When I was that age, I didn’t know what fear was. I never knew my dad, but Mom was still around. She gave me fourteen and a half years with a damn happy childhood, and the twins had her for six perfect years. That’s why I know that six-year-olds aren’t supposed to be scared, or thinking about survival. They should be running around without a care in the world, getting knee deep in lakes and ponds in the summer, and playing sports or hanging out in their rooms in the winter. The only thing they should have to whine about is bedtimes and putting away their toys. What was so wrong about me wanting that for my little brothers too?
Josh and Joey have been with the same foster parents for a few months. On the surface that might sound like a win, but to me, it meant nothing. Sure, no one hurt them physically, but I just don’t like the way they’ve been cringing whenever an adult raises their voice a little.
I’m not about to wait for anyone in that big, pretty house they live in to do more than shout at them.
That’s why I’m running.
It’s not to escape an obviously shitty house.
I’m running toward something.
I need to keep my little brothers out of the kind of place that tricks the authorities into believing kids would have a good life there when in truth, it's the beginning of a nightmare. The two and a half hour brisk walk in the biting fortysomething degree Fahrenheit cold is more than worth it.
I don't give two fucks that it's my sixteenth birthday today. Bloody knuckles are the best gift I give myself. It means I can take care of myself and my brothers. It says that I still stand for something, a time when everyone around me wants to tell me that I'm worthless just because I'm a motherless child, because I happen to be a teen with no parents who care for me.
But I had a mother.
One that loved and cherished me, and meant the world to me. One whose voice I still hear singing to me or lovingly calling my name before I fall asleep. Whose eyes still gaze on me with so much admiration and pride that my chest hurts. Whose arms I feel running softly through my hair. Whose vanilla and lavender scent still lingers in the scarf I have in my backpack, the one she wore to the hospital that night she died.
Just because she’s dead now doesn’t change the fact that I’m somebody to her.
And I made her a promise that I won’t let anyone break us up.
To watch over Josh and Joey after she passed away.
The soles of my feet fucking ache by the time I make it to the edge of the main boulevard street where my brothers are staying. My hands and ears are so fucking cold that I can barely feel any sensation in them. The muscles in my body are all screaming and tense from the long walk and the bitter cold. And my stomach is growling like a fucking lion. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing if it means not making it to my brothers’ sides tonight. I have enough cash to buy us three bus tickets to my Godmother Jeannie in Tallahassee. The state turned down her claim for us because she’s seventy-six and they think she’s too old to parent us. They’re fucking idiots. She might not be our flesh and blood, but she’s family, and she wants us. We’ll have a good life out in the country. A better life than this foster system shit. And we’ll be together like it should be.
All I have to do is take my brothers away from this place.
There’s just one problem.
I arrive at the edge of the property to find seven or eight black late model vehicles parked on the long double driveway of the house. Lincolns town cars and Cadillac SUVs neatly line the street too. This is a fucking problem. I can handle a pair of foster parents, but I’m no match for the dozen or more people inside. They’re likely to be witnesses at best, or in the worst case scenario, will side with the foster parents, call the cops, and stop me from taking my brothers with me.
I may not even make it to the front door at all.
And as I catch sight of the man in a business suit stepping out of a stretch town car limo, flanked by four massive walls of men protecting him, my breathing stops, my stomach heaves, and my heart sinks.
This is gonna be a long night.
Paolo Romano, one of the most notorious mob bosses to ever run the streets of western New Jersey, is about to step foot inside the house where my brothers are staying. The man owns this town and controls several sections of New York City and Philadelphia. Everybody who's anybody knows it. I'm a kid, and even I know it. From the cops to city hall, from businesses to the most reputable charities, from soccer moms to sports coaches, the Romano name commands respect. What that means is my kid brothers' foster parents are off limits. The fact that he's visiting their home like this means they're under Romano's protection.
But as hard as it’ll be to get Josh and Joey out of this house tonight, I’m not gonna back down.
One way or another, the three of us are going to be together from tonight on.
Together.
I’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.
I just wish I had some way I could bargain with him, somehow. At my age, I’m not prepared for a man like him.
From my spot behind a cluster of snow-covered bushes, made more scant by the loss of leaves during the fall, I study Romano as his hands run down the lapels of his suit jacket, smoothing over the fabric and doing up the one closing button. I stand at the edge of the property for less than a minute, then I make my move. No point trying to come up with a plan.
I don't assess options or gauge risk. I'm a teenager for fuck's sake. We're expected to be impulsive and impetuous. But I have to admit that I'm nervous as fuck. And tired. Night falls before five in the evening, so it's been a long evening, and it's not even eight thirty.
I've already been shot at.
I might’ve already killed a man too.
And then I walked for close to three hours to make it here.
His men see me long before I can get close.
“Get the hell out of here kid,” says one of his men providing muscle for the evening.
“I’m here for my brothers!” I shout up to him, but he grabs my shoulder and starts to rough me up, shoving me back in the direction I came from.
But Romano stops him. “Who’s this kid?” Romano asks.
“I’m not looking for any trouble, Mr. Romano, sir,” I speak up, trying to be respectful.
He looks me up and down, seeming to make a quick assessment, then waves his man off me. “What business do you have in there?”
I turn toward the intimidating man, standing my ground although I'm scared as fuck right now. "My kid brothers are in this foster home, but they won't let me see them."
“Come here,” he says, motioning for me to move past the two guards ahead of him to get closer.
I approach him slowly, showing my hands. God fucking knows I don’t want to be shot at again tonight.
He studies my face for a long beat then nods thoughtfully. “What's your name, son?”
“Antonio.”
He lights a cut cigar that he pulls out of a breast pocket and nods to his man nearest me. “Search him.”
“I don’t have any weapons,” I say, but the guard does a thorough pat down before letting me go.
Romano takes a long puff of the cigar and looks at me again. “Do I know you?”
I shake my head. “I don't think so, sir.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What your last name?”
“DeLucci.”
His eyes narrow as though he sees some hint of recognition on my face. “Danny DeLucci's kid?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “I suppose I am, sir.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I've never met my father in my life. The name Daniel DeLucci is on my birth certificate. That’s how I know the name. My mother never talked about him.”
He nods with understanding. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”
“Like I said, sir. I'm here for my brothers. This is their foster home.”
“Where's your mother?” he ask
s flatly.
“Ellingwood cemetery.”
“Your mother died?”
I purse my lips and give him a subtle nod, pushing away the vivid image of her face.
“How long ago?”
“A year and four months.”
“And what about you? You think you're too grown up to be in foster care? Too big to live under the Sansoretti's roof?”
“My brothers and I don't belong in foster care, sir. None of us. But they gave my brothers to the Sansoretti's, and put me in a shithole.”
“Child protective services split you up?” he asks, his voice harder than before.
“They did,” I confirm, and I’m suddenly angry all over again about everything. All of it. My mother’s illness, her death, having no one in our corner, being split up, being treated like animals. “And no one’s letting me see them,” I shout. “I have a right to see my brothers.”
Romano turns to his men. “Get Sansoretti out here,” he instructs them, then he studies me closely again. “Tell him to hurry. It's cold out. You hungry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s this shithole you’re living at now?”
I tense up at the question, reminded of the trouble I left there. “Nowhere. Not anymore. I just left the last place they sent me. The guy was drunk all the time. He just uses the other foster kids for a regular monthly check, when he’s not beating them up. I had to stand up for myself.”
“So you ran away?”
“Yes… you could say so,” I answer, intentionally leaving out the part about possibly killing the man before I started running.
“What's the name of this man?” he probes. I’m not too keen on answering, but the way he stares at me with each question, it’s as though he’s trying to figure me out. To read me. And I can tell that no one gets away with lying to this important man.
"Bill Williamson," I say honestly and know this is probably the end for me. "He lives out on Crestwood County Road. Look, Mr. Romano, I won't lie to you. I had a fight with him earlier. He was going to hit me, so I decided not to stick around there. After that, he reached for a shotgun and tried to shoot me. But I stopped him. The rest was an accident."
“What do you mean the rest?”
“He might be … I think he’s dead.”
His eyes shoot back and forth between my face, my hands, and the man behind me. “You… you killed your foster father? Tonight?”
“It was an accident,” I explain in a defensive plea, and without thinking, I blurt out, “But sometimes you have to break the law to do what's right.”
He motions to one of his men standing behind me. "Send someone over there. Bill Williamson. Crestwood County Road," he orders, and then he returns his gaze to me. "Where's your things?"
I point toward the bushes at the corner. “Over there.”
The front door of the house opens and my kid brothers’ foster dad steps outside.
“Go grab your things,” Romano instructs me, and heads for Sansoretti.
By the time I get my bag and return to them, I've missed much of the conversation they have under their breaths. But I know some of it was about me. I overhear bit and pieces, like when Sansoretti explained that I was trouble. That I tried to run away with the kids after school right after my mother died. Romano asks why the man didn't let him know that Marjorie was dead. That's my mother's first name. At another point, he asks how he could allow outside people to spread DeLucci's kids across town.
I don’t catch much more of their conversation, but I’m damned interested to find out more. Romano is talking like he knows both my parents, yet I’ve never met him before tonight. Not in person or face to face, anyway. And Mom never mentioned his name before. But then again, she never said a word about our father. All she ever said was that he was gone, and was never coming back. If this mob boss knows more about my family than I do, the longer I stick with him, the more likely I’ll get answers.
When their muffled discussion ends, both Romano and Sansoretti take the front walkway and approach me.
"Here's how things are gonna be," Romano announces. "You're gonna live here with your brothers. But Sansoretti is the man of this house. You'll go by his rules, and you'll have respect for him and his wife. Understood?"
I hear each word the man says but nothing is sinking in. No one’s cared enough to do shit for me since my mother died. Yet I tell this man that I might’ve just killed someone, and he wants to reunite me with my kid brothers?
“I’m gonna live… here?” I point to the house. “With my brothers?”
“That’s what I just said,” Romano answers. “Did you hear the rest?”
“I did, sir. But I don’t understand.”
“Sorry to hear about your mother,” he says, ignoring my confusion. “She was a good woman. Your father was too.”
“Why are you doing this for me, Mr. Romano?”
“Get this young man something good to eat,” he tells Sansoretti, then he turns to me and says, “Family isn't just important to me. Family is everything. Come with me, kid.”
I’m hesitant and unsure of everything as I follow these two men and the guards into the house and walk into the warmth of the foyer, breathing in the familiar, smell of homemade Italian food.
But deep down, I’m sure that my life is about to change, and no one is coming between my brothers and me ever again.
For that, I owe Romano my life.
2
Natalia
Present Day
"We're supposed to wait for the transfer attendant," I say firmly to Nonna as she unbuckles the airplane seatbelt of her chair beside me in first class and tries to stand.
“Sto bene," she replies in Italian, her tone sharp. She raises her eyebrows so high that they seem to blend with the short silvery waves of her recently cut bangs. "I can do this myself, birthday girl."
The reminder that some of this time I’ve been traveling falls on my eighteenth birthday is slightly unnerving, although it’s mostly my doing. We were supposed to fly back last week, but Nonna was so happy during her time visiting with one of her younger brothers that I cleared it with Father for us to stay another week. And rescheduling a flight during the summertime with such short notice takes some effort and flexibility. The kind that results in my turning eighteen only hours before I hit forty thousand feet on this morning, ten-hour international flight.
My phone buzzes in my purse with the umpteenth text message that's loaded onto my phone since I took off the airplane mode when the flight touched down. Like the others, I ignore it for a while longer and give my grandmother's wool covered elbow a gentle pull to coax her a little. She's normally dressed warmer than the weather, but the full-length wool coat over her loose floral summer dress seemed a bit much for the end of August. At least it did, until the flight we are on made it to forty thousand feet, and the cabin began to feel like the middle of winter.
"Please wait with me," I beg her. Not that she can go anywhere at the moment. She has the window seat, and I'm at the aisle. And if she manages to push past me, the Italian bodyguards that Father assigned to us for the flight are sitting in the row directly beside us. We never travel alone. They'll return to Italy on a later flight as soon as they lay eyes on our usual local protection detail. The handoff is seamless to us most of the time. "I don't doubt you, Nonna. But we booked a wheelchair and transfer attendant so that you don't exert yourself too much. This was a long flight, and we still have the close to two-hour drive home from JFK. Come on, let's just wait. I'll stay with you."
“Never liked planes,” she mutters under her breath as she lowers into the seat again.
"I know, but the worst part is over now. And it was worth it, right?" I cup my hand over the back of hers. My palm feels her paper-thin skin, and it reminds me of how much time has passed, how little time I might have left with this eighty-six-year-old woman who's been at the center of my existence.
She clucks her tongue, seeming to recall some of the high poi
nts of the trip, and her face softens. “Yes. It was nice to go home again. Next time, I’m going there to stay.”
I smile softly at her, choosing not to correct her. She's older now, and her health issues like rheumatoid arthritis and early-stage Alzheimer's are sure to advance, even with the best North American medical care that money can buy. It'll be much harder for her to be comfortable in her small hometown outside Catanzaro, in the Calabria region of Italy. The house she grew up in is still standing, cared for by one of her great-nephews who lives nearby. But it's no place for an elderly woman. As quaint and cute as it is, there's not even electricity or running water. Father wouldn't dare let her live there. He's told her he doesn't plan to let her travel again. And we all know that what he says goes.
The sound of my phone buzzing pulls me back to the moment. Lifting it out of my purse, I scan the locked screen, and my pulse jumps at the name that shows up.
Antonio DeLucci.
I know he’s supposed to drive with Father to the airport, but I didn’t expect him to message me. Just last night, Father mentioned he’d text me once he’s at the arrivals terminal. I should be worried about why Father isn’t the one making contact. But then again, he’s frequently called away from his scheduled plans to deal with the empire he’s built over the years. Antonio is his right-hand man. Father trusts him with his life, so I shouldn’t be too surprised.
I just don’t trust myself with him.
Not anymore.
Not since I realized he’s the only man who makes my heart feel like it’s riding a roller coaster.
I remember the first time I met him and his younger brothers. My Uncle Marco and Aunt Francesca took them in after their mother died. Back then I only saw Antonio when he passed by our house while walking his brothers home from school sometimes. I’d see him at family functions too, sometimes. But Father never let me play with him or his brothers. He kept saying they were too old, that I needed to play with girls my age, not almost full-grown men.
Fall (A Mafia Crime Family Romance) Page 2
