Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  Which meant I had a sister.

  A sister that no one, not even me, had a clue what had happened to. Corrado and his wife had been murdered, but the little girl was never found. Marietta Bettina Palermo was her name. We were thirteen years apart in age.

  Somehow the Scarpones must’ve gotten wind of something they either forgot or had just discovered—or they had left it alone all of these years because they didn’t want my grandfather to know. If he had known, he would have gone to war over his daughter. Whatever the reason, the Scarpones went after Emilia thinking she knew something about Marietta, since they had no clue about me.

  There’s no speaking beyond the grave, so all I had were my own deductions to rely on. My mother and aunt—either one worked for either woman—knew the trouble (always in fucking trouble) Corrado Palermo was in before the Scarpones had hidden him in Italy. The Scarpones and Corrado Palermo had been tight before he tried to slit Arturo’s throat when he returned to New York. After I was born, though, my mother and aunt refused to speak his name to anyone in fear that the same fate would come for me, if I was ever connected to him. Especially since he had denied me even before birth.

  Emilia knew what I’d do if she told me my true identity—I’d go looking for the motherfucker, or anyone who had anything to do with him. She knew if I got close, it was only going to bring trouble, because the Scarpones were still looking for my little sister.

  Marietta had a guillotine hanging over her head before she was even born.

  I wondered if she even knew who she was. Or if she did, how she had survived for this long.

  It wasn’t a secret in our circle that Vittorio Scarpone had been killed because he refused to end her life, so where the fuck did he take her? Why did he let her live? He was as ruthless as the rest of the Scarpones. None of them had hearts, not even for women or children.

  As far as I was concerned, all Scarpone blood would be wiped clean from this earth. Saving my sister from death wouldn’t stop me from killing Vittorio Scarpone, if the rumor was true, and he was still alive.

  Footsteps coming up from behind me stopped me from replaying the voicemail again. I slipped my phone into my pocket before Silvio reached me. Things had been a little tense between us after my grandfather had given his support for me getting the position instead of him, as long as I met the condition.

  I would.

  Rain dripped from his fedora as he blew smoke out of his mouth in a white cloud that quickly disappeared. “You’re causing Don Emilio unnecessary worry.” He took another puff from his cigar. “Go to Sicily for a while. Just until everything cools down. He’s lost enough.”

  I said nothing, staring as rain collected on the yellow roses left on top of the casket.

  He dug in his pocket for a second and pulled out a sheet of paper. He slipped it into my palm and said, “Find her for me, and I’ll tell you all you want to know about Vittorio Scarpone. The things we know.” He looked behind him, to make sure we were not being overheard.

  Men were placed sporadically around the graveyard, in case we were attacked. They’d come on a day when attention wasn’t focused on war, but on tragedy.

  There was no other focus for me. I saw, heard, and tasted nothing else but the salty tang of battle.

  I squeezed the paper in my hand, crumpling it into a ball, and stuck it in my pocket. I rolled my shoulders, the fabric giving too much. The suit I wore didn’t feel snug enough. “If the men in Sicily can’t find one woman, you either need to find new men or let her go on principal.”

  He hesitated beside me for a minute. His eyes were hard on my face. “Junior needs to divorce her so he can remarry. We can’t find her to do it.”

  I looked at him then, refusing to respond to a lie. “Let it go.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t. We won’t kill her, but she’ll pay. We’re owed that. And if you go to Sicily to ease Don Emilio’s mind for a while, you can find her while you’re there. I’ll pay you with the information you want.”

  “He’s been keeping things from me,” I said, turning to face the grave again.

  “For your own safety. After he found out who your father—”

  Chaos erupted from different sides of the cemetery. Some of the men placed around the perimeter were running toward us. Others were running toward my grandfather’s car, which waited for me with him in it.

  A bullet whizzed past my head, and at the same time, the bouquet of yellow roses on top of the casket exploded in a shower of petals as it was hit over and over again.

  “This way!” One of the men used his gun to point in the direction of my grandfather’s armored car. It was getting hit with bullets, but it wasn’t moving. They were waiting for me.

  I had my gun out as we took cover from stone to stone. Every once in a while a bullet would make contact, sending shards flying in different directions. Silvio had been hit on the last run, and he was holding a hand to his arm, shaking his head.

  “Bum motherfuckers!” he shouted to no one in particular, raising his gun and shooting in a direction where most of the shots were coming from.

  The line of cars was close, and there was no use in waiting any longer. The longer we sat, the better the chance of them picking us off.

  “Move,” I said.

  “Are you fucking—”

  “There are more of our men around,” I said. “They’ll hold ’em off long enough for us to make it to the cars.”

  I stood and ran toward the waiting car with one man ahead of me, one behind, and two beside me. Gunfire was heavier the closer we came to the car, and the man to the right of me took a bullet in his right arm. He fell back, leaving me somewhat exposed. I shot in the direction, seeing a man duck behind a stone as I did. The man in front of me yanked the car door open and I ducked inside, the door slamming closed behind me.

  My grandfather nodded once—the driver honked his horn twice—and then, like a carefully coordinated motorcade, the line of our cars started to leave the cemetery.

  My grandfather looked out of the window, the gray light falling on his face like a dark cloud. It was hard not to see him in this place instead of Emilia. She had more life to her face in the casket than he did in this car.

  I turned to look out of the opposite window, heavy droplets of water rushing down the pane with the speed we were going. The interior was as cool as the funeral home. It smelled like death—like the roses on the casket.

  “Tell me about Vittorio Scarpone,” I said.

  “Enough!” he shouted. It echoed inside of the car. It was the first time I’d ever heard him raise his voice. He could order a man’s life to be taken with a nod of his head. “I forbid you to go near the Scarpones. They will be taken care of. But you.” He lifted his pointer finger and then let it fall. “You will be taken to the airport. Now.”

  “Or?”

  “Or.” He cleared his throat. “Or nothing.” He lifted his arm, letting the jacket fall back, and looked at his watch. “Your plane leaves in an hour.”

  The paper in my pocket felt like money burning a hole, and nothing would stop me from earning it. The men called me Scorpio. They would soon call me Mercenary, because the information would be mine, no matter what.

  4

  Alcina

  The light in chiesa della Santissima Annunziata felt amber in spirit, even though it was dreary and cold outside. I closed my eyes to it, wondering if it was a warning or something more healing. It snuck in through the black lace mantello I wore, either accenting the morose piece, and why I was wearing it, or defying it.

  I brought my rosary to my forehead, letting it dangle in front of my face. The gold from the beads seemed to ward off the dreariness and emptiness and fill me with the warmth from the sun. I hoped this time it would stay with me.

  Stay with me during the uncertain times I faced. Cling to me like a shield that would protect me from the cold wind howling outside.

  My mamma sat next to me on the pew and chanted a whispered prayer, “Dio�
��”

  My lips moved with hers, but no sound came out.

  What did I want? What did I need? What was I really asking for?

  An old romantic poet once told me that we don’t always get what we want, but what we need.

  I needed to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop living in fear of hell and to look forward to something much more heavenly. I needed to be safe. To live a life worth living.

  I tried to imagine it. This new life my father, my papà, had arranged for me. What would this new man be like? Would he treat me the same way the bull did? Like nothing but a cow in a pasture?

  A tear slipped down my mamma’s cheek. I wiped it before it could turn cold on her warm skin.

  I had until October—when our marriage would be finalized—to come to terms with this new arrangement and accept it. I would stand in this church that my family had attended for generations, face the man who accepted the terms papà had set, and commit my life to a stranger. A man who could be another bull that deserved to be castrated.

  Papà told me that I was hardheaded. That it was better to marry and live rather than to hide and be found and then killed, or worse: to be taken back to New York, never to be heard from again.

  Papà was old school, not unfamiliar with arranged marriages, but I had never wanted that for myself. I wanted the freedom to choose. Under different circumstances, papà would have wanted that for me, too.

  I glanced to the left, at my sister Anna, when she reached out and wove her fingers together with mine. She didn’t open her eyes, but she squeezed, letting me know that she agreed. Sometimes we could read each other’s thoughts, like mamma shed the tears that I could not.

  My sister’s marriage was not arranged. It was love at first sight. What most parents want for their children—the power to decide.

  A woman dragging a little boy with her sat across from us. She took her seat first, him right behind, and then she told him something in a hushed whisper. He bent his head right after.

  Accussi normale. So normal.

  I found myself watching other people from time to time. Imagining that her life—or his—was much easier than mine. My grip on the rosary grew tighter. Sadness, the cold ache for something better, overwhelmed me and drug my heart deeper into darkness.

  I closed my eyes to the overwhelming feeling, letting my mind get lost in the warmth of the amber, before I heard my name.

  “Alcina,” mamma whispered.

  I opened my eyes to find her waiting for me. My sister stood next to her.

  “Time to go,” she said in Sicilian.

  I sighed, standing and slipping my rosary into my pocket. I felt darkness pushing in on me as I stepped out of the doors. Night usually sheltered me and allowed me to burn brightly, as if I was a lit flame, but the cold wind struck me, and I flickered against its strength—my light as uncertain as the months to come.

  5

  Corrado

  The paper in my hand had become creased and worn, but I would never forget the writing that inked my memories.

  Alcina Maria Parisi

  Around 5’5, brown hair, dark brown eyes, 25 years old

  Parents—Giuseppe and Angela

  Sister— Anna

  Anna is married to…?

  Alcina was born in Forza d’Agrò on May 8, 1995; her parents still live there

  She was baptized at Maria S. Annunziata e Assunta

  It seemed like Silvio had scribbled down the information as Junior was telling it to him, probably trying to remember all of the things he knew about his wife and her family. There were no pictures of her, only the paper he’d ripped from a notebook in a rush.

  I glanced between the paper and a sign in front of the church: Cattedrale Maria S. Annunziata e Assunta. It marked the location in case anyone was looking for it and needed confirmation.

  From my explorations around the area, the church was also referred to as chiesa della Santissima Annunziata. One local told me the church had been there since the 1400s and was the second oldest church in the country. It was located in the small town of Forza d’Agrò, only about two hours from where my grandfather had sent me in Ragusa.

  Forza d’Agrò looked as old as the baroque-style church. It was at the base of a mountain, and overlooking it, at the peak, was a Norman castle in ruins. The town itself had narrow streets and casas that looked like they belonged in another time—balconies with iron details, clothes hanging out to dry on lines, overflowing planters, wooden shutters, multicolored chipped stone, lanterns on buildings, and cobblestone alleyways. The only sign that we were in modern times was the lines running from one building to another supplying power.

  In the distance towered the rough terrain of the mountains, outlined by the Ionian Sea, the part of the Mediterranean that separated southern Italy from western Greece.

  I’d been coming here often ever since my arrival in Sicily—long enough that the cold of winter had turned into the warmth of summer. The day after I stepped off the plane and a few men my grandfather had been in touch with had met me, I directed them to take me here.

  People don’t stray from where their hearts belong, and something told me Alcina Maria Parisi was never far from hers. The problem with looking for someone who belonged to such a small community, though, was that they were wary of new people.

  Whoever Silvio had looking for her had come in like a wrecking-ball, and besides a few old men willing to give me a few history lessons and stories, they gave me side-eye looks that would’ve pushed me off a cliff if possible.

  As soon as I said her name, as expected, none of them would come near me again. They knew I didn’t belong.

  So I set my sights on her parents.

  Her mamma, Angela, was a devout woman who didn’t travel far from home. Her patri, father, owned a restaurant that had views of the sea. He watched me as closely as I watched him.

  Every day I would see the man and he would see me. There was no animosity in the way he looked at me, but a smug assurance that no matter what I did, I’d never find his precious daughter. He had no fucking clue.

  I’d wait here for the rest of my life for Alcina Parisi.

  I narrowed my eyes against the glare of the sun breaking around the church, wondering how many times she’d stepped inside of it. How many times she’d walked the same paths I had to get to the same spot.

  “This is called stalking in America, I believe,” Nunzio said, blowing smoke out of his mouth. He was a trusted man who came with me wherever I went. He shook his head when I gave no answer and went to sit on a bench close to the church, in the shade.

  “I need food,” Adriano said, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at his head. There was no doubt that my grandfather had sent him with me as punishment.

  His cologne assaulted me in the breeze, and I turned my narrowed eyes on him. It brought back memories of Bianca’s wedding. I resisted the urge to throw him in the sea—from a cliff—to rid him of the insulting smell.

  Adriano stuck the handkerchief back in his pocket. “What are we doing here anyway? We’ve been all over this place. There’s no more to see, Corrado. Let’s go to the beach.” He nudged me with his elbow and wiggled his thick eyebrows at me.

  At the same time he nudged me, a gust of wind swept up, coming straight from the sea, and the paper in my hand was set free. My eyes collided with Angela’s as the paper flew toward her. It went up the steps of the church, hitting one of the stones, and with another gust, landing at her feet.

  She always wore dresses that matched the area—old in style—and leather sandals. Her hair was pulled up, dark red in the sun, gray streaks coming out on the sides.

  The paper was in her hand by the time I made it up the steps and to her. She held it out for me to take without even looking at it, or maybe she had, but it didn’t show on her face. The only thing that showed was a grin that I’d seen before. It made me think she had a running joke going at my expense, something only she could hear. She laughed at me eve
ry time she saw me standing around or sitting in their restaurant.

  My fingers touched the paper, but when I went to take it back, she held on, not letting it go. “Tell me,” she said in Sicilian. “Can you sing?”

  Her mouth didn’t laugh, but her eyes did—at me, at the look on my face. I could see my reflection in her dark eyes. They crinkled on the sides, a sign Tito had once told me meant that a woman kept her secrets locked up tight, and she generally had a good sense of humor, even at other people’s expense.

  Angela let go of the paper, without my answer, the sound of her laugher echoing behind her as she disappeared inside of the church. Everything went quiet after, except for the sound of the breeze, rustling the palm trees behind me.

  “If I don’t lose ten pounds by the time I get back to New York—” Adriano shook his head, searching for his handkerchief again “—there’s no help for me. All we do is walk. I’m sweatin’ buckets.”

  “All you do is eat,” Nunzio said in accented English, shaking his head and stepping on another cigarette he had dropped on the walk. “When we are not walking.”

  “What’s so special about this place?” Adriano looked around, wiping his neck. He stuck his handkerchief back in his pocket, the guns underneath his shirt probably ringing wet from his sweaty skin. “The beach. I need to be on the beach with some healthy fruit and a few drinks.”

  Nunzio lifted both of his hands, palms up, complaining behind Adriano’s back as he entered into Parisi’s restaurant first. The girl who usually served us waved us to our regular table. She was the only one who wasn’t outright cold. I wondered how much she knew, but more so—how much would she talk if persuaded?

  Giuseppe Parisi came out of the kitchen when he heard Nunzio ordering drinks. He always did. He wanted to make sure that I knew that he knew I was there.

  I nodded at him, as usual, and as usual, he stared at me a moment before he started to grin—no. He wasn’t grinning this time. His eyes narrowed even lower, his mouth pinched into a tight line, and his head tilted to the left, like he was studying me harder.