Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  I stood and then he stood, and I clasped him on the shoulder. “Fate has no purpose where Tito Sala is concerned.” I laughed. “He was leading me to her all along.”

  “Without a fucking doubt,” Nicodemo said.

  We met up with Adriano as Alcina stepped onto the dock leading to the boat slip. She stopped for a minute, turning around, waving at us.

  Another boat came around a turn, going slow, and two men stared at us as they passed. It only took a second for Nicodemo to hit me, for Adriano to scream out her name, and for me to start running.

  A click, click, click, like the sound of the irreversible hands of time, echoed around us.

  The second my body collided with hers, the force from the explosion rocked us at a sideways angle as we were in mid-air, and a second later, we hit the water and it took us under.

  Debris splashed against the surface as embers touched down in slow drifts, and dark smoke drifted over the water like rain clouds.

  Alcina was pressed up against me, but her mouth was open, her arms floating. She was unconscious and taking in too much water.

  I broke the surface, bringing her up first. Nicodemo was waiting by the shore—the dock completely destroyed by the blast—with his hand ready. His shirt had gaping holes where the heat from the blast had burned through, and his skin was blistering already, along with his face.

  I took a tight hold of his hand, and he pulled us out of the water. I turned Alcina on her back and started to do CPR. We were not under long, but I had no idea if the blast had done something else to her. Her bathing suit had holes, and so did the skirt. But my main priority was to get the water from her lungs.

  “Come on, Alcina,” I said, as I listened for her breathing. “Come on, angel eyes, look at me.”

  I did another round of chest compressions, two more breaths, and then she started to cough, water coming out of her mouth. The sound of her breathing sent air into my lungs. I pulled her tight into my chest, falling back onto my ass in the grass with her between my legs.

  The men were in a frenzy around the villa, all doing what they could to make sure the rest of the place wasn’t going to blow, or we weren’t going to get attacked while we were vulnerable.

  Nunzio knelt on the ground next to Adriano. He was sprawled on the lawn, either unconscious or dead.

  Nicodemo nudged me, wanting me to look toward the stairs that led down to the yard. Tito Sala and a few other people hurried toward us. He had his doctor’s bag. He always kept it close.

  Nicodemo’s phone rang. A second after he picked it up, he handed it to me.

  “Corrado,” Uncle Carmine said, hearing my breath. “You must come home. Your grandfather is dead.”

  My eyes focused on a spot in the water, where a board floated, Alcina’s bag next to it. I wasn’t sure when Nicodemo took the phone back, or what anyone said after that.

  All I could hear was the words your grandfather is dead. I watched as something silver drifted closer to the shore, away from the bag that clung to the wood like a life preserver.

  Even though my wife was adamant that she was all right, I demanded that she be taken to the hospital to get checked out. She had flesh wounds, like Nicodemo and me, but I wanted to make sure that when I had hit her, I hadn’t broken her in a place I couldn’t see.

  They had already rushed Adriano to get help, since his wounds seemed more serious, though Tito thought he was going to be fine.

  He did not take us to a regular hospital. He took us to a makeshift ospedale close to Milan. The Fausti famiglia used it whenever one of them, or a group of them, was hurt in the underground wars they fought. I knew they had them throughout New York—we had access to them—but I had no clue about Italy.

  The places we used in New York were assigned by our territories, and we had to pay a fee to access them. Tito had an on-call staff that was sworn to secrecy—no one talked. It was in their best interests not to.

  A female doctor that Tito said he trusted, Dr. Abbruzzese, was in there with my wife. Tito wanted to speak to me alone.

  “I didn’t realize you had these places in Italy,” I said.

  He took a seat on a rolling chair in his office, a folder in his hand. I wanted to know if my wife’s name was on it, but then again, I didn’t. If this had to do with her—

  “Traditionally, no. I could go to any hospital, in any area, whenever I wanted. Things are a bit dicey right now. You have met Brando Fausti and his wife, Scarlett?”

  I nodded. “I met Brando. Briefly. I heard things about his wife.”

  I actually heard things about the both of them, but I didn’t want to get into a lengthy conversation about it. Brando Fausti was Rocco’s older brother. He hadn’t claimed the family as his until he met them in Italy.

  The general idea was that Brando Fausti was as fucking ruthless as his father, Luca, but there were some issues where his wife was concerned. Some big names in the international game wanted her for their own reasons, and it was a constant battle to keep her.

  Tito adjusted his glasses and tilted his head, like he wanted me to continue, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with the Faustis.

  “I heard that she’s a famous ballerina—and that she’s caused some trouble.” I left it at that.

  “Trouble.” He grinned. “Which is the exact reason I decided to bring the idea of having these places here from New York.” He lifted the folder. “This is not about your wife, but your grandfather.”

  For the second time that day, I knew what it felt like to have my breath stolen and then miraculously given back.

  He handed me the file and said one word, “Prova.”

  Proof.

  Uncle Carmine could have been just telling me that my grandfather had been killed to get me home, and then ambush me when I got there.

  I opened the folder. Photographs were stacked one behind the other. The first one set the tone for the rest. My grandfather sprawled on the cement in New York, his mouth open, a salvo of bullet wounds through his chest in many different spots.

  The photographs were taken from many different angles. Some of his men were beside him in death. One draped over the car. Another one on the cement, his head separated into two parts.

  One of his underbosses, who also doubled as a bodyguard, should have been with him—and it wasn’t me.

  I lifted the folder and only then realized that Tito had his hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “His life was not meant to end this way,” he said. “I always assumed it would be in the penitentiary, if anything, but not this.”

  I nodded, bringing the folder down. I opened it up again, removing a photograph. I didn’t recognize the place. “Where?”

  Tito cleared his throat. “Macchiavello’s.”

  I searched my memory of all of the places I knew in the city, and remembered. It was a haunt for some high-powered officials, rich housewives, and made men. In between them, regular folks who wanted to try what the entire city, it seemed like, raved about. The steak and the fancy booze. I wasn’t a man who ate out often. No one cooked like my Nonna, and now, my wife.

  I cleared my throat. “It was a setup.”

  Tito shook his head. “As far as I am concerned, it was a legitimate meeting. I set it up myself. He was ambushed on the way out. I had no idea.”

  “The commission,” I said.

  The commission was the ruling body of the organization, so to speak. It was set up so that the organization would have rules to follow. Some rules had harsher punishment than others if broken.

  If four out the five bosses did not agree to have a boss killed, the idea was vetoed. If someone didn’t listen, and still had that boss killed, it was punishable by death.

  I had a hard time believing the other four bosses voted to have my grandfather killed. This was not a life where friends were valued—a friend today, a man you made into a corpse tomorrow—but two of the other bosses considered my grandfather a man worth looking up to.

  Tito shook his head. “
They did not agree to this. The commission is discussing how to go about dealing with what happened. It was unsanctioned.”

  “Silvio is going to lie,” I said. “He did it, and he wouldn’t have made a move unless he felt some people out before he did. Made sure he had some backing.”

  Tito fixed his glasses and crossed his legs. I could tell he was thinking. “Rumors spread quickly after something like this happens. It has been whispered that Silvio ordered it, but he will not admit to it. Not unless he has a death wish.” He studied me for a moment.

  “The famiglia voted in your absence. It is the general consensus among his men that you did not earn this position. That your grandfather gave it to you. It's not enough, though. The majority of the men voted you in. Which means, if the vote does not eat at him, jealousy will.”

  Both factions were Silvio’s now, but the entire family belonged to me.

  “Carmine is speaking to each boss,” Tito said. “He is briefing them on the conversation the four of us had in your grandfather’s office on the day of your cousin’s wedding. Just to make the situation clear. Though it really does not matter. You earned the vote.”

  I nodded. My grandfather wanted to make his wishes clear. Not only did he invite his own consigliere into the meeting that day, but one of the most well-known advisors in history.

  Tito Sala. He was the consigliere to one of the most infamous bosses of bosses Italy had ever seen. Marzio Fausti.

  Tito was married to Marzio’s sister, Lola, and as such, was Marzio’s closest council. It was usually someone in the family, or a close friend, who was chosen for these roles.

  It was almost an unspoken rule that a consigliere be Sicilian, or at least Italian. It was important to choose someone trusted.

  There was no one as trusted as Tito Sala. He gave his honest, unbiased opinion, whether accepted or not.

  “You will have to return to New York,” Tito continued. “To claim what is rightfully yours. I also think it wise to have a sit-down with Silvio. There are men who voted for him to become boss in your absence. If the commission decides not to act, since he is denying the attack, then it might become a war amongst you and some of your men, Don Corrado.”

  “It will be,” I said, noticing how he had used a formal title to address me. “This is unforgivable.”

  He stared at me for a long minute. “I knew your grandfather a long time,” he said. “He was my friend. Personally, I take this to heart. But. You must weigh the outcome with the price of war. You will win, but at what cost?”

  “I will consider it.” I lifted the folder. “Tell me more about Macchiavello’s. Who was my grandfather going to see.”

  “There is much more to the story, but all I can tell you is this—the man’s name is Mac Macchiavello. He owns the restaurant.”

  I watched him for a minute. He was unassuming by looks alone, but when pressed, his eyes became hard, and there was no budging him. Even though he didn’t shy away from recommending war, he was also a peacekeeper. He had boundaries. We all respected them.

  “He spoke to my grandfather?”

  “Sì,” he said, and it was clear he would say no more.

  “Tell me one thing, old man,” I said in Sicilian. “Did the meeting have to do with the Scarpones?”

  “Sì,” he said, and then made a motion with his hand, as if to say, no more questions. His silence on the matter spoke volumes. Why didn’t they want me to know more?

  He changed the subject. “I believe this is a reason why the commission is not acting as they usually would. After the death of Arturo Scarpone, his son, and his sons, they are missing a boss right now.”

  A knock came at the door, and Dr. Valentina Abbruzzese stuck her head in. “Signor Capitani,” she said. “Your wife would like to see you.”

  I nodded, giving Tito the folder back so my wife couldn’t see. Though she put up a strong front, she didn’t belong in this life. She wasn’t fucking expendable, not like most of the men considered the goomahs.

  She was the one I’d sacrifice it all for. She was the one I’d die for.

  The room was dark, the lights dimmed. There were no windows, and for good reason: the enemy couldn’t blast through the glass if they were on the hunt for retribution.

  I took the seat next to her bed, noticing her rosary placed across her stomach, and then took her hand. She had burn marks in numerous places, bruises coming up in purple and black patches, and four stitches above her right eyebrow.

  She tried to get more comfortable in the bed, to face me, and her breath hissed out after she moved too fast.

  “Don’t move,” I said squeezing her hand. “I can see you.”

  She grinned, but it was weak. “I cannot see you. Not like I want.” She moved slower this time, and then finally, she released a slow breath. We faced each other.

  She ran her hand up my arm to the row of stitches I had. Her mouth moved like it did when she sang, silently, no words coming out, just her lips moving. She was counting my stitches. Seven.

  “Corrado—”

  “It was close, Alcina,” I said. “Too fucking close.”

  She nodded. “It happened so fast,” she whispered.

  I watched her face until her eyes met mine. “Tell me to leave,” I said. “Tell me I’m no good for you. Tell me you’re going to get hurt because of me. Tell me all the fucking things you should have said to me the first time you saw me.”

  “This wasn’t your fault,” she said, her tone turning bitter.

  “It was. I should have kept you in Sicily, where you were safer.”

  She shook her head. “They were looking for me, too. They have always been looking for me.”

  “I should have killed Silvio and Junior myself. I should have gone back to New York and taken care of it.”

  She studied my face for the longest minute of my life. “Then you would have died,” she said. “And what about me?”

  “You would be safe.”

  “I will never be safe—with you or without you,” she said. “You are my life, Corrado Alessandro Capitani. No matter what happens, my life belongs to you, but my death has been set before I was even born. I refuse to allow you to take responsibility for something that has never been yours, and will never be, unless you kill me with your own hands. And that would mean I did you wrong—with another man—and I will never.”

  “I’m fucking selfish by nature,” I said. “I wanted you no matter what the cost, not realizing that there was no cost. There was never a cost. Not when it comes to you.”

  “Are you leaving me?” she whispered.

  “I should. I should make sure you’re safe, and will be, and then leave.”

  “Go then,” she said, trying to point to the door, her hand tugging at the IV, at mine, but I refused to let go. “Go and never look back.”

  I sat there, not moving, and she moved her lips, silently daring me: go.

  “I refuse,” I said, squeezing her hand even harder.

  “That’s because I will never let you go,” she said, her voice hard. “No matter what you do, I will always be there with you. Even if you can’t see or touch me. It will be much worse, because you will be in love with a ghost that refuses to leave your side. I will haunt you while we both still breathe.”

  “You’re the strongest fucking force I’ve ever known.”

  “I know,” she said. “Because you love me. That’s what love is. Una forza da non sottovalutare.” A force to be reckoned with.

  I brought her hand up to my lips, kissing her cold fingers.

  “Even if you would have tried to leave, I could have stopped you,” she said.

  “How?”

  “Have you ever heard of the game Italian Roulette?” She made sure to pronounce the last two words correctly.

  I looked into her eyes as she smiled at me. They crinkled on the sides. It brought me back to my time in Forza d’Agrò, when her mamma asked me if I could sing.

  She reached for something that was tucked i
nto the side of the bed. After she had it, she shook the silver thing at me. It was a baby’s rattle. Her bag hung on the edge of the seat I had taken next to her bed—she had demanded that Nunzio get it before we left, or she was not leaving—and he must have stuck it inside of the bag when he noticed it floating toward the shore.

  “Game over,” she said, laughing some. “The house wins. You are going to be a papà.”

  21

  Alcina

  The doors to the plane opened. Corrado stepped out first, giving me a hand down the stairs.

  I was thankful that I had chosen to wear one of the designer dresses we had bought in Milan. It was a classic long-sleeved dress with a red rose print set against black velvet fabric. It ended above my knees, and I wore a pair of black knee-high boots with it. My hair was done in a center-part chignon, and I wore a pair of dangling cross earrings to match the dress.

  I wore the dress because it had some stretch around the waist. Even though I wasn’t showing, I wanted to be comfortable. In this instance, though, I was thankful for comfort and style. The dress matched the color of Corrado’s suit. Black with a blood red tie. He said it was his grandfather’s favorite color.

  It was fitting for a dark king about to return to his bloody throne.

  The men who waited for Corrado all wore suits. They judged me behind dark sunglasses that they thought hid their eyes as we made our way closer. I did not need to see their eyes to feel the weight of their stares. Like his grandfather, they were all sizing me up to see if I was worth the title.

  The new Don’s wife.

  It had nothing to do with attraction. It seemed to have more to do with this life, how I would withstand it next to my husband.

  Also like Corrado’s grandfather, it did not seem like these men were expecting me.

  I lifted my chin, my eyes appraising them from behind the over-sized designer glasses I wore. I could size them up, too.

  “Don Corrado,” one of the men said, stepping up.

  Corrado released my hand as the man offered his and they shook. The man kissed each of his cheeks and offered condolences for the loss of his grandfather. Corrado nodded and thanked him. As we made our way to a waiting car, each man did the same.