Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  I memorized the sharp lines of his face. How his eyes looked in reflection to the candles around the bathroom when he looked at me. I dressed in the color that I knew pleased him. The same color as his eyes.

  I had committed to memory how he moved with such command and power, but he did so with such ease, there was no doubt that it was just a natural part of who he was. He placed the baroque earrings in my ear and the layered necklaces around my neck.

  I absorbed the heat of his touch while it branded my skin, closing my eyes to anything but him and this moment.

  His fingers trailed along my collarbone, then traced the cool metal around my neck, moving to my ears, sinking his fingers into my hair. “Ti amo, angel eyes,” he said.

  “Ti amo, mio marito,” I said, leaning into him, placing a soft kiss on his lips. But that was not who he was. His lips claimed mine with wrath-like intensity, but to me, it felt like unfiltered passion rushing through my blood. His fingers were greedy as they moved underneath the dress and he slipped one inside of me.

  My eyes rolled, my head tilted back, and my mouth parted. His tongue licked down my throat and back up before it found mine again.

  Kissing him was always more than kissing. It always felt like the love between us was stealing my soul. The very breath of my existence.

  Our eyes connected, and that wild thing moved, possessed, as we crashed into each other without touching. He turned me toward the mirror, my hands planted against the counter, lifting my dress over my culo, moving the thin strip of underwear to the side. His hand massaged, caressed, his finger slipping in and out, while he undid his pants.

  “Keep your hands steady,” he said.

  It was not my hands that needed to keep steady. It was my heart. My breathing. The floor beneath my feet.

  He entered me in a thrust so hard from behind that it made me scream out.

  He pulled my hair, tilting my head back. “Open your eyes,” he said. “Look at me. Give me what I need.”

  I lifted my eyes to meet his. He slammed into me over and over, driving me higher and higher, until my body surrendered to the demands of his.

  “Corrado!” I screamed out, so fucking close.

  He pumped into me even harder, the wildest noises I ever heard coming from his mouth. They echoed around the bathroom, along with the sounds of our bodies slapping, pounding, crashing.

  “So beautiful,” he said, his eyes lowered, his body demanding even more from mine. “My wife. Mine.”

  I wanted to lower my eyes, my head, concentrate on giving him this, on holding back, but my body was giving in. The pleasure burned from the inside out—it was always like nothing I’d ever experienced before. But I’d always imagined it to be the same for the candle the moment its wick starts to burn.

  “You’re ready,” he said. He was in me, all around me, no relief unless I gave in. “Now you’ll be satisfied.”

  “Not after a hundred lifetimes with you,” I said, my voice breathless, but strong.

  My body gave in and then his. He poured himself inside of me, and I memorized how raw it was. How deep. How I would never forget the things he not only did to my body, but to my heart.

  I stood there, breathing heavily, while he cleaned us up. His touch was gentle, and I indulged in the contrasting ways he touched me. Sometimes it was with bruising fingers, and other times, with a caress that made me shiver.

  He fixed my dress and then offered me his arm.

  “A hundred lifetimes wouldn’t be enough,” he said after he started the car and pulled out of the drive.

  I shook my head. “Not with you,” I said. “When I promised forever, I meant it. In this life and all others.”

  The lights from the oncoming cars brightened the dark amber of his eyes to honey, which contrasted with the hard look on his face.

  “What did I say?” I whispered.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Not a thing.”

  “Your face. It changed.” I looked out of the window for a second and then turned to face him. “What would be a perfect ending to you, Corrado?”

  “At one time—going with my suit on.”

  Ah. Dying as he was. Who he was.

  “Has that changed?”

  “Some.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sometimes I see the pistachio groves.”

  “In the evenings,” I said. “The weather warm. The sun going down. The world amber. On fire. Burning through the rest of the day to have a fresh start.”

  “Morning,” he said. “The beginning of another day. Not the ending of it. Still gold but in a fresher way. Cooler.”

  He took my hand as he continued to drive, and we became quiet. He took me to the Met, the opera—La Bohème—and instead of watching the stage, I watched him. His eyes flicked to mine every so often, and that mysterious pull between us had us reaching out—a slide of a hand, a touch of a fingertip, the feel of a warm kiss against cool skin in the darkened theater.

  He was even quieter on the way home, but his hold on my hand was tighter.

  My heart beat faster. My stomach felt hollow. I felt weak deep inside, but the same on the outside.

  What was he thinking?

  “Do you know why I ran for so long?” I said.

  “Tell me.”

  I sighed. “To have this. To have you. To have the ending in the grove. Or anywhere, as long as you and Ele are with me.” I brought his hand up to my mouth, kissing his fingers. “We all deserve that, Corrado,” I whispered. “That is what we work to achieve in life. No matter what life tries to do, we must rise above it and fight for the ending we want. Once the years go, they go. There is no getting them back. But that is why we have the future. To look forward to. A new day, each day, so that we are ready for the evenings when they come.”

  The house came into view. We pulled up. Got out. Walked hand in hand. My cool one against his warm one. We checked on Ele once inside. We smiled at how she was sleeping. Her mouth open. Little hands with beautiful fingers next to her head.

  We showered together, and after, he slipped on a pair of sweatpants and told me he would meet me in the bedroom.

  I did the usual things, and before I finished, I heard the radio playing. The same song we danced to after our wedding.

  He pulled me into his arms when I asked him what he was up to. No answer came. None had to.

  We moved like we did that night. We kissed like we did that night.

  He took me to bed after, his eyes intense on mine, the look in them hard to describe. Consuming was the only word that seemed to make sense. His palms slid against mine, our fingers interweaved, and he took his time, moving slow. A tear dripped from my eye, and he leaned down and used his tongue to dry it. His lips kissed down to my mouth, kissing me in the same rhythm he had created between us. There was nothing rough about what he was doing to me, yet he was ripping away everything that had ever belonged to me only—mind, body, heart, and soul.

  After, I placed my body as close as possible to his. My hands searched his skin, memorizing every line, every dip, every indention. Then I stuck my claws in, refusing to forget each and every one.

  I wondered how his childhood was. I wondered how many hugs and kisses he got. I wondered what it was like growing up in the shadow of one of the greatest Dons that ever lived, according to anyone that ever spoke of Emilio Capitani. I wondered how it felt to know that your grandfather would not stop a man from killing you if you made a mistake. Because rules were rules. I wondered how it felt to learn secret after secret about a family that was destroyed by them.

  I wondered how it felt to be my husband.

  I wondered if he would ever tell me what it meant to be him.

  I wondered if I would ever get the chance to ask, and to have him answer me without the binds that tied him to his name, to his obligations. To the code that rooted his life.

  I stared at his face as he stared at the ceiling, wondering all of these things and more.

  He did not sleep the entire night. Neither did
I. I took out my rosary, holding tight to it with one hand. The other was on him.

  38

  Corrado

  Either way, if I fell or he did, this would end tonight.

  Either way, if I fell or he did, I was going to ruin her life.

  She kept glancing at me as she packed her things. I had arranged for my wife and her family to take a vacation in the Catskills. I wanted her far enough away, but not too far.

  “You will meet us tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” I said, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, watching her. “Tomorrow.”

  “Then we will go to Forza d’Agrò? My parents need to be home. Mamma does well, but papà….” She shook her head. “The older he gets, the more comfortable he is at home. He complains too much.” She waved a hand.

  She added another shirt to her suitcase, folding it neatly. Then she looked up at me. “You gave me your word that Ele would be baptized in the church we were married in. It is special to me.” Her voice came out sharp, accusing.

  I nodded. “I gave you my word, and it’s going to get done.”

  Eleonora was already baptized here. Alcina and her family didn’t want to bring her out until she was. So we compromised. Eleonora was baptized in New York, and she would be baptized in Italy.

  “Keep packing,” I said. “I want you on the road before it gets too late.”

  That wasn’t because of my deal, either. It worried me to have them on the road so late. Giuseppe was driving and Angela would be there to help, but it still made me uneasy. It was safer to travel during the day, unless I was with them.

  I had decided not to send men. They didn’t need them. Instead, I set Nunzio and Brooklyn up with a room of their own. Just to be close, but still family-oriented.

  Nunzio met me out in the hallway before I got to my daughter’s room. “They are all set?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “We will follow in the car.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Brooklyn is trying with her mamma again.”

  “She trying to convince her to go?”

  “Sì.” He shrugged. “We might be a little late following.”

  “An hour,” I said. “Tops.”

  His eyes lost focus for a second, and then he blinked and looked at me. “Sì.” He nodded.

  I left him standing in the hall, still debating on how he was going to get his wife to leave on time.

  He would—he had orders—but it wasn’t going to be easy. Adriana hadn’t warmed up to the idea of him, and his wife hadn’t warmed up to not having her mamma’s approval.

  Giuseppe was going up and down the stairs, not sure what to do with himself. He forgot his coffee cup. His phone, which he really just screamed at. He didn’t know how to work it.

  “What did you forget now?” I said to him when he started to head down the steps again with a book.

  He waved me off, muttering complaints in Sicilian.

  I grinned. I enjoyed having them in the house. They were different from my family. Even though we were big, most of us were not as close as they were. We had too many secrets.

  Angela’s voice drifted out into the hall. She held Eleonora in her lap on the rocking chair, reading her a book.

  She looked up at me when she heard me step into the room. Eleonora slapped at the book, talking to herself as Angela stood up and handed her to me.

  “You should come with us,” she said, tapping my cheek. “It would do you some good to get away from here for a while.”

  “I have things to take care of first,” I said.

  “Always business!” She waved a hand. “Do you know why Italians live so long? We work to live, not live to work.”

  “I thought it was all of the olive oil.”

  She laughed, squeezing Eleonora’s cheeks. “You cannot forget the wine,” she said. “A glass of red a day is good for your heart.”

  “Angela!”

  “Ah!” She slapped her forehead. “Mamma mia! When the Italian women goes before her husband, it is because she could not take it anymore.”

  “Angela!”

  “When the Italian man goes before the wife, it is because she strangled him!” She brought her hands up, mimicking the act. “I am coming! You old grouch.” Her voice echoed as she left the room.

  I held Eleonora closer while I picked the book up from the rocking chair and then sat down. One of her hands hit the page while the other reached for her foot. I finished reading the book to her and then set it back down, turning her around to face me.

  She lifted one eyebrow, as if to say, What do you want with me? I don’t trust you. She was going to have hazel eyes, like my sister. Every day they changed in color.

  “At least you’re not crying,” I said. “That’s a good start.”

  “Ya, ya, ya.” She made some sounds, the eyebrow still lifted.

  I lifted her up, kissing her cheeks, and then set her in the same position as before, stroking her head.

  “You’re like me in that way,” I said. “You’re not going to trust easily. Which is good. Don’t smile for men like me. Ever. Even if they tell you a million pretty things. Promise you the world. Nothing is ever free, remember that, Eleonora. If something seems too good to be true, it usually is. There’s always small print.”

  I fixed a strand of her hair that stuck straight up. That, paired with the eyebrow lift, made me grin. “But don’t let the small print stop you from loving. Everything has a price. Even love, even though they say it’s free. Free to give, but it still should be earned.” I sighed. “I’m glad you’re more like me in that way. Your mamma gave her love to me too freely. She should have held out for someone better.”

  I kissed her again.

  “But I wouldn’t have allowed it. Your mamma is mine. So are you. No one, no other man in this world, will ever love you and mamma the way that I do. Even though I have a hell of a way of showing it.”

  “Ya, ya, ya.”

  “That’s all you got to say to me, princess?”

  “Ya, ya, yaaaa.”

  “Smile for me once,” I whispered, touching her chin. “Smile for papà, Eleonora.”

  She blinked at me and then yawned, her head falling toward my chest. I brought her even closer and she fell asleep in my arms.

  “Corrado?” Alcina stood at the entrance to the door. “We are all ready to go.”

  I nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

  I carried Eleonora outside, kissing her head once I strapped her in. I double-checked that all of the bags were as they should be. I waved to my mother and father-in-law.

  My wife waited outside of the car.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind, angel eyes.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “All I can think about is tomorrow.” She kissed her palm and held it up for me, and then got in the car and left.

  I went about the rest of my day as usual, except that I made sure my wife and family were doing okay on the road and that they had checked into the resort.

  I called my sister-in-law in Italy, making sure the plans I had in place were all secure. In case something should happen to me, I sent her letters and arrangements for all of the money.

  I sent all of the men home. Turned off all of the alarms in the house.

  This was between us, and he wasn’t going to ring the doorbell.

  I sat down and ate a meal fit for a king at a table hand-carved for one. My wife and mother-in-law had cooked for me before they left.

  Pasta alla Norma.

  Caponata.

  Arancini.

  Blood orange salad.

  And a few other specialties.

  I finished the meal off with cannoli. My wife was known for them back home. She left an assortment, but my favorite was pistachio.

  It brought me back to my time in Bronte. The groves. The volcano. Her. Every day a new day with my angel eyes. Not one that kept continuously turning—same shit, different day. That was my life up until the day I met her.

  I sighed, po
uring myself a cup of Amaro del Capo.

  Night fell, a full moon rising, and I went to the window of the dining room.

  Maybe he’d be out howling like the fucking dog he was.

  The Scarpone family had wolf tattoos, which made me think back to that day in Modica. He had slipped his hand underneath his son’s shirt, keeping it hidden.

  “Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “That’s about right.”

  I took a seat at the table, checking my watch. It was acceptable to be fashionably late, but this was getting fucking ridiculous.

  Maybe he had decided not to come.

  Maybe he decided this would be set on his terms, not mine.

  Or maybe the fucker would ambush me in my sleep and not face me like a man.

  I couldn’t see that about him. Not because he was too low to stoop to such a level, but because he wanted to see my face. He wanted to air out our grievances before one of us fatally wounded the other.

  I wasn’t afraid of ghosts. They were already dead.

  I cleared the table. Rolled up my sleeves and did the dishes. My grandmother had been spending more time with other family members lately, but still—her kitchen was always spotless. She detested any dirty dishes sitting in the sink overnight.

  It was done out of respect for her. She didn’t get much of that over the years, in other ways, so I felt it was important to do it even if she couldn’t see it.

  To be Machiavellian meant that one had to present him or herself to the world in one way, while behind closed doors, unscrupulous practices took place.

  That was the way of our world. The root of it.

  My main problem with Vittorio Scarpone was that he presented himself one way to the world, a ghost, but deep down, he was still a Scarpone at heart. And that heart had a beat.

  He stole chances from me.

  He kept my sister from me—make no mistake, he knew about me longer than Tito had.

  His blood killed the woman I called mother.

  The more I thought about it, the more I needed something to reach out and touch, to snatch, to strangle, to kill. The constant beat in my ear, the never-ending pulse in my mind—it needed to end.