Dagger in the Sea

by Cat Porter

  Wasn’t all that acrimony between them done with? I was over it. He’d won. He got me on his side of the tracks.

  “I’m asking you to see if you can get him to pull back, to see reason,” she said. “That neighborhood renovation is inevitable, and it’s happening. He can’t stop gentrification. The city has invested big money in making that happen, people are excited. He can’t stop it. He’s worried, frustrated, and picking on me and my business is obviously his way of lashing out, but he’s always had it in for me.”

  Mauro frustrated was never good. Mauro vengeful, even worse. He never forgave, this she and I both knew. Once an enemy, always an enemy.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Thank you.”

  I slanted my head. “It might make it worse.”

  “No worse than it already is,” she replied, rising from the sofa, a hand quickly skimming down her perfect fitting pencil skirt. “I have a conference call in ten minutes,” she said, plucking her tortoise shell eyeglasses from her desk.

  We were done.

  “Of course.” I rose from the sofa.

  She took in a breath and exhaled slowly, the edges of her lips curving up ever so slightly. That almost smile that expressed satisfaction, yet also served to tamp down and press emotions into a vacuum sealed bag, leaving me still, after all these years, with that raw urge to rip it open and look inside.

  Her penetrating gaze roved over me. “You look good, Turo. You seem well.”

  My throat thickened, my lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. I could see us having a genuine, frank conversation. I could see us putting the last ten years aside and picking up where we’d left off. Clean slate. Mutual respect.

  My chest tightened. Fuck, I’d missed her.

  I lifted my chin. “I am. Very well.”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes searched mine. “Are you happy?”

  “I’m good, Erin.” I shut down her attempt at an inquiry.

  She lifted that eyebrow again, her gaze traveling over me once more. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  We stood there motionless, once mother, once son. Two business professionals exchanging pleasantries, a promise to cooperate, forging an agreement. How civilized of us.

  Her smile faded, and something nipped at my insides. I strode from her office and, shutting the massive door behind me with a heavy click, separated us once more.

  As I took my coat from Marjorie, I let out a heavy breath, but it didn’t bring any relief. The burn of Erin’s fierce gaze still radiated through me along with the buzz from having seen her again. The elevator doors closed, and in the ride down the burn faded, but that buzz of excitement at seeing my mother remained. The same buzz of excitement I’d once felt as a child when she’d invite me out with her.

  When I was in elementary school and would be home on school breaks, my mother would pick a day and take me out for a museum exhibition, and lunch at our favorite French restaurant, and shopping. She was very busy at graduate school and working at Grandfather’s office. This was our special time, just the two of us, and I loved it. We both did.

  On one of these occasions, after seeing a Picasso exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute, we had an incredible meal at Ambria where we had our favorite appetizer, escargots in a garlic butter sauce with pignoli nuts. Afterward, we headed up Michigan Avenue to Nordstrom.

  In the fitting room in the boys’ department, she pulled up the collar on the stiff white Polo dress shirt she’d chosen for me and ran a hand through my new haircut. “Very sharp. So handsome.” Her hands rested on my shoulders, our gazes locked, and that warmth raced through me. We were a perfect pair in style and look; same color and shape eyes, same color hair, too, although mine had gotten darker the past year, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  Mom’s blonde hair was swept up today and she wore her favorite wrap dress along with perfect makeup and those big, sparkly diamond earrings Grandmother had given her last Christmas. We could be in a magazine spread together, that Town & Country Magazine that Grandmother subscribed to and they enjoyed pouring over together.

  We got to the cashier, whose face reddened as she announced the total, over one thousand dollars. My mother took out one of her many credit cards from her Louis Vuitton wallet and paid the bill. Two other salesladies folded my new clothes, making neat piles and packing them carefully into great big shopping bags. I took two of the Nordstrom bags and she the other two.

  My mom grinned at me. “Let’s go.”

  “Let’s go!” I repeated.

  “Erin! How are you?”

  Mother stopped in her tracks, her face locking into a tight smile. “Paige, hello.”

  “You didn’t come to the last Foundation tea and I’ve been meaning to call you to tell you the news.”

  “News?”

  “Oh yes, there’s this big controversy going on about — Oh.” The lady’s blue eyes blinked and honed right in on me. “And who’s this?”

  “This is my godson. Arthur,” my mother replied smoothly.

  I froze. My heart thudded dully in my chest. My skin suddenly heated.

  Godson.

  Godson.

  “Such a handsome young man. Hello there, Arthur.”

  “Hello,” I mumbled, my mouth suddenly very dry.

  I’d never heard her say it before. “Godson.” I stole a glance up at her. Her skin was paler than usual. She listened to Paige’s flow of words about the meeting of the organizers of the Garden Show, the latest hot chef and could my mother introduce her, the fashion show she’d gone to in New York. My mother smiled, but I noticed the fine press of her lips. She wanted to escape and quickly.

  “We really have to go, we have dinner reservations,” my mother finally interrupted her friend.

  “Of course. Call me, won’t you?”

  “Will do.”

  “Goodbye, Arthur.”

  “Goodbye, ma’am.”

  I stumbled to keep up with my mother’s long stride, her quick pace. The big shopping bags I held kept bonking into my legs, slowing me down. “Mom, wait—”

  She pivoted on her heels and leaned down into me, her blue eyes flaring. “Don’t call me that. Not here. Not now. Jesus.”

  A painful rip tore through my insides. My breath caught in my chest and choked there. The full shopping bags grew as heavy as fifty pound weights strapped to my arms.

  She spun once more and kept walking, charging out of the store until we got to the curb. Our driver pulled up within moments. We climbed into the Town Car quickly.

  “Take us home, please,” she said.

  “Very good.” The driver’s gaze flicked to mine, and I sank deeper in the leather seat and examined the throbbing red marks the shopping bag handles had left behind.

  There was no excited chatter, there was no trip to Unabridged Books to explore new books—cooking, art and design for her and science fiction, fantasy, and historical adventure for me—and bring home shopping bags loaded with our treasure. There was only a young woman across the backseat from me with her hands folded rigidly in her lap as she stared out the window for the entire ride. My mom who wasn’t supposed to be my mom. Or something.

  Once through the front door of the apartment, she handed off her shopping bags to the housekeeper.

  “Go on.” My mother’s fingers ruffled quickly through my hair, but she didn’t meet my gaze. She disappeared down the long hallway that led to her bedroom.

  I lumbered up to my room upstairs and fell back onto my perfectly made bed and stared at the ceiling, willing the sickening churn of my stomach to cease, for my thoughts to numb. I was good at that. Very good.

  When I was in high school my mother and her new husband were featured in the pages of Town & Country Magazine sitting in their newly purchased penthouse apartment remodeled by a top architect and interior decorator. I read the article. Even though she’d recently gotten married, the new Mrs. Cavanaugh Bradley man
aged to transform her father’s company and lead it to the top of the heap in Chicago. She was a businesswoman to admire, a role model for all young women, a new generation of entrepreneur. Erin Cavanaugh Bradley knew how to balance her career and personal life.

  She sure did.

  I wasn’t included in the photos in the magazine, nor was I mentioned in the article. Eventually my mother’s uptightness about having an illegitimate child eased, and once I got to college, she’d begun to introduce me as her son without explanation. But that day at school, I’d thrown the magazine into a trash can and lit it on fire on my way to Lacrosse practice.

  That day the coach ousted me from the field for excessive aggression, and I was barred from playing in the next match. They should have ousted me for the rest of the season, but the fuckers couldn’t do that. Not only was my grandfather a star alumnus, I was the Captain of the team and we were in the playoffs for the cup; they needed me. My mother was informed, and she expressed her deep disappointment in my behavior. But it was my grandfather who flew out to see me. He always made time for me, but I knew for him to fly all the way out to Massachusetts for the day from his golf vacation in Florida was a huge deal.

  “You have to learn the art of self control, Arthur,” he said. “Take this time and use it wisely. Regroup and prepare yourself, and when you have the privilege to be back out on that field, you do what needs to get done. I have every confidence that you know what that is and that you will accomplish what you set out to do. Remember, actions always speak louder than words, that’s what remains in people’s minds—what you do, how you react, the choices you make. The rest is hot air. You show them all what you’re made of. You show them who you are.”

  My pulse raced at his words. “Yes sir, I will.”

  “Good.” He hugged me. “Your grandmother and I will be coming to see you play in the finals.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, we are. And we’re bringing your mother too. See you then.”

  “See you then, Grandpa.”

  In the weeks that followed, I released my steam on the track, in the swimming pool, and in the weight room every day until I was allowed to play again.

  We got to the Final and we won that goddamn title.

  3

  Turo

  I drove over to the Boss’s house in Oak Brook. I’d called ahead, of course, and he said to stop by. I wanted to discuss my mother with him right away. Alone. This could get messy very fast. It already had gotten messy, and I was the one playing fucking catch up.

  The timing sucked. I had good news to share with him. News I’d been sitting on for a while now, waiting for the right time to impress the fuck out of him.

  The housekeeper opened the door, and told me to go on to his office, but unfortunately, I encountered his son in the hallway.

  Valerio glared at me, scaling me like a fish with a sharp scrape of his eyes. “Look who it is. I have a question for you, Turo.”

  “Call me. Make an appointment.”

  “Did you kill that biker?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Of course I knew what he was talking about, because, a week ago I’d killed Med McGuire, a meth-making bike club president from Kansas. His was the type of outlaw bike club you didn’t fuck with. The Smoking Guns were a huge criminal organization that worked for the Tantucci family, our historical enemies on the landscape of Chicago and the Midwest.

  I’d killed Med because he was a vital resource for the Tantuccis drug trade. But I enjoyed killing him because he deserved it for what he’d done, for his brutality. Me, the avenging angel.

  Valerio leaned into me. “I’m going to feed you to the Tantuccis for this.”

  “Excuse me?”

  A slight smile flickered on his lips. “You used to be a useful tool, DeMarco.”

  A tool. That summed it up in the Outfit, didn’t it? A network of useful tools. Actually, my parents had taught me that first. In their own ways both of them had gotten me to do their bidding, yet always kept me at arm’s length, dangling their carrots in my face to keep me at it. The rewards had once seemed so damned promising. Glittering.

  Artificial starlight.

  I was thirty-three, yet that lesson from some ten years back still stung fresh in my veins. Working for Mauro had given me the agency to break out of Erin’s treasured mold. But Mauro wasn’t simply the “other side” of the life that I’d been raised in. He was the underside.

  Both worlds were similar. Both bet and parleyed for the same things. Both needed each other. And I found I enjoyed playing in that long, wide field between the two teams. In fact, the Boss had come to rely on my opinion on a great many things, much to Val’s consternation. I’d found myself savoring that. But after ten years of working for Mauro, making his bordellos major moneymakers and an established system that generated important contacts, I was still not a “made man.” Everyone knew I was only half Italian and half the dreaded Irish. I may have had the sheen of Mauro’s favor and, therefore, accepted, but up to a point. My blood was sullied. Not to be completely trusted.

  Over the years I thought things would improve for me on that score by way of the results I consistently brought in. That wasn’t the case, however. Tradition was tradition. A fact Val enjoyed.

  “You killed him, Turo. Didn’t you?” That smile stretched across his pretty boy face. Was he waiting for a reaction? He wasn’t going to get one. “Such an arrogant son of a bitch.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “Valerio.”

  “I’d love to see Mr. Tantucci blow his stack when he finds out that you’re the one responsible for killing his precious meth maker. They’ve been losing big bucks across several states ever since.”

  “You have proof?”

  He let out a dry laugh. “Your new boy, Little Anthony, is mine, fuckhead.”

  Little Anthony was a newbie soldier who’d just joined my crew on the Boss’s insistence. I’d had him checked out. I’d been thorough. How the hell—

  Val slid a five by seven photo from his suit jacket and held it up for me to see. Med’s bloodied body strewn on that burnt orange motel bedspread flashed before me. The musty smell of that trashy motel room in southern Indiana on that hot and muggy afternoon came rushing back to me.

  I’d snuck into Med’s room as he’d been taking a hit from a pipe, utterly mesmerized as he watched a bikini clad girl, one of my most trusted prostitutes who I’d planted in his path, crush a piece of cake with her ass on the dresser (people’s addictions to fetishes never ceased to intrigue me). While he got busy desperately trying to get himself off, I slid my blade into his neck, pushing him back onto the bed, the smell of him foul. He’d actually smiled, laughed, the high bastard. Then he got pissed, his eyes narrowing, a low growl escaping his lips as his body bucked once, twice. Sweet, sweet panic, that struggle for one more breath, the frantic then slow thump of his heart as I held him down, blood oozing. He gave in to me, and he was finally gone.

  “I helped Little Anthony with his mamma’s medical bills recently,” Val said. “He owes me big time. No health insurance is a good thing for some of us.”

  What a fucking moron. A moron who had me by the balls at the moment. I shifted my weight. “You think doing this would be good for the family?”

  “Don’t talk to me about family, you fuck. I know my father didn’t order this hit, I asked him about it. He didn’t like it much.” He jabbed a finger in the air at me. “You did this. Your head’s too big for your own good, and the sooner my dad sees that the better.”

  “Entitled punk,” I shot back.

  Val’s chin jutted out and he lunged at me, grabbing at my collar. I shoved him off. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” I said on a hiss.

  The boss entered the hallway, and Val moved away from me, his fingers rubbing over his creased forehead, nostrils flaring. I smoothed down my collar, my tie.

  “Good, you’re here.” Mauro Guardino’s eyes went from me to his son and back again, his lips set in a firm
line.

  “Yes, I’m here.” I ground my jaw, adjusting my suit jacket. I was the one who was always here.

  Val was a few years younger than me, and was comfortable sitting on the arm of the throne in a well-made suit and his gold chains and diamond Rolex, the family initial on a gold pinky ring, nodding his head and making faces, while his dad made all the tough decisions. Perched there until the moment came when his father would be gone and he would just slide into the seat.

  Or so he assumed.

  That’s not what it was about. It was about hard work, hours pounding the streets, getting dirty, real dirty, stealing, haggling, beating, making contacts, giving shitheads the time of day, being respected, feared. That’s how you got what you wanted.

  Mauro threw a newspaper on his desk. “Look at this shit.”

  A column’s headline blared about Med’s “biker assassination” and how the Smoking Guns Motorcycle Club was up in arms as were their enemies. How the Feds were bracing for a war between bike clubs and would be investigating Med’s chapter, and his ties to a host of criminal organizations in the region.

  “Not good.” Mauro shoved the newspaper across his desk and it flew onto the floor.

  “Why not, Dad?” asked Valerio, his eyes sliding to mine. “If the Tantuccis catch some heat this way, isn’t it good?”

  “Not necessarily. These bikers are idiots. What if one of them starts talking to point the finger at the other?”

  “Yeah, this gang versus that gang, all hell could break loose,” said Val.

  “They’re clubs, not gangs,” I said.

  Valerio rolled his eyes. “Who gives a shit?”