Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  I shook my head, reaching for my glass again. “No.”

  He stared at me, but in a different way this time. It was like he was thinking before he spoke. Usually the words just rolled off his tongue, each and every word perfectly executed.

  “I will tell the aunts you enjoyed their food,” he said, nodding to the plate. “Amadeo had them create the menu.” He fixed his suit. “It was good to see you, Alcina. If you ever need me, you know how to find me.”

  The glass fell out of my hands, clattering to the plate, the remaining water, lemon, and ice spilling onto the gorgeous arrangement. A piece of glass had fallen into my lap. I hissed when I picked it up and it cut my finger. Blood ran down, but I did not even bother to clean it up when Mari stepped back into the room.

  She eyed me uneasily, like she was unsure.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.

  She nodded to my hand. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Fuck the blood.” I hit the table. “Amadeo owns this restaurant. The man Corrado has been looking for.”

  She sighed and took a seat. She refused to look at the cut on my hand. Her face was pale. “He does. He owns this place. The Club, too.”

  “He’s Vittorio Scarpone.” It came to me then. The last time I had probably heard his real name was when I was a child. We had always called him Amadeo for as long as I could remember. Anna used to joke that he was so important that he did not need a last name.

  “Correct,” Mari said. “It’s…funny how that works out. You’re looking right at something, all signs pointing, but you don’t see. Not until it’s meant to make sense.”

  “That means…” The tightness in my throat was a warning that my food was about to come back up.

  “That means.” She sighed again. “Vittorio killed my mom and my dad—or that man, as I call him. Corrado Palermo was his name. But Vittorio saved me and then hid me.”

  “Mio Dio.” I made the sign of the cross, reaching in my pocket for my rosary, bringing it out.

  Her breathing picked up when she saw it. It was as if she was looking at a ghost, or something she had seen before, and it made her anxious.

  “Vittorio,” I whispered, clutching the beads. “His throat.”

  She nodded. “Arturo—that other man—did that to him because he refused to kill me.”

  “If you are Corrado Palermo’s daughter…” I could not even finish.

  Mari nodded. “That’s right. Corrado—your Corrado—is my brother. Uncle Tito told me. He thought I had a right to know. It’s been tense between him and Amadeo ever since.”

  My heart pumped so hard that the blood gushed out of my finger. “We need to talk,” I said.

  “Desperately.” She lifted a finger. “But first. You need to cover that up. I don’t feel so well.” Then she passed out.

  30

  Corrado

  It didn’t matter what time of the day I went to Macchiavello’s, or how late I showed up at The Club, that Machiavellian motherfucker always seemed ready for me.

  I’d get the best table in either place.

  I was used to that, but when he did it, I knew he did it to fuck with me.

  The music pounded in The Club. The lights swirled. Every night was ladies’ night. There were five women for every guy. I’d already identified a few men in my family with their goomahs. It was no surprise. It had some of the best alcohol in the city and some of the most expensive talent on the stage.

  However. I set my cup of Amaro down, my eyes rising to the second floor, where I knew he was watching me. Even though he reserved the best tables on this level for me, he never invited me into the hidden world he created above.

  This time I didn’t come to wait for Mac Macchiavello to make an appearance. I came because I wanted to meet with Rocco Fausti.

  It usually took a while to arrange a meeting with one of them, but since he requested a meeting with my wife, alone, I knew he was in town.

  I set my glass down harder than intended.

  Calcedonio looked at me but said nothing. Nunzio took the bottle and poured himself another glass. He came instead of Adriano, who had vertigo and kept running into walls when he moved too fast. There was no such thing as a sick day in this life, but what good was a man who’d shoot left when he had to shoot right?

  From my visits, I’d learned that the Faustis frequented Macchiavello’s and The Club, so I knew they were familiar with Mac Macchiavello. That meant he meant something to them. Time was precious to the higher-ups in Fausti famiglia. They only spent it on people they thought worthy.

  It was Romeo Fausti who agreed to set up a sit-down between his brother and me. The thing about the Faustis, though, was that someone higher had to sit in. That high up, it was usually an uncle or an older cousin.

  The Faustis had a different setup than we did. Even if we had men who were blood-related in each family, our families were not all related. The higher a man went up in the Fausti famiglia, the most likely they were to be blood-related.

  They were the secret society of secret societies.

  We had the commission. The entire world had them.

  Another man had tried to be the middle guy back in the day, between them and us, but that guy didn’t last long.

  In all truth, the Faustis never messed around with the families unless there was a problem that couldn’t be solved by the commission. They were an honorable bunch of men, bred to live and die by their family motto—my word is as good as my blood. Truth meant something to them.

  It was hard to come by these days, that kind of honor, but their family still proved it could work. That was the old way I wanted to bring back. The golden age. The Faustis had never left it. Though, in fairness, they never had the scrutiny we had either, as far as the government.

  That being said, I requested Romeo bring someone who outranked Rocco to the sit-down. Romeo was younger. Brando was older, but he was in and out of the life. I could never get a good read on that fucking guy, but as long as he was decent to me, I’d show him the same respect.

  Romeo said he had someone and it wouldn’t be a problem, though.

  A bunch of women walked up to our booth. Calcedonio looked each girl up and down, his eyes hungry. Nunzio looked at them but then poured himself another drink.

  “You seem thirsty,” I said.

  He drank it down without really tasting it.

  “Ladies,” Calcedonio said, “if you’d wait over at the bar, the drinks will keep coming. On me. But if you don’t mind…” He made a shoo motion with his hand.

  They smiled at him, and his eyes lingered on one longer than the others. He sent one of our men to keep an eye on them at the bar.

  Nunzio poured another glass. He held it in his hand. “I want Michele Sorrentino.” He downed the glass.

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to recall the name.

  “The chef?” Calcedonio said, scratching his head. “What the fuck did he do? Give you shrimp instead of steak? I ate there last week with Adriano and Baggio, and it was off the charts.”

  “He is on a date with your cousin,” he said, looking at me. “Brooklyn.”

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “That is it. But I do not trust him. He looks like a fucking Lothario.”

  “What’s a Lothario?” Calcedonio said, sliding his hands through his hair, trying to tame the sides down.

  “Not what. Who.” I slid the bottle closer to Nunzio. “Lothario is a name. It means an unscrupulous seducer of women.”

  Calcedonio and I looked at each other and grinned. But that still didn’t take away from the fact that Nunzio wanted to kill a man who was not a part of this life and had done nothing wrong.

  “You know the rules,” I said. “No.”

  Calcedonio squeezed his shoulder. “Stay away from her. She’s a real nice girl, but her ma got burned, and she’d set you up if you even tried to get close to her daughter. That woman has the longest fucking memory in history.”

&nbs
p; Nunzio grumbled something into his glass and then downed it.

  I checked my watch. Two minutes. Even though I’d been visiting The Club often, it wasn’t my fucking scene. But I went where Macchiavello’s business took him, and Romeo suggested it for the meeting place.

  The three of us stood when Romeo started to make his way toward us. The crowd parted to let him through.

  He held out his hand when he was close enough. We shook and then pulled each other in. Romeo and I enjoyed each other’s company. We occasionally shared drinks and cigars and some conversation.

  Calcedonio and Nunzio shook his hand. Then he leaned in closer and told me how to get to a room in the building. Second floor. He’d meet us there in a minute.

  One of the guards opened the door for us before we were even there. It could only be opened from the inside, and when the door closed, it shut flush with the wall. Unless someone opened it, it didn’t exist.

  We were led to a floor with less people. A more exclusive area. The music was subdued. The furniture was richer. The men sitting around smoked expensive cigars and drank fine liquor. I recognized a few famous athletes and some politicians.

  The guard opened a door off a hallway, and Rocco Fausti stood at the one-way mirrored wall, looking out over the dance floor.

  “Take your seats, gentlemen,” he said. “My fratello will be here shortly.”

  We were offered cigars and an assortment of liquor that back in the day would have only been offered to dignitaries and gentlemen of substance.

  I declined the drink but accepted the cigar. The three of us took seats on regal chairs at a table fit for a king. The guard delivered the cigars and the drinks Calcedonio and Nunzio had ordered. He set down a bottle of Amaro and a chilled cup for me.

  Yeah, Macchiavello was fucking with me.

  I’d drink to that. I was fucking with him, too. I raised my glass and grinned. Saluti, motherfucker. Then I downed the drink.

  My eyes met Rocco’s when I set the glass down. He was eyeing me through the mirror. I wasn’t looking away. We’d stare at each other until the world fucking ended.

  The door opened and Tito Sala walked in, breaking the reflection into three.

  “Why this place?” Tito was complaining. “Every time I come here, two women decide to make me into a Tito sandwich, nephew!”

  Romeo’s laughter was raspy. “That is because you are an old gangster. An original.” He squeezed Tito on the shoulder. “The donne see a man dressed as nice as you. Such style.” He whistled. “They all want a piece of you.”

  Tito fixed his collar. “I do have a certain charm,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “That is beside the point! It is late and I have other obligations.”

  “Such as staying at home with zia and watching I Love Lucy reruns?” Romeo laughed again and took a seat closer to where Rocco would sit. Even though we were tight, he still had a side. I had my family, and he had his.

  Tito slapped him behind his head. “I will be watching when you are my age from above, and I will be laughing.” He gave a fake laugh. “I outmatch all of you in energy now, and I was born long before all of you ragazzi knew how to use a pot!”

  He took a seat in the middle of the table—the old gangster would be judge and jury for this sit-down.

  He fixed his glasses and then looked at the three of us. “Ragazzi.” Boys. He nodded. “Do you have anything to add to this conversation?”

  “Tito.” I nodded back and lifted my hands. “Not at the moment.”

  “Bene,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

  Rocco looked at this watch, and at the same time, Guido Fausti came in the room. Once he took his seat, the meeting would begin.

  Our formations were the same. Rocco on one side—a man on each side of him. I was at the other—a man on each side of me. Tito sat in the middle.

  “Let us be sure the reason for this meeting is clear before we get started,” Tito said, sitting forward some, steepling his fingers. “Corrado, you requested this sit-down tonight because you feel as if Rocco has disrespected you.”

  “He has,” I said, keeping my eyes on the accused. “Rocco sent my man here—” I nodded toward Nunzio “—away when my wife was out to eat with friends and family at Macchiavello’s. My men are never alone with my wife. My rules.” I tapped on the table once. “So tell me this. Is Rocco Fausti above the rules I set for my own family? And this is not even business. This is personal. My wife is my wife.” I touched my chest.

  I didn’t bring the issue up with her because she hadn’t mentioned it. It ate at me like fucking acid that she hadn’t, but my real problem was with him. I knew that look in his eye because I had seen it before. When Rocco Fausti wanted a woman, he made it his mission to have her.

  He had women all over the world and one at home. Though their relationship was open. He didn’t care if his wife fucked other men, as long as he didn’t know names. Bugsy had, and I told him he was fucking nuts. It was one thing if she took schmucks to bed, but another to take a man from this life. Word spreads.

  Word was also that Rocco had wanted my wife before I entered the picture. Yeah, it was my right to call her my wife even before she was. The day we got married was not the day her life belonged to me. It had always belonged to me. It was just sealed that day.

  I’d seen it that night at the opera with my own eyes. The way Rocco looked at her, like he was a hungry fucking lion on the prowl for a juicy piece of meat. Again when he’d seen her out with me at The Club.

  Rocco cleared his throat. “We were at a restaurant,” he said, opening and closing his hands. “It is not an intimate place.”

  “The place doesn’t matter,” I said. “Conversation can be inappropriate or intimate anywhere. Especially when no one is around.”

  “You believe your wife to be that way,” he said.

  I had to keep a lock on the urge to put a bullet in his chest for even insinuating that my wife was that kind of woman. The three fuckers who had treated her that way in this club had paid for it. One with his tongue and the other two with an eye. One spoke while the other two watched, so it was symbolic for a tongue and two eyes to go toward the debt. They lost one head; they were fucking lucky they didn’t lose all three.

  “I believe that about you,” I said.

  His face changed completely. I had called him out on his bullshit, and essentially said that he was the equivalent of a whore. He wanted to kill me, too.

  Good. Let the slaughter fucking begin.

  This thing of ours had a long memory; so did I. Even if we were square after this, I’d never forget it.

  “Did your wife claim that I spoke to her indecently or touched her in the same manner?”

  Point for him. My wife never spoke a word about it to me. He probably knew that. He knew Nunzio had told me. He wanted him to. The object of this meeting was to make a point while being respectable about it. I’d fucking lose if I outright called him the words on my tongue. Fucking bastard.

  “If she had,” I said, “permission or not from her, you wouldn’t be sitting there. Capisci?”

  He stood and I stood, followed by our men.

  “Sit down,” Tito said. His voice came out cool, collected, and we all obeyed him. He didn’t look at any of us after we did. He kept his face forward, staring at the wall for a few minutes. Then he cleared his throat. “If it were your wife, Rocco, would you have called Corrado here to this sit-down?”

  He grinned but said nothing. He didn’t call men to a sit-down for his wife. He only killed them if he had a name. But I understood where Tito was going with this. He did, too.

  “Between us,” Rocco said, using his hand to motion between him and I.

  Tito went to open his mouth, but Rocco lifted a hand. “Dammi questo, zio.” Give me this, uncle.

  Tito looked at me. I nodded.

  Rocco cleared his throat. “This will save time. Tell me what will happen if I speak to your wife again—alone.”

  I looked him st
raight in the eye and said the words easily, “Ti ucciderò.” I will kill you. “Fausti famiglia or not.”

  This was about more than him being alone with her. This was about respect for another man in this life and his wife. If boundaries were not set, and enforced, he would walk all over them. There was nothing some men wanted more than what another man had. It was the equivalent of a virus in this life of ours. It ran rampant.

  The Fausti famiglia were a step above the rest. They had more power and money than all of the five families put together, and it only grew over the years.

  Rocco Fausti had wanted Alcina before me. He didn’t get her. After I did, he was going to fight even harder to have her. “No” wasn’t a deterrent to some men; it was a word that triggered them to work harder for what they wanted.

  When it came to my wife, fuck that. Fuck him and his name. He set one more foot over my personal boundaries, and all civilities were off. The only reason I did this was because of the respect I had for Tito and Romeo, and in general, the Fausti famiglia.

  He nodded and then stood. We all stood.

  Tito nodded. “We all agree then,” he said.

  Rocco nodded and then I did. He fixed his suit and walked over to me, Romeo and then Guido behind him. He offered me his hand and we shook.

  “Alcina is a special woman,” he said. “I respect your boundaries, and I respect you more for having them. You will take good care of her.”

  I didn’t respond. It was none of his business what I did or didn’t do with my wife. You will take good care of her was not a casual comment. It was an order. I didn’t fucking need that from him.

  He grinned, because make no mistake, he was an intuitive bastard. You had to be in this life. “It will not matter much after your death anyway, since you keep fucking with the wrong man,” he said, moving past me toward the door. “I will still be here.”

  Yeah, to fucking take care of my wife.

  I turned and spoke to his back. “Fucking bastard,” I said, finally getting it off my chest.

  He stopped, and after a minute, he finally turned around. We faced each other.