SUSAN FANETTI
THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS
Hidden Worthiness © 2018 Susan Fanetti
All rights reserved
Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI
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~ Epilogue ~
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI
The Pagano Brothers:
Simple Faith, Book 1
The Pagano Family:
Footsteps, Book 1
Touch, Book 2
Rooted, Book 3
Deep, Book 4
Prayer, Book 5
Miracle, Book 6
The Pagano Family: The Complete Series
Sawtooth Mountains Stories:
Somewhere
Someday
The Northwomen Sagas:
God’s Eye
Heart’s Ease
Soul’s Fire
Father’s Sun
Historical Standalone:
Nothing on Earth & Nothing in Heaven
As S.E. Fanetti:
Aurora Terminus
The Brazen Bulls MC:
Crash, Book 1
Twist, Book 2
Slam, Book 3
Blaze, Book 4
Honor, Book 5
Fight, Book 6
Stand, Book 7
Light, Book 7.5
THE NIGHT HORDE MC SAGA:
The Signal Bend Series:
(The First Series)
Move the Sun, Book 1
Behold the Stars, Book 2
Into the Storm, Book 3
Alone on Earth, Book 4
In Dark Woods, Book 4.5
All the Sky, Book 5
Show the Fire, Book 6
Leave a Trail, Book 7
The Night Horde SoCal:
(The Second Series)
Strength & Courage, Book 1
Shadow & Soul, Book 2
Today & Tomorrow, Book 2.5
Fire & Dark, Book 3
Dream & Dare, Book 3.5
Knife & Flesh, Book 4
Rest & Trust, Book 5
Calm & Storm, Book 6
Nolan: Return to Signal Bend
Love & Friendship
You are worthy.
And it is very much lamented ...
That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
That you might see your shadow.
~ William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Act I, Scene 2, lines 55-58
~ 1 ~
Donnie Goretti pulled his Porsche Cayman onto the Pagano Brothers Shipping lot and parked in his usual place. The mid-week summer evening had aged into night, and the lot was nearly empty. But not as empty as it should have been. As he cut the engine, Chubs Falcone, one of their associates, ran up and opened his door, pulling it wide. The fish-tinged aroma of Quiet Cove Harbor hovered low on the muggy air.
“Boss.”
“Chubs.” Donnie stood and watched as the kid closed the door with a careful, solid thunk. “Where?”
Chubs swallowed and gestured toward the harbor side of the lot and building. “Along the side. Under the don’s windows.”
With a nod, Donnie headed in that direction, letting the associate trot to keep up. Before they crossed the lot, a bright flash of headlights and the distinctive roar of a muscle car announced Angie Corti’s arrival. Donnie stopped and waited. Chubs ran over to the parked Hellcat and opened Angie’s door, too.
Angie had clearly been home for the night; he got out of the car in jeans and a t-shirt. Under normal circumstances, the top echelons of the Pagano Brothers, chief officers and capos, always worked in suits. But this was not a normal circumstance. Donnie was still in his suit only because he’d been at Dominic’s for dinner when Chubs had called.
He said something to Chubs and then slapped the kid on the side of the head, hard enough to make him stumble sidelong and barely catch himself before he landed on his ample ass. Donnie didn’t need to be in earshot to know what had provoked the strike—Angie was head of security and enforcement; Chubs should have called him first. Instead, he’d jumped over Angie and called Donnie directly. No mere associate should have presumed to make a direct connection with the underboss of the Pagano Brothers, much less leave the underboss to share the information downstream. He shouldn’t have even had Donnie’s number.
Had he called with anything less important than the information he’d had, Donnie would have hung up on him. But he’d had something extremely important to say.
With long strides, Angie met Donnie in the middle of the parking lot, leaving Chubs to trot to catch up again.
“Boss,” Angie said with a nod. “You seen it yet?”
Donnie shook his head. “Just got here. Let’s go.”
Angie snatched the Maglite from Chubs. They walked side by each to the harbor side of the Pagano Brothers Shipping building, leaving Chubs to pant behind them.
This side of the building had something of a view—the moored ships, the harbor waters, the Atlantic Ocean beyond. There were floor-to-ceiling windows along the front third of the building, where the executive offices were located, making use of the light and the view, but they were made of bulletproof glass. The Pagano Brothers were more than a shipping company, and its officers needed security more than they needed a walk along the harbor.
There was no true access point to this side of the building. No path, no doors, no patios off the offices. Only a stretch of grassy berm. Normally, no one trod on this grass but the landscapers.
Tonight, Donnie, Angie, and Chubs walked along the top of the berm. Angie, always the watchdog, pushed out ahead, and Donnie let him do it, but there was no need. The violence had already been done here, and, for this night, in this place, the danger was over.
As they came up on the windows to the don’s office, Angie stopped short. “Motherfuckers,” he breathed. “Fuck, boss, that’s Bobbo.”
Donnie stepped around Angie. Lying on the berm were three bodies, carefully arranged in a row, head to foot, face down. The nearest body was unusually wide, straining the seams of its inexpensive suit. Like Angie, Donnie could tell at once that it was Bobbo Mondadori, and not only because of the rotund shape. It was the bright, striped socks inside the unremarkable leather loafers. Even in the oddly tinting glare of the flashlight, those socks stood out.
Bobbo was an OG
enforcer who’d been made way back in the Ben Pagano era. He wasn’t smart enough to rise above the rank of soldier, but he was loyal as fuck, tough as old leather, and hard as steel. A truly old-school Mafioso. Donnie and Angie had both learned the ropes at his wide side.
Donnie stared at what was left of Bobbo Mondadori, who had been their oldest, longest-serving man. His eyes fixed on those ridiculous socks, and a cascade of memories rushed over his mind—all the times he’d leaned over his considerable girth to yank up a pant leg and show off a new pair of absurdly bright and patterned socks. All the ribbing he’d taken with a grin and a fat finger.
“What—fuck!” Angie snarled, and Donnie’s attention focused back on the present. Angie had shifted the beam of the flashlight so that it illuminated Bobbo’s full body.
He’d been shot in the back of the head, of course. But arrayed across his back were five pieces of his body—eyes, ears, and tongue—laid out so they made a grotesquerie of a face.
“Minchia!”
Donnie snatched the light from Angie’s hand and pointed it farther up the berm. Two more bodies, face down, their same parts making horrid masks on their backs.
Using his phone, Donnie took a photo of the row of bodies, and another of Bobbo alone. “Who? Chubs, talk.”
The associate scrambled closer. “I came for my shift. I was ... I was—” He cut off, and Angie wheeled on him, grabbing his shirt in an angry fist.
“You were late, you piece of shit. You were late!”
Donnie turned and studied the scared kid. Late was bad, it was unacceptable, but being on time would have put four bodies here, most likely—four bodies at the beginning of a security shift, left for hours to be found in broad daylight. Whoever had done this had known just when to strike.
Whoever—right. He knew. There had been rumblings lately about the return of the Bondaruk bratva to the States. The bodies arranged so artfully were obviously meant as the announcement of their return. And their declaration of war.
“I was late, yeah. I’m sorry! When I got here, I couldn’t find nobody. The cars were—but they—I looked around and found—I’m sorry!”
Angie slapped him again, and the kid’s knees buckled.
“Who?” Donnie asked again.
Angie answered. “It was Bobbo and Mike on first, then Lenny was on with Chubs.” He pointed along the berm. “That’s Lenny, then Mike. Fuck.”
There were three Mikes in the Pagano Brothers, and two of them were enforcers, but Donnie recognized the body as Mike Caputo—a compactly built gym rat. Who’d gotten married three weeks ago.
Donnie crouched beside Bobbo’s body. “They were dead when they cut them,” he mused, staring again at Bobbo’s eyes, ears, tongue. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. “Almost no blood, even from the tongue.”
He took out a neatly folded handkerchief and opened it over the dead back. Then he picked up each piece—the fleshy ears, the eyes still dangling their stems, the tongue, so much longer than people imagined—and set each one on the crisp white linen. Then he folded it carefully around the pieces and held the bundle up. When Angie took it, Chubs folded over and puked onto the grass.
“I am gonna turn your face inside out if you don’t find your balls, kid,” Angie snarled. He tossed his keys, and they landed behind Chubs’ feet. “My trunk. There’s a black case. Bring it.”
As Chubs grabbed the keys and ran back to the lot, Angie went to the next body—Lenny’s. He set the bundle gently on the grass and took out his own handkerchief.
Giving Bobbo’s body all the respect it was due, Donnie turned the heavy head so it lay on one earless side. He looked into empty sockets. Little blood there, and no more than a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
They weren’t tortured. They were killed and desecrated, then left in a line exactly even with the span of the don’s office windows. Not a quest for information. Simply a message: We are here, and you are vulnerable.
God, Sherrie—Bobbo’s wife. Their kids were grown and strewn all over the country. She was alone here.
No, she wasn’t.
The wobbling rumble of Chubs running back with the black case seemed to shake the ground. Donnie looked to Angie in the dark. “You got this? I gotta get to Nick.”
“Yeah, ‘course. Call in help or keep it quiet?”
“If you can handle this on your own, keep it quiet. Nick’ll want to see the bodies, but he should decide how the men are told.”
“I’ll put them on ice across the harbor and wait for the call.”
Chubs came up with the box, and Angie took it. A smallish art supply case, with trays separated into compartments. Donnie had seen him use this box and others like it to hold similar items when those items were meant for messages from the Paganos. Tonight, they would hold Paganos themselves.
“You will hold your tongue, Chubs,” Donnie said, standing up. “You spread this news before the don has it, and I won’t kill you before I take it out of your mouth. Capisci?
Bathed now in sweat, and panting from his run, Chubs nodded. “Yeah, boss. My mouth is shut.”
Leaving Angie and Chubs, with a last look at their fallen soldiers, Donnie walked down the berm to the parking lot.
~oOo~
The wide blue door swung open, and a pretty little imp grinned up. “Hi, Uncle Donnie!” The big, soft body of a Golden Retriever pushed past her hip and onto the porch, tail wagging.
Well practiced in compartmentalizing his emotions and his activities, Donnie grinned back at Nick’s youngest daughter, Carina. “Hi, sweet girl! What are you doin’ up on a school night? And hey there, Snuggles.” He ruffled the dog’s ears as they stepped into the foyer.
Carina rolled her eyes, and Donnie saw the teenager the little girl had become only weeks before. “It’s summer for another week, duh.”
“Cara, watch your tone.” Nick came into the foyer. He had a kitchen towel over his shoulder, and his hands were lightly dusted with flour. “Hi, Donnie.”
“Nick. Sorry to intrude on your night.”
Nick knew to expect him, but he kept his business and his family as separate as humanly possible. He hated to do any business at all in his home, but tonight there was no other choice. Bev, his wife, was out of town with their two oldest girls, a week touring colleges. It was too late for their housekeeper, so Nick was alone with their two youngest, Carina, just thirteen, and Ren, who would be twelve in a matter of days. Both were unruly ruffians and couldn’t be trusted on their own.
So Nick had left Donnie to handle the scene tonight, and called him here to report and discuss.
“No intrusion. You can join us.”
“You have good timing, Uncle—we’re making pizzas! Come on, you can grate cheese.”
As Carina and the dog headed to the kitchen, Carina moving her hips like she’d just discovered she had them, Nick’s expression darkened. “Tell me.”
Donnie knew to be short and sweet now; they’d talk in more depth when the kids were in their beds for the night. “Bobbo, Lenny, and Mike Caputo.” He tapped his ears, eyes, and the tip of his tongue. “Message.”
Nick’s eyes were fiercely green and seemed to get brighter with anger. Now they were beams of laser heat. “Bobbo. Fuck.”
“Yeah.” To lose three men was a bad blow, but to lose a beloved old warhorse like Bobbo was a grief.
“Angie’s on it?”
“Yeah. He’s keeping it quiet. They’ll be ready for you to see in the morning.”
Nick looked down at his floury hands. “We’ll talk. For now, family.” His expression eased, and he was again a relaxed father making a late dinner with his children.
Donnie followed suit, and smiled as he nodded at his friend’s hands. “Pizza? You?”
“Carina. She gave me the job of rolling out the dough.”
~oOo~
Of Nick’s four children, Carina had the biggest personality. Elisa, the eldest, was serious and quiet. Lia, next in line, was dramatic—one migh
t say melodramatic—and creative. Ren, the youngest and their only son, was more or less a typical pre-teen boy, a little sullen and antisocial, more interested in games and comics than anything else, but he was barely more than a year younger than Carina and easily drawn into her schemes.
Carina—oh, Donnie loved this girl. He loved all Nick and Bev’s kids, but Carina was something else. She could be an absolute pain in the ass and was even sometimes a little mean—or, really, just thoughtless, not malicious—but he loved the way she took the whole world on as a challenge to be conquered. If she wanted it, she went for it, and it didn’t occur to her that she couldn’t—or shouldn’t. To Carina Pagano, the word ‘no’ was a dare.
Donnie hadn’t been anything like her as a kid—he’d been more like Ren—and he’d been witness to Nick and Bev’s struggles to keep her safe and corralled, so he didn’t think he’d want to parent her, but damn, he loved to stand on her sidelines. She was going to be something else when she grew up.
Donnie had a child of his own, a son. Thomas was grown now, twenty-three years old, and Donnie had supported him well throughout his childhood, but they hadn’t had a relationship since he was in diapers.
He’d never been married to Thomas’s mother, or even especially committed. The pregnancy had been an accident, and neither of them really wanted to make a family together, though they’d tried for a while. She’d hated the Pagano Brothers, and she’d made visitation difficult from the moment they’d split up.
He could have threatened her, forced her, but it sat wrong on his conscience to threaten the mother of his child. At the time, when he was new to the organization and dealing with a lot of hard consequences for his decision to join, he halfway agreed that his kid was better off without him.
He hadn’t seen his son since the first time Thomas had seen Donnie’s newly scarred face. He’d been three years old then. He’d screamed hysterically and hadn’t stopped until his mother scooped him up and hurried him from the room.
One of the worst days of his life—right up there with the day his head had been forced down onto a hot commercial grill until most of his skin and tissue had been burned off.
Donnie had stopped fighting Thomas’s mom for access to his son on that day, and Lissie had moved out of New England not long after. He had no idea what Thomas had been like as a kid.
Hidden Worthiness Page 1
