Now that the panic of figuring out where to go is over, I start focusing in on the people around me, the hurried conversations in Italian I can’t understand. I feel so out of place without any real luggage and no one to travel with. Apart from taking the subway in the city back home, I don’t usually take public transportation, and certainly not alone. I wish I knew what anyone was saying. It would feel much less isolating to know what was going on. I swear silently to myself that my baby will grow up speaking Italian and English if I have to hire someone to teach her.
Just as I’m getting lost in these thoughts, there’s a commotion down the platform and I idly look over to see a big, burly guy arguing with a much smaller woman. She’s gesticulating wildly, shouting in his face even as he towers over her with his hands balled into fists. It looks bad. Very bad. Like any second, true violence is going to erupt.
The train rolls up to the platform and I stand up to join the crowds ready to flood the train cars as soon as the doors open. But then I hear a scream and look over to see the big guy grabbing the young woman by her ponytail. I notice then that she has a baby bump that is much bigger than mine. And suddenly all I see is red.
Almost as though I have no control over my body, I start marching over to them, with no clue what the hell I’m going to do when I get there. By instinct, I catch a glimpse of an abandoned, broken umbrella lying under a bench. I snatch it up and walk up to the couple just as the big guy is winding his arm back to hit her in the face. My heart pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears, I swing the umbrella at full force, cracking the metal rod across the back of the guy’s head.
He lets out a bellow of pain and surprise and reflexively lets go of the pregnant girl. In an instant, I grab hold of her arm and yell, “Come on!”
The guy regains his sense and yells something most definitely vulgar in Italian and comes after us, but the girl and I manage to leap through the doors of the train just before they close. Shoving past confused, irritated passengers, I tug the girl along behind me through the train cars, trying to put as much distance between us and the doors as possible just in case her assailant managed to get in after us. But then I look to my left, out the window, and notice that the train is moving, leaving the station, and the big guy is still left on the platform. He’s running after the train like an idiot, shaking his fist and swearing.
But we’re safe inside, and I turn to the girl. She’s pale and shaken, her eyes round and huge as she mutters breathlessly, “Accidenti, lady!”
4
DON ABRUZZI
M y calm gaze rests on the Van Gogh painting hanging over the fireplace in my office as I listen to the soft sound of a pathetic excuse for a man sobbing in a chair behind me.
The painting is of a coastline, seen from the land, the perspective slightly raised up, as if the painter was standing on a hill. A small ship with a single rolled-up sail bobs in the water in the painting, and closer to the shore, a loose group of seven or so people stagger toward the sandy shoreline out of the water. Their faces are just blotches of color. The sky behind them is cloudy and gray, but there is light shining from behind the viewer, as if the shore is sunny.
Behind me, the man—as much as my mouth curls into a frown to call him that—blubbers a few words at me.
“Don Abruzzi, I...I don’t know what I can say. My son, he’s a good boy, he really is. He just lost his temper. He’s young, he’s hot-blooded, they’re all like that.”
“Your boy was rash,” I say calmly, my gaze not moving from the painting on the wall. I’m seated still as a statue in my grand leather chair. “He picked a fight with one of my soldiers.”
“He didn’t know, Don Abruzzi,” the man says, exasperated. “And he paid for it. Your man knocked out some of his teeth, he-”
“He’s lucky he wasn’t killed,” I say matter-of-factly, slowly rising to my feet and folding my hands as I turn to look at him. The man is thin and middle-aged with graying hair, his eyes rimmed with red.
What a pathetic husk of a man.
“He understands that,” the man says, nodding his head quickly. “Please, Don Abruzzi, I will take responsibility for anything we owe you because of this.”
“I know you will,” I say. “My soldier your boy fought with says it was over your daughter. I expect you’ll tell her to show a little more respect to my men as well.”
“Of course, I-”
“Moreover,” I interrupt him, gesturing for one of the guards in the room to pour me a glass of wine, “Since it seems your boy has enough money to piss away in the bars picking fights with dangerous men, I expect you can manage a fifty-percent increase in your monthly payments.”
His eyes go wide, and his face goes pale. “What? Don Abruzzi, please, I’ve just sold my car to make my back-payments already, and-”
“Your protection is clearly more expensive than we realized,” I continue, unfazed. “If your boy is so liable to get into trouble, it’s only fair to charge more.”
“Don Abruzzi, I won’t be able to stay in business if-”
I stop listening to the man’s squawling, and I glance to one of my guards. With the slightest nod of my head, two of them move toward the man and haul him to his feet. He continues to make any excuse he can come up with as my men drag him out of my office.
I glance at them going while I take a drink of the black wine offered to me.
Pathetic.
As he’s dragged out, my consigliere passes him on the way into my office. He takes his hat off to me out of respect, and I give him a nod to allow him inside.
“Come in, Enrico.”
Enrico enters, and my guards close the doors behind him while I invite him to have a seat and have them pour him some wine to join me.
“Him again?” Enrico asks with a wry smile, nodding back to the door where I can still faintly hear the man crying out pleas for mercy. “You’re a more patient man than me, Don Abruzzi.”
I give a soft smile, then look back up to my painting.
“You see the people in this painting, Enrico? Every time I deal with men like that blubbering idiot, I look at this painting. Lost, weary parasites staggering into our territory, wanting just a taste of all the riches we’ve built up for ourselves here in New York. You give them just a taste, and they want more and more until they’ve drained you of everything. Push them too far, and they turn violent. It’s all about knowing their breaking point—then you can keep them just where you want them. It’s only fair.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Enrico says with a broad smile, getting comfortable in his mahogany chair in what looks like a brand-new Armani suit.
We raise our wine glasses to one another. “Salute,” I toast before we take a drink and I sit back down behind my desk to face him. “Enough pleasantries, though. Tell me, have you found what I’ve asked for?”
Enrico takes a moment longer than usual to enjoy the taste of his wine, and I have my answer before he’s even spoken.
“We haven’t been able to find the De Laurentis girl, no.”
“Is she still in New York?”
“We should assume ‘no.’ Lomaglio still has close allies in the Costas, and they got her away from the car bomb fast.”
Now it’s my turn to give him an even, silent stare before I speak again. “You don’t sound optimistic about it, Enrico. Care to share your thoughts?”
Enrico clenches his jaw a moment, and I can feel his nervousness like a stink on him.
“The Lomaglio guy...Bruno. He isn’t-”
“Wasn’t,” I correct him.
“Wasn’t like the other Costas. He commanded their respect in a way the other capos can’t. That kind of loyalty extended to Serena De Laurentis. Bruno’s friends are going to make sure she’s far out of the way. They’ll know it’s no use stashing her in some safehouse around town.”
“And you don’t know how far they’ve taken her...why, exactly?”
“Her trail just vanishes, Don Abruzzi. Whoever got her away from t
he hit on Bruno did it fast and quiet, and nobody’s talking. We don’t have the means to-”
“Find the means, Enrico,” I say, letting the slightest impatient edge come to my voice. A calm demeanor means that it only takes a light touch to get my point across, when I want something done. I look him dead in the eye, my gaze steely. “I’m giving you freedom to use whatever funds necessary, and I want you to hire a professional to get this done. I want the De Laurentis line to end with that girl, and I want it to end sooner rather than later.”
“I understand, Don Abruzzi,” he says, bowing his head, but he hesitates a moment. “Finding someone for this job might be...costly. There is one more thing we’ve picked up on.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“There are rumors going around about an announcement she made before the hit. Serena De Laurentis might be pregnant.”
I don’t let any reaction cross my features. Inside, I feel frustration brewing up like a storm. Every day either Serena De Laurentis or Bruno Lomaglio is alive, it’s an insult to the Abruzzi name. It’s a testament to my own son’s murder and a challenge to my authority. But some bastard spawn of the two of them…?
“Very well then,” I say candidly. “Whoever you find can deal with the problem before she gives birth and it becomes two problems.”
Enrico stares at me a moment, and the look in his eyes makes me tempted to replace him. He still clings to useless, outdated values that do nothing but cripple you in this city. I set my wine glass down and fold my hands.
“Enrico, my friend,” I speak to him with the kindliness of a grandfather. “I shouldn’t have to remind you how this works, you know. Bruno Lomaglio is dead. We killed him. If the De Laurentis girl has a child, and that child is allowed to grow up, that’s one more rival, one more person who will grow up bloodthirsty for vendetta against us, against everything we’ve built.”
Enrico shifts ever so slightly in his chair, but he nods. I lean forward.
“Blood for blood. This is for Lorenzo, don’t forget that. And if this ‘pregnancy’ thing is a rumor, then let’s keep it as a rumor, nothing more. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, Don Abruzzi,” Enrico says, apparently finding his manhood again and acting with some dignity. “It will be done.”
“Good,” I say, and I gesture for my guards to open the door as Enrico begins to stand up. “See to it. And while we’re on the subject of rumors…”
“Right, about Bruno,” Enrico says as he stands up and I open my desk, taking out a small envelope. “Some of the men have been talking about how the hit went down. The soldiers talk—it’s what they do. Nothing to be worried about.”
“I know they talk,” I say as I open the envelope and take out its contents. “Talk isn’t good for business. Which is why I have these,” I say, sliding a few photographs across the table. Enrico steps forward and looks at them, his eyes widening as he picks them up.
They show a large, burly, musclebound body lying on fire-scorched asphalt...and a bloody stump where its head should be.
“This is all that remains of Bruno Lomaglio,” I say evenly, giving him a meaningful look as he glances up at me.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I talk again before he can. “Make sure these circulate among the men. Understood?”
He takes the envelope and sticks the photos back into it, swallowing hard. “Yes, Don Abruzzi.”
I smile.
“Good man. Now go.”
I watch my consigliere stalk off, and I gesture for my guards to go too, which they do, silently—the way I like it. The door finally closes behind them, leaving me in peace.
I let out a breath, feeling tired already. If I still had my youth, I’d be out taking care of this myself.
My eyes drift back to the painting on the wall as I finish off my wine in a single swig. I look at the faceless figures staggering onto the shore, and I know that not long ago, we were those people. Cleaners, they called us. It’s only thanks to me that we can one day be called the Abruzzi Family and command the respect we deserve. And I’m not about to let some bitch and her unborn brat ruin our war for the Bronx for me.
Not her, not the Costas...
And certainly not the fact that I never was presented with Bruno Lomaglio’s corpse.
5
SERENA
“ G razie per l’aiuto,” says the girl softly. She’s sitting across from me in the train car, the two of us having settled down into some seats with a table in between. She looks understandably nervous, picking at her pinkie nail and biting her lip as she looks up at me through thick eyelashes.
This girl doesn’t look a day over twenty and my heart immediately goes out to her, my maternal or maybe sisterly instincts kicking in. I’ve never had a sister, as I grew up an only child, but already I feel like I want to rescue and protect this complete stranger. I have this urge to go back to that Napoli train platform and beat her assailant mercilessly with that umbrella I picked up.
I don’t know where this aggressive mama-bear instinct is coming from. Maybe it’s just the pregnancy hormones. Either way, I know I can’t abandon this young lady now, even if I can’t understand a word she’s saying to me.
“Non dovevi farlo,” she adds emphatically, looking at me with mingled fear and gratitude. I realize suddenly how crazy I must look to her—a random woman who swept in to help her and is now sitting in front of her totally silent. My face starts to burn pink and I give her a smile.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,” I tell her quietly, glancing around. Nobody else in the train seems even slightly interested in us, which is a relief. Everybody is staring down at their books or iPads or phones, earbuds in, totally in their own little worlds. I start to let my guard down just a little bit. At least for now we should be relatively safe.
Meanwhile, the girl across from me has lit up, a big smile brightening up her pretty but solemn face. She looks completely different when she smiles, I notice. She leans forward as though to tell me a secret or something and says, “You speak English? I speak English!”
“Oh,” I reply, surprised. “Well then, hi. Nice to meet you! I’m Serena—Serena Smith,” I tell her, only barely stopping myself from giving her my real last name. I know I’m probably being way overly cautious, but after the events of the past couple days, I’m not feeling particularly safe sharing details with anyone, even someone who seems so vulnerable and innocent as this girl.
She giggles and holds out her hand for me to shake. “My name is Francesca Valenti,” she introduces herself. “Are you American?” she asks, barely able to hide her curiosity.
I laugh. “Yeah, what gave me away? The accent?”
Francesca nods, sitting back against the seat. She looks more relaxed now, and I’m starting to calm down a little bit myself. “What brings you to Napoli?” she asks.
“Just doing some traveling,” I lie quickly, but then when I remember I don’t have any luggage with me and I don’t have a backstory all plotted out in my head, I correct myself. “Actually, if I’m being honest, I-I’m kind of running away from… something.”
Francesca’s dark brown eyes go wide. She leans forward again, glancing around before whispering, “Like… the police? Did you rob a bank or something?”
I snort and shake my head. “Oh god, no. Nothing like that. I’m not a criminal,” I assure her, although when I consider my association with the Costa crime family, I think I might actually qualify as a criminal myself. Or at least an accomplice. And with the cops in the Cleaner’s pocket, is that really even a distinction for them? “Just had some kind of bad stuff happen recently back home and I needed to get away for a while. Clear my head. Start over, maybe.”
As I’m saying all this out loud, it’s almost more like I’m telling myself than Francesca. It’s hitting me just how little I know about what the future holds for me. My stomach turns and I have to sit very still and focus on not getting sick again. I close my eyes for a second and grit my t
eeth. When I open my eyes again, Francesca’s face looks solemn and sad again.
“You are pregnant, too,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“How’d you guess?” I ask, frowning. I’m not really showing yet, my stomach still relatively flat unless you’re looking really hard.
“You just turned green as pea soup,” she replies, shrugging. “I know the look. I feel the same way. It’s strange—people call it ‘morning sickness’ but I’ve been feeling sick all day, not just in the morning. Is it the same for you?”
I give her a nod. Of course, I still don’t quite know if my nausea is due to pregnancy or just a side effect of all the horrible events that have happened to me lately, but I’ll go ahead and blame it on the pregnancy. Might as well. It’s easier to think about being pregnant than it is to think about losing Bruno and the life I thought I was going to lead.
“Your husband… is he meeting you in Taranto?” Francesca inquires, gently patting her pregnant belly as she glances at the engagement ring on my finger. I have to bite my lip and clench my fists under the table to keep from crying. Oh, how I wish that were the truth. If only Bruno would be waiting for me on the platform when I arrive down south. If only I could end this day in his arms, happy and safe at last.
But that’s just not my reality anymore, and there’s no point in pretending it still is.
“No,” I answer, staring down at the polished-wood table between us. “He’s… not with me anymore. He’s gone.”
“He left you? While you’re pregnant?” she retorts, looking downright scandalized. “Men!”
I have to smile a little bit, despite the ache in my heart. If only that were the problem here.
“No, he didn’t leave me by choice,” I explain slowly. “I… lost him.”
It takes a moment for Francesca to catch my meaning. Her frown gradually softens into an expression of extreme pity, and that look on her face almost breaks my heart for the thousandth time. She reaches across the table to place her hands on my forearm, looking terribly sad.
Bound in Love (Bound to the Bad Boy Book 3) Page 4
