The Name of Honor

by Susan Fanetti

  The Saccos had been struggling under Tommy’s lead. He’d been too hotheaded and too easily distracted, chasing the rush of power rather than steering a business. They’d lost financial ground because he made deals that didn’t hold water and promises he couldn’t keep, and his sister had had to smooth all those rough spots over. That got expensive.

  Now Tommy was dead, and his sister had his seat. Not everyone in her family was pleased with that change, but they’d voted to make her and elevate her, both of which required unanimous decisions. Still, Angie had been paying attention during these long days of performative mourning, and he’d noticed a few Sacco faces showing something less than respect for the woman they’d voted to lead them.

  Nick’s visible support would quiet those concerns, likely. If she could coast in Nick’s wake, too, she should be okay.

  Which was why Angie held on to this secret, though it sat in his gut like acid, burning through him every minute. So Nick would have no cause to turn his back on her.

  Now, while he stood with Nick and Donnie outside St. Leonard’s, Angie watched Giada thanking the attendees of her brother’s Mass. Fallon, Tommy’s widow, and their teenage daughters stood with her, as did Vincenzo, her uncle.

  Angie had met Fallon a few times. She was, in his estimation, exactly the kind of nothing woman a man like Tommy Sacco would marry and then bore of at once—spineless and not very bright, but good-looking enough to catch his eye in the first place. The kind of woman who didn’t know she deserved to be treated better, who would take what he dealt out and still be there to take it again. The kind of woman who thought being trapped in a nice house was being taken care of.

  As a widow at her husband’s funeral, Fallon was useless, wearing a black lace funeral veil, sobbing loudly at long and erratic intervals, and barely managing to shake the hands offered her. Her daughters slumped beside her, looking tortured and bleak.

  Giada took on all the responsibilities, thanking people for their condolences, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. Angie wondered what she was thinking, standing there as the bereaved sister of the man she’d killed. He wondered, in fact, how much she was bereaved at all.

  Because he’d been watching her, Angie saw Fabio Busto, who had been Tommy’s second, coming up from the side of the church, headed toward the front door, where Giada and the rest of Tommy’s family stood. For the first couple seconds, he thought nothing of it; the church was crawling with Italians, particularly of the Sacco Family variety. But Fabio was a pallbearer and had just carried the casket to the hearse. Seemed strange for him to be coming around from behind the church now.

  Then, as he continued across the front, his posture pinged an alarm in Angie’s head.

  Fabio was bringing a pistol, a 9mm, forward, into a two-handed firing grip, raising it to aim as he walked. Pointing it at Giada.

  “GUN!” Angie yelled and went for his Beretta, holstered under his arm.

  It was too late. Fabio fired twice, and Giada and her uncle both fell. Like dominoes, Tommy’s whole family toppled to the ground.

  “GIADA!” All the blood in Angie’s body seem to surge into his heart at once.

  Pandemonium erupted—screaming, shouting, scattering—but Angie ignored it. Fabio had turned and was running back the way he came. Angie ran after him. The second he had a shot he took it, and Fabio fell. The angle of Angie’s aim hadn’t been good, though, and they’d both been moving. The bullet caught Fabio in the shoulder. He’d been trying to jump the iron fence, and his body draped over it, one arm hooked over a spike.

  Angie reached him, and Fabio flopped over to face him. “Second goddamn time I been shot in that shoulder, and it was her fuckin’ fault both times,” he gasped, grinning maniacally. He was still holding the gun, but he tossed it away. “Got no beef with you, Ange. But I couldn’t let that cunt ruin us all. I did it for all of us.”

  Angie emptied the rest of his mag into Fabio Busto’s traitorous face.

  He left what remained hanging where it was and ran back for Giada.

  ~ 16 ~

  Giada was trapped and scrambled to free herself; not until she’d made it to her knees, feeling the grind of concrete into her skin, did she understand that she’d been trapped under Enzo’s body. He moaned and rolled limply to his back. He was conscious, staring up at the sky as if perplexed to see it was still there.

  “Zio!” she cried and grabbed his arm. His suitcoat and topcoat spread open and showed two blooms of red like peonies unfolding on his shirt, his chest. Her mind made an echo, and she remembered she’d heard two shots. They’d both hit her uncle.

  Because he’d leapt in front of her the second Angie had shouted.

  Her uncle was going to die from bullets meant for her, and she hadn’t seen who’d fired. “Zio, no!” She pulled him into her arms, lifted his shoulders onto her lap, cradled his head. He lolled bonelessly. “Zio! Please!”

  Another shot rang out, but it was far enough away that Giada gave it only a piece of her mind.

  “Stai bene?” her uncle wheezed, his eyelids fluttering weakly.

  “I’m okay, Zio. You will be, too. Stay with me.”

  “Fallon? Bambine?” he asked. He wanted to know about Tommy’s family. Without leaving his side, she twisted to see over her shoulder. Fallon was sprawled against the church, her old-fashioned veil askew, and her daughters were with her, each holding a hand.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, knowing they were not.

  Vienna, the oldest, shook her head. “We’re okay. Are you? There’s blood on your face.”

  When Enzo had fallen, he’d taken Giada and the others down in a heap; she’d hit the pavement face first. “I’m fine.” Enzo moaned more harshly and more weakly, and Giada called out, “Call 911! Now!”

  “Already called. We have to get you to cover, Giada. All of you, now.” Bruno crouched before her, and Giada looked up. They were in shadow and closed in, and she realized they’d been surrounded by Sacco men, facing out, forming a shield.

  “Yes. Into the vestibule.”

  A barrage of gunfire exploded, several quick shots, still at some distance, and the men moved even more quickly to get them inside.

  As Bruno and Carl lifted Enzo, and Stefano helped Fallon and the girls, Giada paused and looked around at the other men. “Who was it?”

  Before anyone answered, Angie’s voice rang out. “GIADA!”

  There was a scuffle, and she saw him trying to get to her. “Let him through.”

  They did, and he rushed to her and grabbed her, cupping her face, brushing his thumb over the scrape across her cheek. “You’re bleeding! Are you hit?”

  It was far too much public display of what was between them, and Giada had too much to think about and to do. Her elderly uncle had taken two bullets to the chest for her. And she didn’t know who’d shot him.

  She pushed Angie off, more harshly than she’d intended; the stress of this moment had filled her with fire. He took a step back. Hurt shimmered in his eyes and disappeared.

  “I’m fine. Enzo was shot. I need to get to him.” She turned on her heel and hurried into the church.

  Enzo lay supine on the floor of the vestibule. He was pale, and his aged skin gleamed with perspiration. His chest barely moved, but when he managed a breath, it was noisy, and a mist of blood plumed up from his mouth. He was dying.

  Giada dropped to her knees and leaned over him, coming close, framing his wonderful old face with her hands. “Zio, stay with me. Please stay.”

  She could hear sirens now—if he could hold on just a little more, there’d be help for him.

  His eyes opened. “Piccolina. Mia piccolina. Non ti lascerò mai. Now I will be with you in your heart, not at your side.”

  Tears filled Giada’s eyes. “No, Zio. Per favore. Ho bisogno di te.”

  His hand came up and hooked over her wrist. “Sei forte, Giada. Sempre. Mi rendi sempre orgoglioso. Hai la forza. E il potere. Sarai magnifica.” His eyes fluttered shut, and his hand sagged f
rom her arm. “Sono stanco,” he muttered softly, and went still.

  “Zio?” She pushed her fingers into his collar, against his throat. She couldn’t find a pulse. “Zio, no.” But he was gone.

  She set her head on his blood-soaked chest for a moment and said a silent, private goodbye to the man who’d always loved her, always known her. Her lifelong lifeline.

  Her farewell made, Giada felt a cold creep into her chest and flow out into her limbs. It froze her tears. She became numb. When she stood again, she felt nothing.

  The paramedics ran in. “You’re too late,” she said and stepped over her uncle’s body. “Bruno.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Who was it?”

  He cut a glance to the paramedics. Giada saw cops outside the church. She began to make a list in her mind of the people she’d need to contact and make arrangements with to ensure the story of this scene did no damage to her business and family.

  “It was Fabio,” Bruno muttered, keeping his voice just between the two of them.

  Of course. Well, he’d be dead before sunset. Giada had a thought she might do it herself. “He did it alone?”

  “As far as I know now, yes.”

  “That’s not a good enough answer. Where is he?”

  Bruno glanced again at all the people around them, but there was too much commotion to be heard by anyone but each other. “Dead.”

  She cocked her head, waiting for more information.

  “It looks like Angie killed him,” Bruno continued. “Unloaded a whole mag in his face.”

  Angie had no right to that kill. It was Sacco business. But for now, at least, the matter was handled, and Fabio couldn’t do more damage—as long as he’d been alone. Giada focused on more pressing matters.

  “Send somebody to his house to check on Mia and the kids. They didn’t come today.”

  Bruno nodded. “I’ll go myself.”

  “No. Delegate it. I want you making sure Fabi doesn’t have allies still breathing. If he does, I want to know.”

  “Okay. We need to get you home and buttoned up for now. Until things settle down.”

  She was not a woman to be coddled. She was the don. And she had shit to do.

  “No, Bruno. I still have to bury my brother.” She considered the corner of the vestibule, where Fallon and her daughters huddled together. “If they want to go home, get them there. I’m going to find the detective in charge, and then I’m getting the hearse to the cemetery.”

  “You need a body man, Giada. You need one full-time, but especially right now.”

  Bruno was right, and it wasn’t the first time since she’d taken over that he’d brought it up, but she was still thinking of the Saccos as Tommy’s men, and was reluctant to trust any among the available pool. So far, she completely trusted only Bruno, but he was an attorney, not a bodyguard. Carl had stood up for her quickly, but he ran the shylocks. He’d probably be great at intimidation, but a bodyguard predicted danger as well as fought it off. Besides, a capo shouldn’t be a bodyguard.

  The only other man alive she completely trusted wasn’t a Sacco man. But she went to the door anyway, and scanned the commotion still roiling on the church grounds.

  She didn’t see Angie anywhere.

  “Giada,” Bruno said, standing right behind her. “You can’t stand in the middle of the door like that.” He took her arm and pulled her gently to the side. The paramedics had lifted Enzo’s body onto their stretcher and covered him completely. They were belting him down and packing up. Fallon, Vienna, and Stella were gone; they must have decided to go home rather than to the cemetery.

  “I’m going to call Shorty over,” Bruno said. “He’ll cover you today.”

  Giada watched her uncle’s body rolling away from her. The pain she’d felt tangling her veins and stopping her blood as he’d died in her arms had died with him, apparently. Now she felt nothing. “You trust him?”

  “I wouldn’t tap him if I didn’t. He’s a good kid. Young, but smart, and tough as hell.”

  “Okay. Shorty it is.”

  “Scusi,” said an unfamiliar voice, in a strong Sicilian accent.

  Giada and Bruno both turned. One of Ettore Cuccia’s men stood in the doorway.

  “Yes?” Giada said.

  “Il Padrino, he call a meeting,” the man said. His accent was thick and his English slow, as if he were picking out each word from a vocabulary list.

  Giada answered in Italian. “And you are?”

  He was clearly relieved to be able to give up the English. And when he did, his demeanor changed, became more aggressive. “Gian-Paolo Ermacora. The Godfather is calling all the New England family heads together. He doesn’t recognize you as don, but he wants you there, since you’ve brought this trouble to the Council.”

  Bruno stepped up in defense of her, but Giada stepped around him and gave this Sicilian asshole a tight smile. She replied again in Italian. “It’s not for Signore Cuccia to decide our business in New England. He’s a guest here. Nothing more.”

  “You’re a bold little woman. We’d heard that about you. But you’re still a little woman. You have your place, and men have theirs. The dons will be there. It doesn’t matter if you’re there or not, I suppose. Either way, by the time it’s over you’ll be put in your place.”

  With a nod to Bruno, Ermacora turned and left the vestibule.

  “Fuck,” Bruno muttered. “What are we going to do?”

  “Not we. Me. I’ll be there—more than that, I want to host the fucking thing. This is Boston. This our turf. So we run the meeting. And I’ll make the Sicilians eat their traditions. But right now, I’m going to bury my brother.”

  ~oOo~

  Zia Sophia’s was a little trattoria on the North Side, one of the Sacco Family’s first acquisitions. For the most part, it was a straight-arrow business, one of the best-known and best-loved Italian restaurants in Boston, frequently noted in local and regional media. One of the cable foodie shows had even done an episode on Boston pizza and featured Zia’s prominently.

  The second floor, reached through a humble door tucked in the back near the restrooms, however, was something else entirely. That was what the Saccos called the Council Room, because its most common usage was for Sacco-hosted Council meetings. It had been lavishly decorated by Giada’s father and still retained that mid-century impression of luxury. Tommy had always insisted he’d redecorate, but he’d been distracted by more entertaining uses of his time and money.

  Giada was glad. She loved this room. It smelled of cigars and spirits, of old wood and rich polish, of garlic and oregano. The blood-red carpet was thick as clouds, and the leather chairs creaked softly. Crystal glinted and silver gleamed under pendant lights with stained-glass shades.

  Before, she’d seen the room only infrequently, when she’d worked at the restaurant as a teenager, and helped the staff set up for meetings. Now, it was hers.

  The meal she was able to put together on such notice wasn’t as elaborate as one she’d have planned at leisure, but the steaks were excellent, the risotto creamy, and the bread fresh. They drank Montepulciano with the meal and Frangelico and espresso with the tiramisu.

  Nick, as head of the Council, sat at the head of the table. Giada sat to his right, with Donnie between them. Angie wasn’t there. Giada found that more than curious; Angie was Nick’s left hand. To make mention of it would have been inappropriate in any event—a don invited those advisors he wished, so long as they were made—and, in this event, it would have called attention to her interest in Angie. She didn’t know what Nick knew. But Angie’s absence suggested he’d lost favor.

  She hadn’t seen him at all since she’d pushed him away at the church. In more than a week she’d seen him only at Tommy’s vigil and Mass. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words or been remotely alone together.

  For now, Giada set aside wonderings about Angie and focused on the matter at hand. She sat at the table, watching Ettore Cuccia at the far end, and s
eethed. But the rage she felt was icy. It didn’t fire her blood, didn’t make her restless, didn’t flush her cheeks or quicken her breath. She sat there and ate and drank with all these men judging her, she conversed with them as if this were a social event and she hadn’t lost her uncle that morning or buried her brother or been shot at. This rage turned her blood to slush, and it chugged a dull pulse at her temples and at the base of her spine.

  When the servers cleared the dessert plates, poured coffee, and left, closing the door discreetly behind them, Cuccia clapped his hand. “Now, business.”

  He spoke in English; most of the dons and their close men were at least functionally fluent in Italian, but some were not, and more would struggle to have a lengthy, complex discussion in that language.

  “Due respect, Signore Cuccia,” Giada said, before he could continue. Several men at the table stirred slightly—small, almost imperceptible twitches of discomfort.

  Bruno had ‘corrected’ her earlier, when she’d referred to Cuccia as Signore rather than Padrino, or even Don, but she hadn’t made a mistake. This was a battle of wills between them—and possibly between her and most of the men at this table, and she had decided that she would show the respect she was shown.

  She was not asking these men for permission. She was claiming a seat at the table and demanding they make way.

  “Due respect, Signore Cuccia, but this is the Sacco table. I am tonight’s host, and Don Pagano is the head of this Council. We will call the meeting.”

  Cuccia gave her a smile packed with as much condescension as his fat mug and beady little eyes could muster. “No, signorina. No woman hosts such a meeting. You are here as witness, though you’ve also made a lovely hostess. The meal was good.”

  “Padrino,” Nick said. “Rispetto, but this is the table of the New England Council of Five Families. You have no vote here. The Council decides. You are here as witness.”

  Cuccia stared hard at Nick, who stared back. No one else spoke or moved.

  “You think you are so powerful to do what you want, but you are not a god, Nicolo.” Cuccia finally said.