The only fear Maria showed was for her daughter. Wherever Maria felt she was going, it was to a better place. She had followed her husband through the darkest of nights, the coldest of days, and the dirtiest places her feet could’ve touched. When I found them, they were close to starving. They couldn’t leave the filthy place they were living in. They couldn’t even ask a neighbor to bring them food in fear of being found out.
We still found them.
I had killed men who cried like women, shit and pissed their pants, got on their knees and begged when death came knocking. One man even offered his wife instead of him. A life was a life. A body a body.
Not Maria. She had faith, and her faith gave her courage. Her body perished, but her soul lived on.
She had been teaching Mariposa that all along. When she was afraid, she could touch her faith to find peace. Mariposa had something that would forever comfort her.
To some it was beads on a rope. But to Maria, it was a physical representation of her unwavering belief system. No matter how close her fears came, she had something bigger on her side to conquer them.
I had wanted to die with the same peace. I wanted to taste it on my lips, feel it in my veins, have it conquer my heart before my sins came to collect me. I had felt the darkness breaking up, shattering like glass, and from it, all of the monster shadows sucking me under.
One.
Two.
Three.
No more breaths.
Then I’d woken up. Tito sat next to me. I wasn’t able to speak. Still felt like I couldn’t breathe. I knew I was alive, though, because I could feel. Tito wrapped the rosary around my hand and told me to hold on.
There I was, in the metaphorical sense, still holding on.
Maybe this was my last breath.
The final fourth.
It was family night at Dolce. The restaurant closed down to everyone but the Scarpones. They’d eat like kings and queens, they’d laugh like the joker had just put on the funniest show, and they’d tell their new princes tales of what their rich futures held. How powerful they’d be when they became kings.
All. Fucking. Bullshit.
“Heads up, motherfuckers,” I wanted to tell Achille’s sons, “it makes the knife go in easier when the killer slices your throat. Because news flash: There can only be one king. Those tales? Yeah, they’re pretty tall. Tall enough that only one of you will be able to reach the top.”
After the wives left, fur coats over their shoulders, jewels on their wrists, the finest shoes on undeserving feet, the men would stay behind and play poker. Achille might have one of his whores waiting to give him a kiss for luck. Only the fortunate ones got to leave the apartments he put them up in and be seen in public next to him.
Guess who’s coming out to play tonight, fellas?
I’d finally be taking the seat they reserved for me one Sunday a month.
I laughed, the sound raspy and low. Yeah, how about that? They reserved a seat for me at the poker table once a month, a glass of whiskey included. I didn’t even like the fucking game. Over the years, the old man’s chess game had morphed into Achille’s poker game. Quicker and less thinking involved. It was a sign of the times.
Three members of the staff stood inside to wait on the family. The rest were Scarpones, including the men who vowed to give their lives for the king and his joker of a son. The baby princes were there, too.
The whiz kid thought he had a handle on their security. I switched up the monitors, being whizzier than him. All they’d see was the restaurant, but without me standing on the side of it, chilling in the alleyway. The brightest thing about me was the rosary around my neck, but it was tucked inside my shirt.
Then my phone lit up.
I walked around to the other side of the building, out in the open, pulling up the collar of my jacket. The air still held the chill of February, even though we were in March, but the cold rarely touched me. It was more to keep me hidden until the right time.
The streets were crowded, and I got lost in the concrete jungle so I could check my phone. I stood in front of the shop that sold the little figurines my wife had wanted for our son.
Your wife: Hey, you forgot something important at home.
Me: Doubtful. Everything that’s important is at home. But tell me anyway. What did I leave behind?
Your wife: Me.
A second later my phone vibrated.
Your wife: Please come home. We haven’t even named him yet.
I took a deep breath, and it pushed out of my mouth in a white cloud.
Me: Saverio Lupo. Saverio means “new home.” It’s a cognate of Xavier or Javier. Lupo means “wolf” in Italian.
Your wife: Saverio is our new home. The wolf’s new home with his farfalla.
Me: Yeah.
Your wife: I don’t know how else to say this, and before you left, I couldn’t. You found me and then left me when I was a kid. Then I found you years later. In a world filled with all of these people and all of these words, I found you. Just like you found me.
A few seconds went by. The vibration went off again.
Your wife: Don’t leave me again, Capo. I had no idea what I was missing all of my life until you touched me. I wasn’t starving for things. Well, I was, but it went deeper. It was you. I was starved for you. Nothing can replace you in my life.
She’d been dancing around this ever since what happened at Mamma’s. Three days had gone by since then. She told me to wait a day, but another day only equaled to them having more hours to find out who she was.
I was a fucking ghost. They had already killed me. But my wife, she was the girl I saved; a girl who had a heartbeat. They’d stop at nothing to use her against me.
If they found out she was pregnant with my child—the thought alone made my blood run cold, and then it surged up hot.
Achille would rip her to pieces if he got to her first. Arturo would keep her alive long enough for her to have the baby. Then he’d kill her and raise my son as his own.
The ultimate betrayal, even over killing his flesh and blood, and a last fuck you, my pretty-boy son. If there was any peace to be found in death, he knew I’d never find it with my son in his arms.
This needed to end. There were too many unforeseen circumstances.
Slipping the phone in my pocket after I turned it off, I looked down at my watch.
It’s time for the game to begin, motherfuckers.
* * *
I walked down some, waiting in front of Dolce. The smell of veal parmigiana invaded my nostrils and tightened my throat.
Right on cue, two masked men jumped out of a waiting car, hustling to the alley.
Shouts. Gunshots. The kitchen staff was dead.
Boo. Bam. Boo. Three down.
More gunshots. The two masked men ran back out from the alley. Three men ran behind them.
The waiting car sped away with the two masked men. The three dumbfucks ran down the street to the parking garage. They were going to try to chase them down.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “And how did that work out for you last time? All brawn and no brain.”
I casually walked down the alley, head down. I stood to the side of the kitchen door listening. Arturo was shouting. In all his years as the King of New York, only one soul had ever tried him.
Corrado Palermo.
This was a turn of events he wasn’t used to.
I laughed a little, listening to him scold Achille. After the old man retired, he’d take over. The insane joker would rule a kingdom of misfits.
Two more Scarpone men came rushing out of the door, one at a time. When the first stopped, the other one did, and the first hit the second on the chest—a signal that meant, keep your ears and eyes open, and your mouth shut. The other guy nodded.
These men had done nothing to me except work for the family inside. So this wasn’t personal. And to slit a person’s throat, that was fucking personal. Without a word, I took them each out with a bullet to the
back of the brain. It made a mess, but blood ran out of the kitchen anyway. The gun was quieter than the two bodies that hit the ground.
I stepped into the kitchen like I owned the place. As predicted, three bodies were down on the floor.
Looked like Cash Kelly had gotten his revenge, even if he hadn’t been able to touch the main players. He’d have some clout in this town, even if his two guys ran away after.
The Scarpones had been weakened, but they were known to eat their septic paws to save the entire body. Because of that, Cash would earn some respect from the Italians, even if the Italians would be more cautious of him and his motives. In general, the Irish and Italians worked together in harmony or stayed clear of one another.
Until I started in.
Before the newly crowned princes could get the jump on me, I took Achille’s two sons out. One of them fell against the wall and slid down, gun still in his hand. The other one looked shocked for a moment, his gun still raised, before he slumped over the card table.
Achille and the whiz kid son had gone to the front of the restaurant. I figured they would, to check things out.
I took a seat beside Arturo after I collected the prince’s guns, my back against the wall, and set my gun on my lap. This was my honorary seat, the glass of whiskey untouched.
“Mind if I join you?” I slid a pile of cards my way, and then took a sip of my whiskey. It was in my honor, after all. I set the cards face down, looking Arturo in the eyes. “Seems like I got dealt a shitty hand. I demand a do over.”
His shoulder holster held two guns, and even though he itched to use them, he waited me out. This was too good for even him to pass up. After all, what did he have to be afraid of? A ghost with a gun? A man who was outnumbered three to one?
That’s right, my butterfly. The devil comes in threes.
“Walk away now.” He rolled his teeth over his bottom lip. “And I’ll let you live.”
I leaned forward, taking more cards from the pile. I slid the shitty hand toward him. “Let me live?” I grinned. “After you were so kind to slit my throat and let me die like an animal, alone and out on the cold cement, right next to the trash.”
“You double-crossed me. No one double-crosses me and lives to tell about it.”
“Ah. But I did.” My throat tightened and my voice came out sharp and rough. Scar tissue sometimes made my voice do funny things. “I’m telling about it.” I waved a hand, taking out a card and replacing it with another in the pile. “That’s all old news. It’s time to put an old ghost to rest.”
“What do you want, Vittorio?”
“What do I want?” I mused. “You tell me.”
He looked around the room. “You’ve succeeded in killing most of our heirs. I know now, for sure, that you’ve been making war between the other families and ours. You set the Irish on us, too. You’ve been stealing from us. You’ve gotten your revenge. What else do you want?”
“You,” I said, “in the Hudson. Your feet weighed down with concrete. The Joker right beside you. The Scarpones to be wiped clean from this earth. And I’m sure you’re curious to know why I want you and your joker of a son at the bottom of the Hudson when next to the dumpster will do. There’s trash on this earth, and then there’s trash that needs to be buried below its surface.”
He stood, towering over me. Looking down on me. Old times. Except in this moment, he was older. His black hair had turned grey around the sides. His face was weathered. His nose was bigger. His shoulders had started to sag with the burden of carrying life around for however many years he’d been on this earth. Time moves on, and it shows on the body, but some people never outgrow their roles.
Finally, I met his eyes again. When I was ready.
“Why did you disobey me, Vittorio? Why did you choose Palermo’s kid over your own father? He tried to kill me! He was going to slit my throat! You had orders!”
“Your orders meant nothing in the face of an innocent child.”
“Innocent child?” he breathed out. “She’s the spawn of Lucifer!”
“No. I’m the spawn of the devil. How old was I when I first took a man’s life at your order? When I made my bones. Fifteen? Sixteen?” I pulled the cards closer to me, tapping my finger on the top. One. Two. Three times. “Have you ever watched a child color? Or listened to the way the word ‘blue’ comes out as ‘boo’? Or watched as she rubbed a rosary raw because she was so afraid? Afraid of every noise. Every shadow.”
He was quiet for a stretch of time. I heard footsteps drawing nearer, and Achille started to say something as he entered the room, but he stopped when he noticed me sitting there. I heard the hammer of his gun click back, but Arturo raised a hand to stop him from using it. Achille always drew first and didn’t worry about the fallout later.
He killed the wrong guy? Oh fucking well. That’s life.
Arturo knew the kind of man Achille was. That was why he called him The Joker. Achille was a simple foot solider who didn’t have the ability to think on his own. He had to be led. Showed. Ordered. Ruthless bones were needed to live in this world, which he had, to his core, but a strategic brain was even more important.
Violence was less than half of the battle. Strategy trumped bloodshed. If your mind was screwed on right, the bloodshed of your men could be kept to a minimum, while your adversaries took the hit.
Arturo knew this, as well, but there were more factors at play. He had me killed because I didn’t kill Palermo’s daughter. But he also had me murdered because he knew I beat him in all the ways that counted in his game. I took him move for fucking move, day after day, year after year. Patience and strategy were two of my greatest strengths.
Checkmate.
When the time was right for me, I looked over at the three of them.
Arturo’s mouth morphed slowly into a grin, and then the grin grew into a smile, and then he started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he howled. The two men next to him looked between us, not sure what the fuck was going on.
After Arturo’s humor died down, he wiped his eyes, sighing. “You felt sorry for Palermo’s kid. Something you never felt before. Before that little bitch cast her spell on you, you had no feelings. And now you’re in love with her.”
He looked at Achille. “Forget sending the dogs out on the bitch we met in Italy. I know who she is. Marietta Palermo. I should’ve known. That fucking nose. Even those witchy eyes. She looks like her whore of a mother.”
Achille smiled, but he still held his gun. “No shit?”
Vito, Achille’s son, looked me over. There was no smile on his face. Nothing showed in his eyes. He was already dead inside. I understood how he felt even before my death. Nothing could touch me. Nothing existed inside.
Marietta’s innocence had set me on a different path, but it took death’s kiss to make me feel alive. If the knife would’ve never touched my throat, I would’ve never been able to truly feel her love.
Love. There was a new fucking concept. It was the sorest spot I’d ever had, but at the same time, even without killing these three, I was an untouchable king.
What a trip.
Still. Back to the point.
I kicked the chair across from me, kicking off this meeting. Arturo sat first, followed by Achille. Vito stood the longest, but after his father told him to sit, he did. He watched me with a void in his eyes.
“I’m not going to sit here and play a fucking game with you, Vittorio.” Achille flung the cards at me. “You’ve been playing us all this time. Playing a fucking game as a ghost, not a man. How is that fair?”
I threw back my head and laughed. “How is that fair?”
In the span of four heartbeats, two chairs screeched, and all guns had been drawn. I was the quickest draw, and my gun was aimed at the old man’s head. Arturo, Achille, and his son had their guns aimed at me.
“It doesn’t matter if I die.” I raked my teeth over my bottom lip. “I’m already dead.”
“Marietta isn’t.” Arturo smiled. �
��Once you’re dead—no second chances this time, Vittorio—we’re going to find her and kill her. It won’t be an easy death.”
I grinned, but it was far from pleasant. “This time I don’t get a front row seat to watch?”
Achille grinned, his resemblance to the joker never so strong as when his lunacy turned up a notch. “You’ll get to watch, Pretty Boy Prince. This time, though, I’m the one who’ll be doing the fucking. I’ve seen your girl. Nice ass. Nice mouth, too.”
I had to keep my head on straight, keep my temper cool, or he had already won. “You didn’t find her before. You’ll never find her now.”
“We’ll find her,” Arturo said. “We know what she looks like now. We know her friends.”
“She’s under the Faustis’ protection. Kill me.” I shrugged. “She’ll still be safe.”
“You’re good at making deals with the devil, Vittorio. I’m sure that one will cost you your soul.”
“It cost me nothing, since I’m the spawn of the devil,” I said in Italian. The King and the Joker only had certain words. Both of them hated it when I spoke my mother’s language. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about Palermo.”
“What about Palermo?” Arturo’s thoughts worked behind his eyes. He was questioning everything he thought he knew about Corrado Palermo’s death. Was he still alive?
“Ask Achille,” I said.
“Achille. What is he talking about?”
Achille stared at me with such hatred that I was surprised the gun didn’t go off from his heat alone. “He’s talking nonsense, Pop. You going to listen to a cowardly ghost?”
None of them caught the slight movement I made, not until I slipped the paper from my pocket and set it on the table. A second later, Vito became a little too trigger-happy and pulled the trigger. The bullet grazed my arm, my coat taking the hit, and then stuck into the brick wall.
One thing about the whiz kid, he had terrible aim. There was a reason why Arturo kept him behind a computer screen. That was where he excelled in weaponry.
“What the fuck, Vito!” Achille slapped him so hard behind the head that the kid’s glasses slipped down his nose.
Machiavellian: Gangsters of New York, Book 1 Page 36
