation makes sense? If I had been in Fedele’s shoes, I’d have been upset. Antonio is my friend, but he isn’t family, and what Zio Enrico did—well, it’s a huge slap in the face.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons.” Like keeping his godsons out of the family business. The way he’d tried to protect Nick.
“In the absence of his own son, Enrico should have made Fedele capo di società,” Cris said.
“Perhaps my father felt he wasn’t qualified, or that he could have been of more use elsewhere.”
Cris shrugged. “You have two more cousins with a claim. Your father will need to handle them as well.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, the fact that you were the one who dealt with Fedele complicates matters.”
It took Nick a second. “Christ. Now they’ll want my head.” Then Dario’s deeper purpose hit him, like a lightning bolt hurled by a vengeful god. “Don’t you see? Your father is starting a civil war in the Lucchesi family.”
Shaking his head, Cris said, “Your father started it when he chose Antonio. Perhaps Fedele’s death adds a bit of wood to the fire, but this problem isn’t my father’s creation.”
Heat flooded Nick’s face. “Your loyalty to your father is stunning.” He stalked away from Cris before he said something worse.
Nick wound through the crowd, feeling slaps on the back but not acknowledging them as he headed toward Dario, who had a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. “May I have a word?” Nick asked.
“Of course, my son.” The endearment took him aback, but it shouldn’t have. He was to be Dario’s son-in-law, and in the world of the ‘Ndrangheta, a capo was like a father to his men. But the slight deepening in Dario’s tone indicated that he’d chosen that word to underline his victory.
He followed Dario to a spot some distance from the others. “What is on your mind?” Dario asked.
“Where do I start? With the cousin you made me kill? With giving me a surname I never wanted? Perhaps with all the trouble you’ve caused my father?”
Dario took a long draw on the cigar, holding Nick’s eyes all the while. He let the smoke puff out his nose and mouth as he answered. “When you came to me—and do remember, you called me, you came to me—you wanted to hurt your father. Has something changed?”
The question caught him off-guard, and everything Delacourt, Delfina—even Fuente—had tried to drum into him, hit him in a barrage. He wasn’t immune to the bonds of family. Not at all. He was consumed by them. Everything he’d done had been driven by his love for his father—a love that had twisted into hate, but that at its core was the plaintive cry of a young boy: don’t leave me. Christ. Could he be any more pathetic?
“Well?” Dario asked.
Nick focused on the man before him, so smug in his self-satisfaction. Dario had buried an axe in Enrico Lucchesi’s heart. And Nick had been that axe. He bit the inside of his bottom lip to keep his face emotionless. “Of course nothing’s changed. But you could have let me in on the plan. I feel like a pawn, not a player.”
Dario chuckled. “Does a chess master explain his moves to the pieces?”
A white-hot bolt ripped through Nick. “Is that all we are to you? Delfina, Cris, me? Your supposed family?”
“When I die, all of you will reap the rewards of what I’ve done. And then you can make the decisions.” He took another draw on the cigar. “Provided you don’t get yourself killed before then.”
Nick stepped closer to Dario. “How far are you willing to go? Are you willing to sacrifice your own son?”
Something reptilian flitted through Dario’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“If you sell me out to Benedetto, Cris goes down with me. Remember that.”
Dario looked puzzled. “I am at a loss.”
Fuck. Dario didn’t know, and Nick had promised Cris he’d keep quiet. Now what? He needed something plausible, but not the truth. “Benedetto threatened me. He thought I was a spy sent by my father. I thought he’d told you.”
“What does this have to do with Cris?”
“Benedetto knows the two of us are close, and now that we’re blood brothers, it wouldn’t take much to convince him we were conspiring against you and the rest of the family.”
His eyes unfocused as he mulled over Nick’s words, Dario stroked his lower lip with the rim of his whiskey glass. “He hasn’t mentioned this to me.”
“Your uncle seems to be someone who keeps his own counsel. Am I wrong?” Please let this work.
“What you say is true. But you have nothing to fear.” Dario took a gulp of the whiskey. “I don’t think Benedetto is serious. Rather, I think he does not like the idea of me having a man in Interpol. Someone he doesn’t control.”
Nick’s gut uncoiled. “That makes sense.”
Transferring his whiskey to his cigar hand, Dario gripped Nick by the base of his neck and squeezed. “So, we are friends, are we not?”
Hardly. Nick forced a smile and a nod. If his plan was going to work, he’d need Dario’s trust.
And he’d need an ally in law enforcement. Someone Delacourt didn’t have influence over.
It was time to contact Silvio Fuente again. But before that, he needed to talk to Delfina. He owed her one hell of an apology.
Delfina had failed to save Nick. Zio Enrico had practically drawn her a map, yet somehow she’d gotten lost. Worried that they’d spot her, she’d let the Mercedes leave her behind, but once she’d lost sight of it, she’d panicked and had sped past the first turnoff, not realizing her error until many minutes later. On most stretches of Via Bisbino, branching roads and turnabouts were infrequent, and that portion had been no exception. By the time she’d been able double back and find the right road, she’d been too late, arriving at the ceremony just ahead of her uncle.
All her frantic effort had been for nothing. After seeing the devastation on her uncle’s face as he’d walked away, she’d regretted called him. He�
�d have found out eventually, but it might have stung less if Nick hadn’t disowned him in front of everyone.
And Nick’s betrayal wasn’t even true—she was sure of it. He’d say anything to make her father happy and complacent, to get him to drop his guard and let Nick into the inner circle.
But she couldn’t let Nick do it. Couldn’t let him put Cris in jail. Maybe Papà deserved it, but not Cris.
Somehow, she had to stop Nick. Her mind spun with possibilities. Spun until she was dizzy with options, worries, and second-guesses.
Clearly, Nick wouldn’t rest until he’d found some way to wash his conscience clean from Fedele’s murder. And for Nick, that meant bringing someone to justice—no matter what a farce that justice might be. If her father went to jail, he’d just run things from there, through Cris. Provided that Cris didn’t end up in jail himself. But she couldn’t let that happen.
She needed to give Nick some other way to atone. She needed to give him a bigger fish than her father, the biggest fish she knew: Benedetto.
But how?
Taking Benedetto down would require solid evidence. Evidence no one could refute or argue away or hire fancy lawyers to dance around.
The answer hit her like a bullet. The bugs. Of course! Nonno Carlo had taped Benedetto’s visits to the guest cottage for years. There had to be something on those recordings.
But where did Papà keep them?
Or did he even have them? So far, he hadn’t said anything to her about her visit to Nick last night. Perhaps he was late in reviewing them. But that didn’t seem like Papà.
Was it possible her grandfather had taken their location with him to the grave?
Cris would probably know. There should be no reason for Papà to keep such a strategic advantage secret.