by Alex Elliott
“Caffe?” he inquires as if we’re lounging about on his estate hidden outside Calabria. To some savory folk, he’s known as The Saint. A boss and big earner but in the wind aka on his own.
He’s my uncle. My mom’s elder brother. It’s been twenty-five years to the day since he and two of his brothers tortured and questioned my kidnapper for hours. Afterward, my uncle put a gun in my hand, instructing me in broken English how to fire it at close range. I aimed the Colt at the head of my captor. My uncles explained it was a matter of pride and quoted the Bible and Dirty Harry.
I was still in kindergarten when I executed my first target. There was no eye for an eye. Santo didn’t rescue me, he created a monster.
Wrapped in a blanket and splattered in blood, I was placed inside an idling truck. From the cab, I brushed away bits of skull from my face and learned about the texture of brain matter. Outside, yards away, my uncles dug a grave. They dumped the body minus hands and a head in that hole, spitting on it before they set fire to a ransacked cabin in the backwoods between Athens and Atlanta.
Santo’s wrists aren’t cuffed and his feet aren’t shackled. I hear the muffled voice of another man ask about PanCorp Banks, then I see it’s Judge Bloomberg exiting the john, zipping his fly followed by a woman buttoning her top. The possibility of my uncle imprisoned doesn’t compute. This is an existential crisis that blasts open and hits me. The Saint isn’t being held. It’s more encompassing than a grand jury indictment.
The fact that a federal judge with a lifetime appointment is shooting the breeze with The Saint makes this whole event surreal in a heartbeat. The detail that Bloomberg just shot his wad into a woman with a patch over her left eye is overkill.
Wearing a dark suit and a Cheshire grin, Santo sits sipping espresso as Bloomberg takes a seat. It feels like I’ve been electrocuted but I don’t react.
The woman wearing a patch asks me, “Caffé? Limone?”
I nod at the offer of espresso and murmur, “Grazie.” A barrage of questions storm my brain. Each vies for first place on what is going on. But I’m hyperaware that the door to this meeting room is wide open, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s only a stupid fish can’t keep his mouth shut.
“Damiano.” My uncle quietly observes me. “My sister is proud and I see why. You’ve grown into a man. Your father would be honored.”
I smile, but there is no mirth. The clock has just begun to tick, and I’m aware without my consent I’ve been drawn into a highly sophisticated game. The stakes are beyond life or death.
Weighing all that he has both said and not, I lean down and hug my uncle. “Santo. It’s been too long.”
“Yes, but necessary. My absence from the States has permitted me distance. Useful in assessing a situation.”
Mom hasn’t visited Calabria in decades, nor does she discuss her brothers, cousins, friends, childhood or our 'Ndràngheta lineage. It’s as if they had never existed and I don’t press. Except for her sister and my cousin, all connections to our Calabrian family, for the record, have been severed.
As a kid, I’d assumed she blamed Santo for my dad’s death. But with the government confiscating any and all assets owned by my father, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the funding source for the large gated house where we lived, the army of servants (some in dark attire brandishing poorly hidden weapons), or my tuition to Exeter came from The Saint. Unseen and not heard from in years.
But he’s seen Mom or spoken to her recently, and must’ve convinced her to keep his reappearance a secret. Distinctly, I’m all too aware of the web he’s weaving.
“Why are we meeting here?” I ask in a monotone.
“Our host.” He inclines his head then says, “Judge Bloomberg, may I present my nephew, Atticus Damian Stone.”
“We’ve met,” I offer. Bloomberg was appointed by Nixon in the 70s. He hails from Philly. A conservative and connected.
“That we have.” Bloomberg sets down his cup and motions to the empty chair. “And when we cross paths again, we won’t ever discuss this meeting. This is about greasing the skids. Understand?”
“Completely,” I reply curtly, unbuttoning my jacket, and taking a seat.
“We’ve all got our parts to play, Tuck.” The judge signals to the guard out in the hall and barks, “Jeff, no interruptions.”
The guard bobs his head, hissing out a, “Yes, sir.” His words echo off the walls like shuffled papers.
Only disturbed by the woman placing a cup of steaming espresso in front of me. She returns with a lemon and efficiently grazes the edge of a sharp blade over it. In military precision, she flicks a tiny curl of lemon next to my cup. The rind is bright yellow against the white of the porcelain saucer. A contrast to the gray walls, fluorescent fixtures, and cement floor. With a promise to return with food, she exits the room, shutting the door behind her.
Santo reaches inside his jacket. He withdraws an envelope and a pair of reading glasses. “It’s time we figure out a way, we can all help each other. I’ve waited for this day, and Damiano, you’re ready to break free of the maze. Eh?”
My eyebrows rise incrementally. Maze? More like a jump from the fire into a vat of boiling oil. How many times can a man die and in how many ways? I’m about to find out, but I merely say, “Agreed.”
“And Vincenzo?”
My muscles go rigid. I freeze. Then I consciously relax my face, running through a body cue checklist that takes two or three seconds, top. Now isn’t the moment to admit Vince is waiting outside. In case I decide to off my uncle, I lie, “He left for Montreal. It’s been a while and no word.”
“Always was a bad nickel.” Santo’s cold stare holds mine as he unsheathes a folded document. If he means a bad penny, he’s one to talk.
“When did you get in?” I ask to forestall further conversation relative to Vin.
“I came right from the airport. Judge Bloomberg was kind enough to send his driver.” Santo smooths the papers with his palm before handing me a copy and the other to Judge Bloomberg.
I scan the page, reading my name several times in the context of being a candidate in the upcoming senate race. A twist to the gestalt of our family history. What’s proposed is a stag hunt. My uncle presents a standard matrix with players, strategies, payoffs. Not far removed from the course I’ve devised, yet this detour delivers two targets simultaneously into the crosshairs.
“You’ll be under the radar,” I say to my uncle.
He peers over his reading glasses at me for a millisecond longer than necessary. “It serves us all. The judge will act as facilitator.”
Does Bloomberg realize deals are signed in blood when it comes to The Saint? Any collective action is funneled back to Santo. I recalculate the steps on how to serve the revenge I’ve plotted while dealing with The Saint’s pretense that everyone has something to gain. We’re alike in how we both are playing a zero-sum game. Similar to poker. One pot. One winner. Not far-off from my original trajectory as long as I remember who I’m dealing with.
“Is this a case of history repeating itself?” I have to ask.
“Your father’s death was avenged. PanCorp won’t stand in your way.” He slides another sheet of paper across to me. “Our bond interests no longer intersect theirs. Let that go. You’re hungry. The timing is right.”
He taps the top of the sheet, drawing my attention to the paper in question. It’s a fully conveyed deed of absolute sale.
“Rearden?” I fight back the slice of rage consuming my vision. My hands shake as I pick up the property deed to the plantation in Buckhead once owned by my dad. It’s where we last lived together as a family before he was killed. Executed, I bitterly remind myself. I stare at the signature of Mick Silver’s henchmen. An Irish twat. He’s the head partner of a Fifth Avenue law firm cloaked in tailored threads, influence, and a Cambridge degree.
My uncle smiles. “Paid in full. Of course, your mother will live there as w
ell. It is her rightful home, is it not? Agree to the terms of this deal and it’s all yours.”
Santo’s adept read of my tells must be managed. PanCorp and their phony public bond auctions are still going strong, bilking townships out of billions and the Feds are clueless. Another Irish mob gimmick has suckered the feds. Regardless of what my uncle asserts, history has repeated itself. Even if it hadn’t, I’m not ready to forget.
Years ago, it was my father’s brokerage house family that had historically acted as the middleman in those deals. I’ve never argued that my dad was a straight shooter. His mistake was believing his wife’s mob in-laws wouldn’t connect the dots. Mortal mistake and, in effect, put my dad dead center between thieving Titans. Not a great place to be during a squeeze, especially when The Saint had the Bratva and cartels on his side.
My uncle was hardly on hiatus. Evidentially, from the names mentioned, he’s been busy over the years. Learning English and honing his game theory. Anyone who believed the rumors that The Saint had sold his interests to the families in power and had closed up shop are about to be rudely awakened.
Just goes to show you can’t trust a liar. A sin I’m guilty of and a textbook example of being shortsighted as I’d worked to uncover the disturbing facts surrounding my father’s death. Not that I had to search high and low for trouble. Trouble always seems to find me. A reason why I maintain an open mind and tuck-n-roll whenever advantageous.
“I accept.” Overtly, there’s no plausible way to refute my uncle’s offer. I hold out my hand, which he immediately clasps.
“My sister will be pleased to return home,” Santo says knowingly.
Yes, I imagine he’s already informed my mother of the part he would’ve expected her to play had I made the mistake of declining.
“This calls for a drink,” the judge announces.
This calls for a recalibration. The new play I’ll put into spin will slingshot me into the catbird seat. A cold-blooded tactic. With a target on my back, I’ll take aim. Two birds. One stone.
Chapter 2
Phoenix. Silver. O’Malley~ Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot
Six years later.
I CLIMB OUT from behind the wheel of my Fiat. Brand-spanking new and bait. A graduation gift from my grandparents. In the rear window, I see my reflection and note my blond hair could use a trim. My gaunt skin some sun. But something had to give. Kicking ass at Boston College taught me a lesson in upping my game. As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I’ll need those lessons in my upcoming court battle. Armed with the facts, I’m headed into a civilized debate where the truth is a matter of opinion and revenge is served with sophisticated precision.
“Should we wait for Simon?” I ask Brooke about her newest pal-with-benefits.
“Umm…isn’t he right behind us?” She stoops to gather up the contents of her purse that must’ve toppled out when I nailed the newly installed speed bump.
Nary a complaint from Brooke. She’s my longtime friend and all about options. I hoist the bags of Indian take-out from the backseat, giving a quick survey of the neighborhood. Slanting sideways, I peer down the street, admiring the median and flowering magnolia trees in full bloom.
“Negative,” I report, not seeing Simon or his Benz.” A silver bullet-shaped SLS AMG that could leave me in the dust, but apparently didn’t.
Her cell chimes and without glancing at the screen, she states, “That’s my boy.” Brooke’s petite and trim and mega confident. My grandfather refers to her as ‘the redhead fireball.’
“He was behind us but somehow didn’t make the last intersection.” I think that’s when I noticed him MIA. “How’d the hunk get lost?”
“Multitasking while driving. He’s an animal between the sheets, but could get lost in a box. Without a limo and driver, Simon is hopeless.” Brooke answers her cell, then directs me, “Go on. I’ll bring the cake and catch up with you when he arrives.”
“Okay,” I say but add, jutting my chin toward the side entrance, “Use the basement door.”
“Got it!” Bobbling her head, Brooke does a hands-free fluff of her pixie hairdo. Seamlessly, she resumes giving the hunk directions.
We’re parked in front of my and Spencer’s townhouse with the makings of a celebratory dinner. My fiancé’s twenty-eighth birthday combined with him making junior partner in his family’s architectural firm. He thinks we’re meeting downtown to spend the evening with my grandfather. A customary birthday dinner celebrated at an old money—code for boring—business club. Stifling tradition can wait, and I’d pushed it off until tomorrow night.
I’m dying to see Spence’s face when I holler, “Surprise!”
I traipse down the slope of the side driveway of the two-story three-bedroom we bought together. We swung it using money from my trust fund for the down payment. I haven’t officially moved in, saving my grandmother from a nervous breakdown.
Leaning against the wall, I maneuver the bags into the crook of my arm while slipping my key into the lock of the basement side door. It’s well-oiled and has that snick of expensive hardware. An upgrade—one of many—Spence and I debate about. I’m standing in the shadow from the neighboring townhouse, but within the paved parking, and I get the distinct impression of being watched. I turn, using my shoulder to push open the door and notice the curious stare of Nina, our neighbor to the south. I nod and smile. She’s out on her patio grilling and waves.
Crap, I don’t want to blow my cover or the ‘surprise’ I’ve planned, and pray she doesn’t yodel out a greeting. The townhouses are situated relatively close together, modeled on a modern brownstone, and reside in Jamaica Plains. The highest elevation in Boston, it was coined as the cute part of the city. A hipster neighborhood with a pond, a community garden and matches the beard and offbeat dry humor Spencer sports. I left it up to him where we’d live since he puts up with our Sunday and summer jaunts down to the cape for Gran and Pop time. They practically raised me or as they allege, civilized me into a refined young woman. A bit of a stretch, but whatever. If it makes their day, more power to ‘em.
To say my grandparents are overbearing is being polite. I shouldn’t complain. They’ve always been there for me. Giving Spencer and me a loan against my trust fund as well as bankrolling our upcoming nuptials. They squawked about the location of this place. But not to the extent they could’ve, seeming to understand that a daily commute from the cape wasn’t prudent for Spencer or me given we don’t have a private helicopter like my cousin who resides in downtown Boston in a swanky penthouse part-time.
After subjecting this place to a white-glove inspection, my grandmother gave her approval. In days, her bank prepared the closing documents. When I say Gran’s bank, I’m talking PanCorp and my grandparents sit on the board. Pop semi-retired as CEO two years ago due to a valve issue with his heart. Not that it quashed them from overseeing their Wall Street dominion. They still fly back and forth between Manhattan and Boston as if it’s nothing.
Our place might not be an estate, but each townhouse has an idyllic covered porch, and some like ours have the proverbial porch swing. Something I never enjoyed as a kid. My mom’s bohemian lifestyle knows no bounds when it comes to condo digs with rooftop access—hers and those of her ‘friends.’ Recently divorced, extricating herself from husband number six—although she claims he’s number five since she remarried an ex twice somewhere along the way. I’ve liked all of my mom’s husbands, especially Martin. Or as Mom refers to him: Number Two. He adopted me when I was six months old and so far, his and mom’s marital record stands undefeated. Eight years, three months…I close my eyes against the sting… twelve days.
Inhaling, I blow out a breath of bittersweet sorrow that accompanies his memory. Hence my last name: O’Malley. Martin was a far distant relative to the famous Nantucket clan—you know the ones. It’s a question I’m routinely asked when people connect the dots.
“Hi, Phoenix.” The greeting jars me from my thoughts and I re
focus on the present, wiping an errant blonde strand of my hair that sticks to my cheek. Another woman joins Nina, not her partner Reina. I squint at them, silently conceding that I don’t recognize her but cordially return her mini-wave as a cloud of smoke swirls by.
“Smells good,” I whisper-talk, stepping away from the door, and under the heat of embarrassment at the realization it’s the weed they’re smoking, not the food they’re grilling.
“Care for a hit?” Nina holds out the joint. “By the way, this is Tracy. New HOA prez.”
From here, it looks like they’re grilling octopus and smells of garlic yet fishy. I don’t want the smoke—weed or food—to be absorbed by my hair or clothes. Spencer is super sensitive to scents, especially those resembling cigarettes or cigars. Being met by a rant with Brooke visiting would be embarrassing enough—not that he’d relent with company. He’d have a fit if I came home reeking of smoke whether solo or in a mob. A rudimentary neighbor greeting isn’t worth me having to jump in the shower to wash my hair with the bio-ethical peppermint hemp soap he prefers and I put up with (not wanting to incite his bottomless disdain).
“No thanks. I brought dinner and better get inside.” I lift the bags a few inches as if indicating a valid excuse.
“Really?” Nina’s almond-shaped eyes momentarily lift to my townhouse as if in question. Then she exchanges a ‘look’ with her friend.
Spencer’s Saab is a few feet away and if I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if he were home. Her odd reply isn’t bait enough for me to keep standing here. If anything, it spurs a sense of unease that lies at the pit of my stomach.
“Nice to meet you, Tracy. Take it easy and bon appétit,” I reply over my shoulder, marshaling back to my doorway and enter into the dim basement hall. Closing the door, I kick off my Birkenstocks and from the glass insets, I watch my neighbors deep in a discussion. Whatever the subject is, it warrants a frown from Nina, then a shrug from Tracy.
