Prayer (The Pagano Family Book 5)

by Susan Fanetti

  Angelo and Joey were the same age and had been close friends since grade school. Angelo had always talked a big cumpà game, the Tony Soprano of the schoolyard. Joe, with the real family cred and seeking a way to stand out from his siblings—that was John’s take, anyway—had fallen right in line with Angelo’s scheme to sign on with the Pagano Brothers. John was convinced to this day that Angelo had only been friends with goofball Joey because he saw him as his in with Ben Pagano.

  Now Joey was disabled, and Angelo was made.

  Joey’s problems weren’t all on the Pagano Brothers—Carlo’s crazy ex-wife had shot him—but he’d been there on Uncle Ben’s orders to keep watch over Sabina and Trey.

  Joey should never have been on the other side of the pews with the Uncles, and he never would have been if Angelo hadn’t ridden him over. John couldn’t stand this slick-haired bastard.

  So they didn’t talk much on the ride to Boston.

  ~oOo~

  Calhoun’s event was a reading at the central branch of the Boston Public Library. It was open to the public, so John had no trouble getting in. Angelo had dropped him off in front of the building and driven away to, John assumed, procure the taxi that was supposed to be at the nearest taxi stand.

  While Calhoun schmoozed, paying particular attention to a shapely brunette dressed in the kind of stylish ensemble women wore when they wanted to be both sexy and taken seriously, John found a place on the edge of the arranged seats, near the front row. He remained standing, so that Calhoun might see him from the podium quickly and clearly. And then he waited, thinking all the while of what he might say that would persuade a man who hated him to leave the protection of this public place and get into a cab with him.

  Calhoun noticed him almost immediately, and showed enough surprise that he stumbled over his remarks thanking the person who’d introduced him. John made every effort to put on the friendliest smile he could, and he offered what he hoped was a self-effacing shrug. It stung, but he did it.

  Calhoun read the same passage that he’d read at Cover to Cover way back in February. That must have been the section he liked best in the book. John hadn’t read the book, and never would, and he hadn’t paid close attention the first time, but that passage was good—though he would sooner have had his eyes boiled right in their sockets than admit it.

  John tried not to think what he would be leading Calhoun to. He didn’t really know, in fact. His death? Was Calhoun too famous to die? Probably not—he wasn’t exactly Stephen King or that guy who’d written The Da Vinci Code. He wrote the kind of books the literary snobs enjoyed. Most people probably had no clue who he was.

  Even if it wasn’t death Calhoun unknowingly faced, it was most certainly some kind of agony. John turned inward and considered how he felt about that. The guy was an asshole, no doubt. At best, he was selfish and arrogant. He’d hurt Katrynn. And he was colossally stupid for taking Nick on like this. He deserved some payback.

  But could John be a party to Nick’s brand of it?

  He had no doubt at all that if he refused to do this, Nick would kill him, cousin or not. He would be Don Pagano, acting in the service of his business, and he would set their familial relationship aside. Though nobody knew it, everybody knew that Nick had had their cousin Vince killed a couple of years before, when Vince’s gambling debts had pulled trouble into the Pagano Brothers’ way.

  So, yes. John could do this. He didn’t have a choice.

  Then it occurred to him that when Atticus Calhoun disappeared on this night, he would do so in John’s company.

  Jesus. They were in a room full of witnesses. He couldn’t just walk up to him and ask him to leave in full sight of a hundred or more people who would then see them leave together. Was Nick setting John up somehow, too? Why would he? Or was he banking on John’s squeaky-clean record to keep him protected? Or did he have some plan in place John didn’t know about?

  John stepped back and changed his plan. He had to think like a criminal.

  He had no idea how to do that.

  ~oOo~

  As it turned out, the new plan he’d come up with was irrelevant. Waiting for his chance to catch Calhoun in or near the men’s room, he came upon him, completely alone, in a nearly dark space of the main floor. Calhoun was on his phone, so John lurked in the shadows—he hoped—until he’d ended the call and was putting his phone in his pocket.

  He stepped nonchalantly—he hoped—into the room. “Hey, Atticus.” The asshole’s fake first name came out of John’s throat with barbs.

  Calhoun eyed him warily. “John Pagano. You here for a rematch?”

  “No, man. Just an apology. I was way out of line back in the Cove, and I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you were. Then you sicced your mob boss on me, too. Not cool.”

  Rather than respond directly to that, John shifted the subject. “I read your book. It’s beautiful. You’re brilliant. I’m sure you hear that a lot, but I just wanted to say it myself.”

  With a growing smirk—the arrogant warp that made John’s fist want to smash—Calhoun held out his hand. “Well, thanks, man.”

  John took the offered hand and shook it. “Hey, I’ve got questions about the story. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Look, if you’re making a pass—”

  Idiot. “No. I don’t turn that way. I’m just…well, trying my hand at writing. Be cool if I could bend your ear for a half-hour, maybe?”

  That god-awful expression took over Calhoun’s face, and John saw the victory the idiot thought he’d gained. He was loving this. He checked his watch. “I’m supposed to eat with some rich bitch, but I can be late. You know Boston? I could go for some local brew.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for this. Taxi stand’s on the side street—you want to go out that door there?” He pointed at an isolated exit, and just like that, Calhoun was following him out of the library, completely unseen. He didn’t even call any of his people to let them know.

  Arrogance was really stupidity dressed up in success.

  ~oOo~

  John didn’t know how he’d arranged it, but Angelo was driving the only taxi at what was normally one of the busier stands in the city. They got in, and John made up a name of a bar. Angelo nodded and pulled from the curb.

  Before Calhoun could start talking about a book John hadn’t read, John took control of the small talk, rambling about the craft beers at this make-believe bar they were headed to.

  Calhoun had no idea there was anything wrong until Angelo pulled into an alley and stopped the taxi. Then the poor clod looked out the window. “What the fuck, man?”

  John heard the click at the same time Calhoun did. They both turned to Angelo, who had a suppressed Beretta pointed at Calhoun’s face.

  The door on Calhoun’s side opened, and another of Nick’s men stood there. “Out, cowboy.”

  Atticus Calhoun turned to John, his face gone white and slack. “What did you do?”

  John said nothing. He didn’t know the answer.

  ~oOo~

  Not knowing what else to do, John followed Angelo and the others as they dragged Calhoun into a dark warehouse. He stayed quiet and didn’t fight; Angelo had that big gun pointed at his head. Down a long corridor they went, turning into a windowless interior room.

  Nick was there, as were J.J. and Sam. While the men took Calhoun across the room, Nick came up to John.

  “You did well.”

  “I don’t know if anybody saw us leave together.”

  “Not a problem. Everything’s handled.” With a nod of his head, Nick indicated a cheap vinyl loveseat in the far corner of the room. “Have a seat. I doubt this will take long.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Nick didn’t answer him.

  “Nick—I don’t want to watch this.”

  “Have a seat, John.”

  John sat.

  This room was strange—cement block walls, a concrete floor with a drain in the center, a metal table in one corner with a du
ffel bag on it, a few sturdy metal chairs, and this ugly loveseat. John could discern no purpose for the space, unless it was what they were here for.

  They were binding Calhoun to a metal chair. It didn’t move at all, and John wondered if it were bolted to the floor. They gagged him with a wad of cloth. Nick obviously had no need for Calhoun to talk.

  When he was fully locked down, all the men stepped away from him, and Nick shrugged out of his suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. He dragged another metal chair over—by the sound of it moving across the concrete, John could tell that it was quite heavy. Sitting backward on the chair, Nick faced his subject. Calhoun made a muffled noise like a strident grunt.

  “You and I had an arrangement, Arthur. One that was more beneficial to you than I would normally have allowed. Your part in that was to get the fuck out of my sight and stay out. And yet”—he snapped his fingers, and Angelo brought him the offending magazine—“I find this. I’m puzzled. I read people well, and I knew you were a conceited piece of shit, but I wouldn’t have said you were stupid. Deluded, yes, but not stupid. But this, Arthur, is rank stupidity. Did you think a bunch of dumb guineas wouldn’t read this magazine? Did you think you could shit on me and I wouldn’t smell it?”

  Calhoun had started shaking his head frantically when the magazine came out. His long hair was flying around, strands sticking to his sweaty, crimson face. Again, he tried to talk through the gag and, of course, failed.

  “I don’t need answers, Arthur. The answers are irrelevant. I need justice. You’ve proven that you can’t be trusted to uphold a deal, so I need a permanent kind of justice.”

  At that, Calhoun screamed. Even through the gag, the sound filled the room and racked John’s head.

  And then Calhoun soiled himself, bladder and bowels releasing in tandem. The wet sound and stink filled the room.

  God. He was party to a murder. He closed his eyes and prayed. Hail Mary, full of grace,

  the Lord is with Thee…

  Unable to think about anything but what was happening, he lost the prayer and focused again on Nick, who was telling Calhoun, “I’ve learned that you have a little blow habit, Arthur. Is that where all this literary genius and fatheaded idiocy comes from? A snoot full of powder? Maybe so. Maybe I’m too much of a lout to know for sure. It’s where it ends, I can tell you that. I’m not only taking your life, my friend. I want your legacy, too. You tried to fuck with mine? Let me show you how it’s done. Here’s your final chapter, Arthur: Your head full of blow, your designer cowboy jeans around your ankles, a pretty glass dildo up your ass, and—this is my favorite part—a battered woman. You’re the literary genius, of course, but I believe that’s called poetic justice.”

  Calhoun screamed again.

  John stood up. No way was Nick planning to hurt a woman. He couldn’t believe that could be true. “Nick!”

  Standing, Nick ignored him and turned to Angelo. “Get him started on the blow here. You and Frank do the rest at the hotel. Marlon is waiting with her.”

  Angelo nodded and went to the duffel. From it he pulled an innocuous white bottle, like nasal spray. He went to the still-screaming Calhoun and, while Frank held his head, shoved the bottle into Calhoun’s nostril and squeezed. Then he did the other one.

  The effect of the cocaine was immediate. Calhoun stopped fighting, stopped screaming, and went stock-still, his eyes rolling up in his head. After a few seconds, a thin trickle of blood oozed from his left nostril.

  “Shit’s pure, don,” Angelo said. “He’s going over big time.”

  “I want him dying in that hotel room, not here. So get moving, and get it done, and do it clean.” As Angelo nodded and turned to get to work, Nick grabbed him back. “Go as easy on her as you can. Her take is heavy—that’s intentional. Every penny is for her.”

  J.J. spoke up. “My guys don’t need that reminder, don. They won’t even open her bag.”

  “Good. Get it done, and call me when it is.”

  While Nick’s men unbound Calhoun and dragged him from the room, John, sitting again on the loveseat in the corner, ignored and in shock, feeling sick and desperate, tried to pray again, this time an Act of Contrition. Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins…

  He stopped. The words meant nothing. In this room, in these events, there was no meaning.

  When it was only Nick, John, and Sam in the room, Nick dragged his metal chair over and sat facing John the way he’d sat facing Calhoun. “Sam, give us a minute.”

  “Right outside, don.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sam went out and closed the door, and then it was only the two cousins. John grabbed his knees to keep his hands from shaking. “Why did I have to see that? Why did I have to be part of it?”

  “You owed me. Only you could have gotten him out of that library alone. You or Katrynn, and I wouldn’t ask that of her. Would you have wanted me to?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not. Here’s why you had to see it: Trey came to my office last week. Rode his bike over after school, walked up to the reception desk and asked to see Don Pagano. He wanted to know how to be made.”

  John gave up his sick shock at the events of the night for a new, electric kind of shock. “Please?”

  Nick nodded. “I know how your father feels about my business. I know how Trey’s father feels about my business. How you feel about it. I know it, and I understand it. But as our sides of the family have gotten closer, maybe our children don’t understand it. I don’t want to lose the way things are now among us all. Beverly and our children love their family. I love my family. But if Trey wants to be made, that’s going to create a schism somewhere, now or later.”

  “You could just tell him no.”

  That earned John a humorless smile. “Do you know why Uncle Ben didn’t tell Joey no? Because Joey was a grown man and a Pagano. He made his choice, and Ben accepted it. I wouldn’t have done the same, but not because of how your father feels. I wouldn’t have signed Joey on because I could see that he didn’t have it in him. Ben thought he could be shaped, but he was wrong. Joey wasn’t serious enough for what we do. But Trey is not Joey. Trey is sharp, and he’s thoughtful. If he comes to me as a man, I’ll make that call between him and me and no one else. I told him as much last week. If you want him to stay away from the Pagano Brothers, then figure out now why he’s leaning toward my side and turn him in another direction.”

  “I’m not Trey’s father. Why tell me?” Carlo was the one who should know. If Nick wasn’t going to tell Trey’s father, then John would have to.

  “Because you owed me. You’re the one I could show this to, and I know Trey talks to you.”

  It finally dawned on John that Nick was using the past tense. “Owed? Am I clear?”

  “You’re clear.” He stood. “Let’s go home. My boys have the rest of the night handled.”

  John stood, too, feeling a strong and guilty sense of relief. Then he remembered one especially striking fact amongst the riot of facts in his head. “You’re not really going to hurt a woman in this, are you?”

  Nick sighed. “I don’t want that bag of rancid piss getting famous posthumously. Read that fucking story and see how he shat all over me, all over our whole family. I want his reputation destroyed. You know that he likes leaving women bruised up. So a friend of the family has agreed to be very well compensated to take a couple of carefully placed punches and to be choked to the point of bruising.”

  “You’re hurting a woman for this.”

  “Let’s go home, John. Your debt is paid, and your part in my business is over.” Nick left the room, not waiting for a response.

  John followed. He damn sure didn’t want to get left behind.

  ~oOo~

  On the ride back to the Cove, leaning in the corner of the back seat of Nick’s SUV, letting his mind churn over the events of the day, from Ren’s baptism and Katrynn’s talk of conversion, to
his desperate, fruitless prayers in that bleak Boston warehouse, a point of fact occurred to John, and he had to force his body not to react and draw the attention of the mobsters in the front seat.

  Katrynn had that damn issue of The New Yorker. He’d seen it next to her bed. She went through those fuckers cover to cover.

  She had read that story. She had known about it.

  She had known, and she had said nothing.