Valentino was gone.
The boss was dead.
PART IV
‘Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.’
William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
WINTER
The weeks passed slowly. Every day was a trickle of time, of renewed pain and loaded silence. A thick blanket of snow draped itself over Evelina, and with it came the ice. It made spectres of us all, roaming the halls, looking for something to say, and knowing there were no words left.
There was no laughter, no joy.
Just rage.
Intent.
My father remained elusive – no sightings, no word of him anywhere. I started to wonder if he had been there that day, too, hiding somewhere with Jack, laughing behind a church missal as Elena’s screams filled up the church like an aria.
Over twenty witnesses at Holy Name Cathedral on All Souls’ Day pointed to Zola Marino as Valentino’s assailant. They had seen her in the communion procession, hooded and in plain clothes, as she approached Valentino in the aisle and leant over him from behind. They had passed it off as a friendly greeting at first, a hug that lasted just a little too long. By the time they understood what had happened, Elena was screaming the walls down and Nic and Dom were already charging out of the church.
The boys never caught up to Zola.
They never even fired their guns.
The incident made every single local paper, and most of the national ones, too. News of the escalating blood war between the Falcones and the Marinos was now public knowledge. They rehashed old murders – details of my paternal grandparents, Vince Marino and Linda Harris, splashed across the pages, photographs of Angelo Falcone, of Felice, and even Luca – the ‘striking blue-eyed twin’ of the latest Falcone victim.
Zola had been discovered hiding in the back of a well-known Marino-friendly restaurant eighteen blocks from the church and was taken away in handcuffs by the police. On her second day in jail, she was found hanging by the neck. The newspapers called it suicide. The Falcones called it retribution. They had people everywhere. Prison wasn’t good enough for Zola, so death would have to do.
The war had truly begun.
In the blink of an eye, everything had changed, and we all did too – morphed by the weight of our guilt, of how close we had been to Valentino and how drastically we had failed him. It was the hardest blow they could have dealt, and they had done it because we had underestimated them. Because we had dared to ask for peace when they were thirsting for war. Because we had dared to believe in the possibility of a truce. Nothing was off limits any more.
The rules had changed.
Luca’s desires now were singular, the sharp edge of his grief directed outwards, like a weapon, at all those Marinos who still walked free. He talked a little crisper, walked a little faster, drew his gun a lot quicker. He didn’t lie out on the roof any more, looking at the stars. He didn’t read poetry or spar with his brothers. He didn’t talk about the what-ifs. He didn’t talk to me, either. Not the way he used to. The old Luca was gone, replaced by a harder, darker version. The Falcone he was always supposed to be. The Falcone who would avenge all that was taken from us.
No one else talked about the what-ifs, either. The idea of possibility was gone. Luca had finally let it go. He had finally succumbed to the family, and without him trying to block me from it, I did too. We were united at last in our purpose, but instead of bringing us closer together, it pushed us apart. We stood on opposite ends of a dark cloud, our ever-present grief licking the happiness from our skin.
On November 10th, Valentino was interred next to his father in the family mausoleum.
That evening, Luca was sworn in by the family elders as the new Falcone boss.
He made Paulie his underboss.
Security measures at Evelina were tightened.
Shoot-on-sight orders were distributed.
Luca swore revenge on every living, breathing Marino in the state of Illinois while Felice stood by and watched, a quiet smile painted across his face.
And I kept wondering, as the weeks dragged by, how exactly the Falcone consigliere had failed to notice Valentino’s murder, when he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with him when it happened.
I played his reaction over and over in my head – the wide eyes, the gasp, the slow turn of his head, as though the scene had been written and it was time for Felice to play his part. The more time passed, the less I believed in his shock. His grief. The less I believed in his loyalty at all.
Felice spent his time watching Luca, and I spent my time watching him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DECEMBER 23RD
In the Council room at Evelina, Luca stood at the head of the table with his back to us. His black hair brushed against the base of his neck, his head tilted to the side as he faced the photographs on the wall. The others were looking at them, but I was looking at Luca, the way his shoulders tensed, how his voice arced. I could hear the exhaustion in it. He swept a hand through his hair, then gestured towards the photo on the far right.
Uncle Jack. A recent photo of him coming out of Eden and ducking into a car. His grey hair was buzzed short, his right eye still scarred and pink around the edges. My handiwork.
It was two days before Christmas, and I had never felt so joyless. We were planning our final, full-force strike, and every active Falcone member in the state had been called in to prepare for it. D-Day was approaching and I was right smack in the middle of it, finally about to get my revenge.
I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
‘Jack Gracewell aka Antony Marino will be at Donata Marino’s house, along with the others,’ Luca said without turning around. ‘Marco, her youngest son, will also be present. We suspect he has been appointed underboss following Zola’s death. Her cousin, Romano Marino, recently released from prison, has also risen in the ranks. Our sources tell us he’s become a key player in Zola and Libero’s absence.’ He shifted his attention to the photo on the far left, where a stocky skinhead boy was glaring at the camera. Beside him, a photo of a scowling Marco Marino: cropped brown hair, a hooked nose and a silver lip ring. Sara’s eyes, Donata’s harsh curving mouth. ‘And of course, Donata will be hosting.’ The photo of Donata was taken at Zola Marino’s funeral. She was mostly hidden under a netted black veil, those piercing eyes glazed over. She wasn’t crying. She was a woman who had spent all her tears long ago.
‘And what about Michael Gracewell?’ asked Dom. ‘Is he expected at Donata’s too?’
Luca straightened just a little. ‘We have no recorded sightings of Vince Marino Junior.’
Not since my mother’s goodbye ceremony.
Where the hell was he? Hidden so deeply inside the Marino framework, we had barely heard a peep from him. Was he that afraid of being hauled back to prison? Or was it us he was hiding from?
‘Well, if he’s there, we’ll just kill him, too,’ Felice remarked, his eyes on me while he said it. ‘The same rule applies to all of the Marinos. Is that not correct, Don Luca?’
There was no respect in the way he addressed Luca, and everyone around the table knew it. He was still looking at me while he played his game, while he tried to make Luca sign my father’s death sentence in front of me.
‘I doubt Vince Marino will be there.’ Luca’s voice was even. ‘He might be halfway to Fiji by now.’
‘But if he is,’ Felice pressed, grinning at me, ‘we are to kill him too, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, taking the reins before Felice could do any damage. ‘Of course we kill him. Why wouldn’t we? He’s a Marino.’
I tried not to let the pain of my response show on my face. If Luca couldn’t confirm my father’s impending death, then I could. It didn’t matter how deeply it cut into me, how jagged the words tasted in my mouth. There was no going back now, and the father I knew was long gone.
Felice’s eye
brows shot up. ‘Persephone,’ he said, his smile curling. ‘You surprise me. You would put your own father to death …’
Luca whirled around so fast that Gino jumped in his chair. He had his finger half an inch from Felice’s face, his twin brother’s thick ring shining on his left hand. Pure, unfiltered rage flashed behind his eyes. ‘I will tell you this once, Felice. You will not, under my leadership, presume to exploit the grief or pain of anyone in this family for your own amusement. You will not goad or tease or stir any more. If you do, I will demote you. If you push me, I will punish you.’
Felice swirled his response around in his mouth. We were all tellingly silent. It was a game, and it was not for us to play, but to wait on edge for it to end. Of course Felice would not cower, not in front of his audience, not even against his better judgement. He raised his eyebrows, and as innocently as he could make himself sound, he said, ‘Are you speaking to me as my boss or as Persephone Marino’s lover?’
Luca backhanded him.
The sound was a thick, hulking smack in the airless room. The ring smashed into Felice’s mouth, nicking a cut along his lower lip. Felice blinked up at Luca, the blood dribbling down his chin. He sucked it into his mouth and hummed as he tasted it.
‘Felice,’ Paulie warned. ‘Don’t.’
Felice stared at Luca. ‘You are crueller than your brother was, Gianluca.’
Luca hunkered down, his face inches from his uncle’s. ‘This is a different family now, Felice. Your words will have consequences, as will your actions … or lack thereof.’
He held his stare. The room seemed to grow colder. Luca would never forgive Felice for what happened that day in Holy Name, just as he would never forgive himself.
Felice swallowed a mouthful of his own blood. He broke eye contact, moving his gaze back to the photographs behind Luca. It was over.
Luca straightened up. ‘Capisci?’
Felice nodded. ‘Capisco.’
Uneasiness bound us into silence as we watched this new version of Luca, a boss just like the one his grandfather thought he would be. He was cold, calculated, intelligent. Grief had made him something to cower before – he held his temper on a short leash but it still flared inside him, and we could all feel it.
Luca turned back to the photographs, clasping his hands behind his back, the Don’s ring glinting at me. ‘These people are the reigning command of the Marino family. When we ambush Donata’s home, I want them taken out first. Prioritize. Keep your wits about you. They will be expecting our retribution. They will be armed.’
Cosimo, a Falcone elder, tapped his cane on the table. ‘Who will go?’ he asked.
Luca turned around again, his face placid. How eerie it was to see how much he looked like Valentino now, how steady he seemed in the role he never wanted.
‘Everyone who is able and willing. Elders excluded, unless they choose otherwise.’
‘We are all willing,’ said Paulie. ‘Naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Elena echoed him, her voice hollow. She didn’t speak much any more. It was like the effort of being present was too much for her now, the sadness was too great. It took all of her energy just to wade through it, day after day.
‘Gee, I don’t know,’ said Dom. ‘I’m kind of scared?’
We all turned to look at him. He burst into a fit of laughter. ‘Just kidding,’ he said, smiling at his own apparent hilarity. ‘I can’t wait to blow Antony’s one-eyed head off!’
‘What time, Luca?’ asked Paulie. ‘I’d like to see my girls in the morning when they open their presents.’
Felice side-eyed Paulie. ‘This whole operation doesn’t rest on the reception of your My Little Pony gift sets, brother.’
Paulie ignored him.
‘And Calvino’s younger boys,’ grumbled Tommaso, another elder, from the far end of the table. ‘They deserve a Christ-mas morning, too.’
‘They will be with Vita,’ said Paulie. ‘Far from here.’
Good, I thought. Let there be joy, at least, for the children. Let there be joy until they grow into their destinies and turn into the rest of us.
‘Donata will begin lunch early,’ Elena said quietly. ‘She keeps with the tradition of how our mother raised us. It will be an all-day affair.’
She slumped back in her chair, her eyes downcast, her sadness draped around her like a shroud. It’s like someone had doused a bucket of water over the fire inside her. I wondered if she would ever be the same again. I wondered that about Luca, too.
‘Pity we can’t jump out of the panettone,’ murmured Tommaso, much to the chagrin of his wife.
‘You’re not going,’ she hissed. ‘You’ve just had a knee operation.’
‘I was just saying,’ he protested, sulkily.
‘I miss the old days,’ Cosimo sighed. ‘I would have enjoyed this more.’
‘We’ll tell you all about it, don’t worry,’ Nic assured him.
Cosimo dipped his head in appreciation. ‘I’d so love to see the Marino girl take down the Marino boss,’ he said, pointing at me.
‘What a coup,’ agreed the lady next to him.
‘Indeed,’ said Elena.
I mustered a confident smile. I had been hurtling towards this moment ever since I came to Evelina, but now that we were almost on the eve of it, my stomach was constantly churning – fresh plumes of anxiety filling me up, threatening to choke the courage out of me. After Valentino’s death, it had become unavoidably apparent just how close we all were to our own demise. Still, if I cowered behind closed doors, Donata would still come for me, for all of us, like she did that day in Holy Name Cathedral. We had to get them before they could get us. We would not underestimate them again.
I didn’t realize Luca was looking at me until I turned my attention back to him. He caught himself, and refocused.
‘The time?’ asked Cosimo. ‘Please, a little more clarity.’
The respect that Luca instantly commanded from the family had been a little jarring at first. It was as if the day he stepped into the role and vowed to avenge his twin brother’s death, everyone saw him in a new light. They enveloped him gratefully, deferring to his authority without so much as a backward glance – even the older members, the ones who had survived many bosses by now. Luca was the one they were waiting for, and they weren’t afraid to dip their heads in respect to him.
Luca took a step back until his head was framed by the three Marino photographs. He was sure and confident when he answered, and the ripple of his conviction travelled down the table and strengthened the family.
‘One p.m., Christmas Day, at the Marino mansion.’
‘Perfect,’ said Nic.
The others murmured their agreement.
Luca smiled; it was small, and practised, and cold as ice. ‘Buon Natale, Donata Marino.’
The Falcone family laughed, echoes of ‘Buon Natale’ rising up with their amusement.
I laughed too, but I don’t know whether it came from my brain or my heart.
Merry Christmas indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHRISTMAS EVE
‘Thanks for coming all the way out here, Mil.’ I pulled my best friend into an embrace and tugged her across the threshold. Her hair smelt like apples and her face was perfectly made-up. She was tucked up to the chin in a goose-feathered cream coat. She looked like a snow queen. ‘You look beautiful.’
‘So do you!’ she said brightly, the smile coming easily to her face. ‘God, it’s freezing. I nearly skidded off the road on my way in.’ She shivered involuntarily. ‘I think it’s time I got a fancier car.’
‘Well, it would match your coat,’ I said.
‘Do you like it?’ She did a twirl. ‘Cris got it for me. Turns out he’s stinking rich.’
I arched a brow. ‘He just gets better by the day.’
She shrugged. ‘It compensates for his obsession with mindfulness colouring books.’
I shut the door behind her and she lowered her voice, the joviality seepi
ng away. ‘How has it been here?’
‘Still the same,’ I told her quietly. I ushered her upstairs towards my room, where we would have privacy.
‘It must be especially hard at Christmas,’ she said, following me up. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to stay here? You’re still grieving for your mum. Maybe this place isn’t the right home for you at the moment. You know you can always come to the cottage with me and my family, right? We’re not leaving until later …’
‘Mil, I really appreciate it—’
‘But …’ she cut in, sensing my hesitation.
‘I need to be here with everyone. They’re my family now.’ I conveniently left out the second part of my reasoning: the Marino Massacre. By this time tomorrow, the death toll would have risen. Every time I thought about the potential casualties on our side, it made me feel sick, so I pushed it away.
‘How is Luca coping?’ Millie asked delicately. I shut the door to my room and we both dropped on to the bed.
As a boss? Exceedingly good. As a normal guy grieving his brother? Terrible. ‘He’ll be OK. We don’t really talk about it.’ The rest was too painful to admit. We don’t really talk about anything any more.
‘And you’re staying out of trouble?’ Millie asked. ‘All that stuff in the newspaper about the blood war …’
‘I told you, it’s nonsense.’ I waved away her concern. ‘Zola had a grudge and tried to settle it. She’s dead. So it’s over now.’
‘Are you safe?’ She shuffled closer, studying me. ‘Tell me you’re safe.’
‘I’m safe,’ I lied. ‘Safer than you, probably. You might get eaten by a bear at your cottage.’
She smiled grimly. ‘Don’t even joke about that. You know I have zero survival skills.’
Unlike me, I thought.
Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3) Page 23