Farrell shook his head, his eyes still on the picture of the young woman. “Fuck me.”
1
Aria Fiore looked up, her eyes on the bank of clouds that had been hovering over the city for most of the day. The rain would be good for the garden, but she was glad it had held off while she’d turned the soil, laying newspaper over the beds in preparation for winter.
She looked around with a sense of loss. The community garden was the closest thing she had to home. There was something beautiful about the oasis in the middle of the city, the riot of green bordered on all sides by the crumbling buildings of old Manhattan. Here it was almost possible to believe she was alone in the world, the city long gone, nature reclaiming its territory.
Her heart was always heavy in the fall when they put everything to bed, when she had to acknowledge the long months ahead with nothing to distract from her brother’s declining mental health, the tightrope she walked between him and Malcolm Gatti, the daily effort required to keep Malcolm from using her brother for increasingly nefarious purposes. Sometimes she even came in the dead of winter, climbed through one of the holes in the chain-link to wander the garden, trying to imagine it in spring when they would plant, in the summer when local children would visit as part of their camp programs. She loved teaching kids about the garden. Loved seeing their faces light up when they realized they could pluck something off the vine and eat it right there.
She sat back on her heels, tipped her face as the first drop of rain fell from the sky. She gave herself a few seconds to enjoy it: the smell of the city underneath the scent of soil and decaying plant matter, the breeze caressing her face, the brief moment of peace.
Then she picked up the tools and stood to brush the dirt from her track pants.
Picking her way around the beds, she lifted an arm in greeting to Mary O’Rourke, a yellow rain poncho covering her gray hair as she finished the beds across the lot. Mary worked the garden nearly as often as Aria. This in spite of the woman’s ever-present walker and the stool she required to get close to the dirt. Aria could only hope she was as persistent when time and bodily deterioration conspired to keep her from the dirt.
She picked up the pace as she made her way to the shed. Mary’s walker sometimes got stuck in the dirt, and Aria wanted to be there to help her make it to the sidewalk where she waited for her ride.
It took less than five minutes to wipe down the tools and return them to their designated spots. When she was done, she slipped on her windbreaker and stepped out of the shed.
The rain was coming down in sheets, and she lifted the hood on her jacket and trotted across the garden toward Mary’s yellow-clad figure, moving slowly toward the garden’s entrance. She was still a long way from the street when Aria finally reached her.
“This is just depressing!” Aria said over the rain. “Let me help.”
“And here I was convincing myself we had a few more weeks before the bad weather set in,” Mary said.
Mary took her extended arm, and Aria picked up the walker with her free hand. She wasn’t surprised to see Mary smiling in spite of the weather and her predicament. It was something Aria remembered when her own life got to be too much. You could either smile or cry when things got difficult. Neither changed anything, but smiling usually felt better. Sometimes the strategy was more successful than others.
“Maybe it’s a fluke,” Aria said hopefully.
“Oh, dear!” Mary said. “You have been bit by the gardening bug, haven’t you?”
Aria laughed. “Guilty as charged.”
They reached the sidewalk and Aria set Mary’s walker onto the concrete and helped her grab hold of it again.
“Where’s your ride?” Aria asked.
“My grandson will be here any minute,” Mary said.
“I’ll wait with you.”
“Nonsense!” Mary said. “This rain is atrocious. Go home and get warm.”
“I don’t mind the rain actually. Other than the gardening thing, I mean.”
It was a lie. Rain only mirrored the storm that seemed to rage constantly inside her. When it was gray outside, there was no refuge from her turmoil.
Mary glanced at her sideways. “You’re not a very good liar, you know.”
“I’m not lying!” Aria protested. “It’s not so bad when it’s not cold.”
“Well, you can be on your way,” Mary said, her eyes on the street. “My grandson is here.”
Aria looked up to see a silver BMW pull next to the curb. A tall figure jumped from the driver’s seat almost before the car had stopped all the way. A moment later a good-looking, dark-haired man hurried to the curb.
“Why are you waiting out here, Gram?” He hurried toward Mary and extended his arm. “It’s pouring.”
“Yes, dear, I’m still quite capable of observing the weather. But Aria was telling me the rain isn’t so bad. I was testing her theory,” she said, winking at Aria.
Aria extended her hand. “I’m afraid I’m the guilty party. Aria Fiore.”
He seemed to really see her for the first time, his face lighting up as he found her eyes under the hood of her jacket. “Theo O’Rourke. Thank you for waiting with Gram.”
“It’s always my pleasure to spend time with Mary,” Aria said.
“Well, let me give you a lift home,” Theo said to her as he helped Mary into the car.
“Yes, it’s the least he can do,” Mary said.
Aria was already edging away from him. “Thank you, but I think I’ll walk.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mary said from the passenger seat. “Get in before you float away.”
Aria lifted a hand. “See you next time, Mary.”
She turned away and started down the street, passing the entrance to the subway, the rain a rhythmic patter against the hood of her jacket. She was in the mood to walk in spite of the weather.
Wiping Theo’s face from her memory was automatic. The interest on his face wasn’t something she could afford to entertain, although it wasn’t unfamiliar. She knew she wasn’t beautiful. Her features were too small for that — almost elfin — her lips too full for the fragility of her face, her nose a bit too aquiline. Her hair was dark and sometimes — like now — tinted with a deep burgundy wash.
In other words, nothing remotely special.
But it wasn’t uncommon for men to do a double take when passing her on the street, for women to stare a beat too long. She could only assume she was what some people called striking, that she had one of those faces people described as interesting.
In any case, word choice was irrelevant. It was attention she didn’t want or need. She’d survived as long as she had thanks to two things: Primo taking responsibility for her after their parent’s death, and her ability to stay in the shadows of her brother’s criminal enterprise. Her strategy was simple: keep to herself whenever possible, mind her own business, try to steer Primo away from Malcolm Gatti’s more radical — and dangerous — ideas. It wasn’t sustainable long-term, but she was still working on an exit strategy.
For her and for Primo.
It would be easier to leave on her own. Just pack a bag and never look back. But there was no way she could leave Primo behind. She’d been sixteen when their parents died, and Primo had been all of twenty. If he hadn’t stepped up to take care of her, she would have ended up in foster care. Who knew where she’d be right now if not for him?
The rain fell harder and heavier as she made her way downtown. By the time she reached the brick storefront with the purple light advertising PLATINUM, she was soaked in spite of her windbreaker. She hesitated outside the door, wondering if her brother was alone, then shivered when she imagined him inside with Malcolm. He was ever-present, a ticking bomb under the fragile peace she was able to strike with her brother when left to their own devices.
She’d spent countless sleepless nights trying to figure out how to wrench Primo free of Malcom’s grasp, but in the
end it didn’t matter; Primo was right where his deluded mind wanted him to be, and Aria was along for the ride. It wasn’t what she wanted to be doing at twenty-four years old, but it was where fate had put her. She’d survived this long. She would just have to play the game until an opportunity arose for escape.
The thought gave her a renewed burst of determination, and she took a deep breath, opened the door of the club, and started down the narrow stairs.
2
Damian Cavallo had almost cleared the lobby of his Tribeca office when a voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Mr. Cavallo! Wait!”
He turned to find his assistant, Amanda Sherman, hurrying toward him with a folder in her hands. She was young and beautiful with lively eyes and curves in all the right places. She was also his employee, a boundary he would never cross. Relative strangers were a far safer choice, and the city was full of women happy to oblige him when the need arose.
“I’m sorry to catch you on your way out,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see this.”
He took the folder and flipped it open. The financial report was short. It took him less than a minute to see the problem. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Would you like me to print a check?” she asked. “I could have it sent by messenger.”
“No, thank you.” He headed for the elevator. “Goodnight, Miss Sherman.”
“Mr. Cavallo?”
He turned wearily to face her. “Yes, Miss Sherman?”
Her porcelain skin turned pink at the cheeks. “I… I just wanted to say I think it’s wonderful what you do for them. I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but it’s just so generous and — ”
He cut her off. “We’re a charitable foundation Miss Sherman. It’s what we do.”
He hurried for the elevator, anxious to draw the interaction to a close. He didn’t want to make small talk, didn’t want to demonstrate careful modesty or see the embarrassment on her face when she realized she’d spoken out of turn. It wasn’t her fault. Although she was only a few years younger than him, she belonged to a new group of young people to which he didn’t relate. They shared everything, not only with each other but with perfect strangers.
He, on the other hand, shared nothing with no one.
He gazed dispassionately at his reflection in the mirrored interior of the elevator. He was passably good looking. Tall and broad shouldered, all his features in the right place, a full head of dark hair. He could satisfy someone like Amanda Sherman. Could eventually marry a woman like her, have children.
The idea didn’t appeal to him at all.
Better to seek release in that other hallmark of his generation: the hookup. No commitment, no expectation. Even better, first names often sufficed, allowing him to be just another horny bachelor instead of heir to the Cavallo Financial empire and its corresponding charitable foundation. He would be a disappointment to women seeking something meaningful anyway. They would want things.
Normalcy. Comfort. Love.
All things he couldn’t deliver.
He looked up as the elevator continued past the floors holding the less legitimate aspects of his enterprise.
The data lab on the ninth floor where they ran background on corrupt politicians ripe for blackmail and hacked into the intellectual property of certain companies to earn an off-the-books check from their competitors.
The gym on the sixth floor where his men engaged in mandatory martial arts and MMA training.
The medical suites on the fifth floor used to treat men who had injuries that might lead to uncomfortable questions at a traditional hospital or clinic.
The security offices on the fourth floor that housed all the cameras monitoring the building inside and out from every angle, plus a weapons cache in a hidden vault.
It was a self-contained fortress disguised as a refurbished apartment building from the 1920s. The neighborhood had grown up around it — “gentrified” was the word — and the building now sat in the shadows of Tribeca’s modern skyscrapers.
It suited his purposes perfectly. By using the legitimate work of his late mother’s charitable foundation as a front for riskier forms of revenue, much of which was funneled into the foundation anyway, he was able to conduct Cavallo Foundation business and run the criminal empire that was making him even richer — all from the same location. It was a long way from the Financial District and the offices of Cavallo Financial, his dead father’s tribute to corruption in the name of capitalism.
Which was basically the point.
Damian’s position as CEO of the Foundation was the only thing he’d inherited that was of interest to him. In the five years since his mother died of cancer, he’d shuffled the Foundation’s portfolio, insuring that over half their beneficiaries were domestic violence programs and shelters, after-school programs for at-risk children, educational grants for single mothers, and substance abuse programs.
It wouldn’t change the life his mother had led before the death of his father — the wrath she’d endured on a daily basis, the front she’d had to maintain as the wife of Vincent Cavallo (everyone knew domestic violence didn’t happen to people like them), the bruises she’d hid with carefully applied layers of makeup.
But it was something.
His car was waiting out front per his request, and he hurried around to the driver’s side and slid into the soft leather seat. He tossed his briefcase next to him and started the car, then pulled out into traffic. Less than an hour later, he was pulling up to a brick building, intentionally unmarked to avoid the angry boyfriends and husbands — they were always boyfriends and husbands — who might show up demanding to see the women and children who had fled their abuse.
Damian’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought about it, and he forced himself to relax, to think about the people the foundation helped through contributions that paid the mortgage on the building, supplied food, promoted mentorships and job opportunities.
It was important work, and he’d been surprised by how gratified he felt by it. He was still a majority shareholder in the financial side of the business, but its connection to his father made it a hard pass in terms of his involvement. Vincent Cavallo had been a financial genius whose net worth was over a billion dollars by the time he was forty. He’d been on magazine covers, had been touted as an American success story.
It was all a lie.
Damian had been behind the curtain of the theater that was his father’s persona. Had seen the storm of his temper sweep through the big house outside the city, had been victim to it until his mother stepped in to protect him.
Or more accurately, until she stepped in to take the beatings for him.
Damian still hated himself for cowering in his bedroom, listening to the crash of furniture and glass, the sound of his mother whimpering. For years his bedtime ritual had been to promise revenge on his father when he grew big enough.
To step into the room and save his mother.
But his father had died when Damian was just ten years old, still years shy of the height and strength that would have enabled him to make good on his promise. It was a hard pill to swallow, but he and his mother had lived peacefully after that, finally able to speak and move and act without reprisal. The Cavallo Foundation had been her passion, and she’d spent hours poring over charitable organizations that needed money, carefully choosing those that spoke to her, asking Damian his thoughts as he’d grown older.
It had been a balm to their wounds, doing something good with all the money their father earned from behind his mask, and Damian had happily taken over the task after her death.
He grabbed his briefcase and locked the car, then headed up the concrete steps of the brick building. He pressed the buzzer and announced himself, and a moment later a beep sounded from inside the door to indicate it was unlocked.
The lobby was empty except for a boy. He was small and thin, half his body hidden by the door frame to one of the common rooms. He stared
at Damian with big brown eyes from a face with the soft cheeks of a toddler.
“Hello,” Damian said softly.
The boy darted up the stairs, leaving Damian alone in the foyer.
He wasn’t surprised. Most of the guests at the Franklin Street shelter were longtime victims of abuse. It was impossible not to see the ghosts in their eyes, and Damian always left hoping his weren’t as visible.
“Mr. Cavallo!” A small woman headed toward him. “I thought that was your car,” she said with a slight Jamaican accent.
“I hope it’s alright that I stopped by.”
He didn’t know why he’d come. He never knew why he came. It wasn’t about the money. He knew it was well spent. It had something to do with his strange affinity for the people here, people with whom he had more in common than anyone in the wealthy Tribeca neighborhoods where he lived and worked.
“Of course it’s all right,” she said. He tried not to cringe as she embraced him. Physical contact wasn’t his thing. “You are always welcome.”
“It looked like you’re having some trouble this month,” he said.
Her cheeks flushed. “We had a plumbing problem on the third floor. Leaked all the way through the ceilings down to the basement level.”
“Please don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve already transferred some money to the shelter’s account. I added a little extra too. It should be more than enough to cover the additional expense.”
She hugged him again. “You’re too good to us, Mr. Cavallo.”
He tried not to show his embarrassment. “It’s my pleasure. Is there anything else I can do?”
“You do plenty,” she said. “We always have more guests than we have room for, but we make it work. We’re a family, and families don’t mind living in tight quarters.”
They spent another fifteen minutes discussing additional improvements that would soon be needed on the old building plus a possible mentorship program with an up-and-coming tech company. Then Damian was submitting to a third hug and stepping back onto the street. He shut the door behind him and started down the stairs, his steps slowing as he spotted a wiry man pacing nearby, muttering to himself.
Fire with Fire (New York Syndicate Book 1) Page 2
