Marco: Lucian & Lia: Book 8

by Sydney Landon

  Ironically, that incident not only catapulted my father into the FBI but also opened the door for him with Draco. To his cousin, he was a man no longer content to play by the rules. He wanted to avenge his parents, and Draco was more than happy to offer his assistance. That’s one thing outsiders never understood about the founder of the Moretti family. He could be completely without mercy when necessary. He was not only a leader, but he dominated—ruled. But he was also an odd sort of family man. Granted, his version of what that meant was distorted, but if you were loyal to him, that loyalty was rewarded. And that’s exactly what he did for my father. He brought him slowly into the fold, making him privy to more of the operation in small increments. During this time, my father also met and fell in love with my mother at a party Draco hosted. Angelica King was the daughter of one of Draco’s business associates. Reginald King laundered money through his chain of dry cleaners, for a fee of course. Although Victor Falco handled the majority of that for his best friend, it was always smart to spread your assets around, especially when you were talking astronomical amounts of money. It pleased Draco to have an official link with the Kings, so he gave his blessing on the marriage. A year later, I was born. My uncle’s gift to me was an offshore account with one million dollars in it. Guess he couldn’t get to the store for diapers.

  By this time, Lee had long since proven to be Draco and Victor’s greatest asset. They discovered a new world of possibilities just as lucrative and less risky. My father’s own natural talents, along with Malone’s guidance in the background, pushed my father forward quickly in the ranks until he was Draco’s right-hand, his top lieutenant, and as such, he was privy to all.

  The task force had started small. Malone, my father, and two other agents. Limiting the people involved meant less chance of leaks, and it had been the first of its kind. A long-term operation with not only a man who was an agent but also a relative to a mafia power. To most in law enforcement, the mission seemed simple. Infiltrate and dismantle. Take out the king and the rest would fall. But Malone had seen far-reaching gains. Greater longer-term benefits. Why be content with removing one faction from power if you could use it to take a dozen out? And while you were doing that, you also attained endless and valuable information on new power players and mafia transactions. For years, that’s exactly what they’d done. The Morettis kept people out of Asheville and didn’t give a fuck where the small-timers went afterward. And Malone would be there with a set of sealed indictments and snazzy handcuffs. It was his version of taking out the trash. The Morettis were bagging that shit up for him and delivering it to his doorstep.

  It was an unorthodox operation, at best, but with the extensive assets Malone was seizing on a regular basis, no one in power gave a good fuck. Just the opposite, in fact. They were elated. It was one of the biggest coups in FBI history, and it showed no signs of ending. Then Draco and Victor were murdered, and several things changed almost overnight. My father took over as head of the family, and I was old enough to realize there was more to him than met the eye. While he was busy riding the line between right and wrong, I was busy watching him. Covertly. It had taken a few months, but eventually, he caught on that he was being followed. But what finally gave me away was being caught breaking into his office—something I’d been doing on a regular basis for a while by that point. No one in the Moretti organization had a clue, but his twenty-one-year-old son had stumbled upon the truth. I didn’t understand it all, of course, but I knew enough to be a problem, which presented a huge quandary. So I officially went away to “college.” In reality, I was the new assistant to Malone and in a short time, his protégé.

  It was a drastic step, one my father hadn’t been happy about. And my mother even less so. By that time, she knew about my father’s other life. There had been little choice really. She was simply too astute and had the home-field advantage. It would have required far too much time and energy to succeed in keeping a deception of that magnitude from her. Plus, a fully informed Angelica was a valuable person to have in your corner. She could also be counted on to contact Malone should something ever happen to my father.

  I had grown up mafia, but being FBI was in my blood. I loved everything about it. And my excitement refueled Malone’s. He became not only my mentor but also a second father to me. At the end of four years, it had been with both excitement and sadness that I returned home to assume my place in the family. Although, not in the way of my cousins. No, now I was the youngest member a task force that had grown to include both the DEA and the ATF. Unavoidable was the necessity to live a double life. I’d always been close to Nic and Jake, but I had to carefully filter my words to ensure I gave nothing away. In the beginning, it was difficult, and our interactions had felt stilted and awkward. Luckily, they blamed it on the fact that I’d been away at “yankee school” and needed to have the stick surgically removed from my ass. Thankfully, throughout the past twelve years, it has gotten easier in a way. I’ve lowered my guard more and more without fear of fucking up. Naturally, we all grew closer again, and slowly but surely, seeds of guilt continued to creep in.

  I’ve developed a thicker skin, become a little jaded, but I still have my humanity. Meaning, feeling like a traitor still sucks ass. My only consolation is that we’ve given the family several layers of protection that weren’t there before. None of the Morettis, nor Lee will ever go to jail for past actions. Nor will there be any legal consequences for any illegal activities they’re ordered to do. They have complete immunity—if it’s sanctioned by my father. If we’re talking something big here, like an execution, then Malone must also sign it off. It’s a complex situation where the lines between right and wrong have been so blurred at times, they were almost unrecognizable. We’re not unlike a covert military op that goes into enemy territory and makes strategic kills; the ones you’ll never read about in the paper but happen every day. There are operations so off-grid that even the president doesn’t know they exist. We’re not under that far, but we’re deep. I haven’t been in the same room with my father and Malone in ten years. That’s why seeing him this morning is shocking. But worse than that, it’s scary as fuck. If he’s here, then there’s a cataclysmic event unfolding, and one look at my father’s face has me fearing it may already be too late to prevent the day of reckoning I’ve always known was coming.

  10

  Nina

  When I roll over, the first thing I notice is how my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. Look out, world, some awesome morning breath coming through. I flip onto my back as I struggle to push the sleep away. I feel as if I’ve been out for a year, yet my body is still unusually sluggish. Even though I don’t recall it, I must have had a fitful night. God willing, I had a few sex dreams to make it worthwhile. I rub the backs of my hands over my grainy eyes a few times before the call of nature pushes me from the bed. It’s either get up now or have my first adult bed-wetting episode. Minka would never let me live that down. Although Marco probably couldn’t say much with his stomach issues. Speaking of, where is he? I automatically reach out to turn on the lamp—but it’s not there. What the? I glance around the room in confusion, wondering if I’m dreaming. Surely, I must be. Everything is—wrong. Boxed wine. Minka brought over another box of that cheap stuff she loves. Guess that explains why I slept in my clothes.

  The situation with my bladder is getting urgent. Pee first, kill Minka later. I get to my feet and walk stiffly toward the bathroom. My head is pounding. I don’t recall drinking, but I obviously really tied one on last night. I reach the door and turn the handle, but it doesn’t budge. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. All my good humor vanishes as I stand there with my ankles crossed. I figure I have about ten seconds to get to a toilet, so I let loose a volley of curses as I rush to the other door, intent on using the guest bathroom. Thankfully, that handle turns easily. Yet when I open it, there’s no hallway. Instead, I’m in the bathroom. I know I haven’t been at Marco’s for long, but I’m quite sure his bathroom hasn
’t always looked like this. It’s—fucking nasty. He had a cleaning woman, until recently, that is. How did things go downhill this badly in a week? Heck, in eight hours. I don’t want to, but I have no choice. I hover over the toilet, careful not to make contact, and pee. Naturally, there’s no toilet paper, not that I’d want to use it from this cesspool anyway. I shake off as well as I can, then walk to the sink to wash my hands. Dear God, Marco. Even you’re not hot enough to get away with being such a freaking pig.

  Then it’s there. A realization akin to a lightning bolt. If I’m in the bathroom, then the bedroom door is locked. I hurriedly retrace my steps and try again because it’s probably just stuck. But after a good five minutes of doing everything short of biting the damned handle off, I must face the facts: I’m locked in a room that I don’t recognize, which is why I’m beginning to panic. Should I call out? Stay quiet? Before I make the decision, I move slowly around the room, really surveying my surroundings. Instead of Marco’s floor-to-ceiling windows, these windows are small and up so high that I see nothing but the faint glow cast from external lighting. The bed is merely a mattress and box springs. There is no headboard, and God help me, no sheets. My skin crawls, and bile climbs up my throat as I stare at the stain-covered material I was sleeping on. Disgusting. The walls are a mixture of peeling wallpaper and chipped paint, and the floors appear to be plywood. I have a sinking feeling… am I in an abandoned house?

  A normal person would be crying by now, and believe me, I want to. But I spent too many years with the Gavinos to lose sight of reality. Scan the perimeter and look for threats. Two of the most important things you can do in an unknown situation. Oh… and don’t lose your shit. That one takes the top spot. I make my way slowly around the bedroom, checking for any clues as to where I am. By the third time around, I give up and search for anything that can be used as either a weapon or to help escape. Again, there’s not much since the room is basically empty, but I do manage to pull a couple of loose nails out of the wood flooring and stick them under the side of the mattress for now.

  As for avenues of escape, that one is tricky. With no windows in the bathroom and the ones in the bedroom being far from the ground, there’s little hope that I’ll be able to get out that way. Even with pushing the makeshift bed under them, they’re still well out of reach. With limited options and even fewer resources, there’s only one thing left available to me. And fuck it, even though I’m scared out of my mind, I give it everything I’ve got. I beat and pound on the bedroom door and toss in a couple of kicks to the wall for good measure. Having not seen any cameras, I also bring out my inner damsel in distress, hoping to lure whoever the hell has me into a sense of false security. Let them think I’m no threat so they might relax. Maybe get sloppy and give me an opening. That’s all I need. One tiny sliver of opportunity and I’m gone. Either that… or I let them get close enough to plant one of those rusty nails in an eye or temple. It might not kill them, but they’ll be in no shape to give chase. Most women grow up hearing when in danger, kick a man in the balls and you’re home free. But that’s simply not the case. First of all, they’ll be expecting that. And most are born with that instinctive reflex to protect the family jewels. But what they’re not expecting is a heel palm strike to the nose. The fragile cartilage there is easily broken, and although I have no first-hand experience, I’ve been told it hurts like a son of a bitch. Pretty much anywhere on the face is a winner. And a little-known fact, the ears are full of sensitive nerves. Pulling them will hurt and distract. My personal favorite is the throat. I hit Frankie Jr. there a few times through the years, and he flailed around like I stabbed him.

  Unfortunately, I lose sight of all those objectives when the door suddenly opens because then I remember those last moments in the car. Flat tire. My purse flying from the seat and onto the floor. Leaning over to pick it up. Pain. “You can scream all you want, Nina. I can assure you there’s no one around to hear. But I do find it rather annoying, so I’d appreciate it if you’d shut the fuck up.”

  “Oh my God,” I hiss in dawning horror.

  Dear God, I fall in love for the first time only to be taken out before we’ve even picked our china together.

  To use one of Marco’s favorite sayings—fuck my life.

  Marco

  Malone leaves his personal detail to secure the area while the three of us move deeper into the bunker. When the last steel door has locked behind us, he turns to pull me in for a hug. “How’ve you been, son?”

  It’s far from manly, but I feel a bit choked up. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him in person, and until that moment, I had no idea how much I’ve truly missed him. We speak through encrypted forms of communication, but it’s impersonal. “I’m good.” I nod, noting he looks even more exhausted than usual. I doubt he’s slept more than three hours at a time since he was an infant. He’s both cursed and gifted to have a mind that never stops. And it’s not usual drivel that keeps him awake. No, his mind is like a fucking heat-seeking missile. One that relentlessly searches for a target to lock on to and will not stop until it finds one. I used to envy him and wish I’d been born with the same abilities. But after working closely with him for years, that has changed. Like secondhand smoke exposure will shorten your lifespan, so will too much time around Malone. Human beings are not made to withstand the type of mental strain he places on himself. Maybe it’s that way for all people with his level of intelligence—the hunger for knowledge and information that cannot be satisfied no matter how many times he feeds the beast inside. I glance from him to my father and back again. “Not to sound like a dick, but if you’re here, I wish I were anywhere else.”

  My father smiles faintly while Malone laughs easily. He told me once that even though he preferred to work alone, he enjoyed the comic relief I brought to his life for the time I was there. Pretty sure he liked the endless supply of McDonald’s I brought with me as well. My thoughts flash to Nina for an instant, remembering her love for that fucking McRib. Swear to God, I’ll happily eat the calorie-laden thing with her if it means she’ll never attempt to cook a single meal for me again. “Since when have you ever been concerned with my feelings, son?” he quips before motioning for us to take a seat at the conference table. Considering the bunker isn’t often used, it’s surprisingly clean and comfortable, and it’s equipped with every type of technology we could need should we be forced to go to ground for any length of time. Now that we’ve exchanged the somewhat unnecessary small talk, Malone gets right to the point. “I’ve studied the police reports and other information available on both the Gavino murders and those of the Fosters. They were almost certainly committed by the same person. Weapon was a Glock G19.” He opens a folder near his elbow and thumbs through some papers before tossing two onto the table. “Running the prints we pulled from the scenes took a fuck load of time. First off, the Gavinos weren’t big on keeping the crime scene pure. The Foster family must have had a fair number of visitors since there were also multiple prints there.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs at the ankles. “That one is puzzling. Killing someone so distantly linked to you is very random. No logical reason behind it at all. Not to mention, it points the finger at two people—one of whom should not have been at either scene.”

  I sit up straight and see my father do the same. We stare at that fucking folder like it holds the secrets to the universe. When he tosses a mugshot on top of the ballistics reports, I draw a harsh breath. My father reaches over and carefully picks up the paper, studying it thoughtfully. “We haven’t been able to find a match on the first set, so we’re still going through some local databases. Could be the person isn’t in any databases. Makes identification tough, but not impossible. Hopefully, we’ll get what we need from the one we do have. John Thomas Moretti. Booked ten years ago for an open container.”

  “Moose?” I murmur dazedly, still shocked by what we’ve discovered. Of course, I’ve considered it possible that one of our own family members was responsi
ble, but Moose wasn’t one who ever set off any type of alarm bells. Hell, he was just a low-level flunky. Mostly used for running errands, maintaining our vehicles, and as a guard for mother— “Fuck!” I jump to my feet, startling the other two. My father gives me a questioning look as I run over to the desk in the corner and grab a satellite phone from it. I quickly punch in a number and wait impatiently for it to be answered.

  “Yeah?” I recognize Jake’s voice on the other end. He won’t recognize this number since they change them about once a week, so I’m glad he answers.

  “Jake, it’s me. Who’s got eyes on my mother today?”

  My father is on his feet now too as the implications of what I’m saying hit him.

  He’s smart enough to understand when something’s off and doesn’t waste my time with stupid questions. “Moose and Jimmy. Put Nina and Angelica in the back of the Benz a couple of hours ago.”

  I swallow hard. What the fuck is happening? “Hang on a sec, man.” I write something on a piece of paper and hand it to my father. He takes one of the other phones, and I hear him speaking in low tones before disconnecting. The sound of him clicking that one button to end the call seems so loud that I flinch. Of course, I realize it’s the bleak expression on his face and not the phone at all—but in my mind, it might as well have been a bomb. He gives one shake of his head. Nothing else. He utters not another word, simply standing as if frozen in place. And that is what terrifies me the most. My father, head of the most powerful crime syndicate in the South, SAC of a legendary joint task force for the FBI, and the most controlled person I’ve ever known, is afraid. And to make matters worse, Malone appears just as grim. Malone points at the phone I’m now clutching in my hand. Fuck, I forgot Jake was still holding. I clear my throat before asking, “Did anyone say where they were heading?”