by Dana Delamar
This time, the end of Enrico Lucchesi’s world arrived in a beautifully wrapped box. The package, covered in a fine, silvery foil paper with a crisp white satin bow, arrived early that morning at Enrico’s hotel suite in Rome. There was no card, no return address. Enrico’s pulse rate kicked upward. In his line of work, nothing good ever came from an anonymous delivery.
Ruggero, his senior bodyguard, eyed the package on the wooden writing desk as if it were ticking. When Enrico touched the box, Ruggero nudged his hand away. “Let me, Don Lucchesi.” Enrico bowed his head and stepped back, watching his guard slice into the wrapping. Ruggero’s hand was steady, his cuts deliberate.
Inside was an ornately carved wooden box that looked oddly familiar. Enrico had seen it somewhere, but he couldn’t place it. Ruggero put his hand on the latch, then looked up at him. “Perhaps you should stand farther away.” Never an order from his guard, always a suggestion. But one he’d be a fool to ignore.
Enrico stepped over to the far wall by the sofa and crossed his arms. How incongruous. He and his men were dealing with a possible bomb while the vacationers and business people in the suites surrounding them enjoyed a full five stars of luxury. What was it like to almost never know fear, to live every day with the comforting certainty that another one was coming? The only certainty he’d ever had was that any day could be his last.
His heart jumped in his chest. How was it that this situation never became routine? The sick expectation, the sense he’d finally meet his death today, his skin going clammy, his stomach twisting, his mouth dry, his skin practically twitching from anticipation of a fatal stab from a knife or the punch of a bullet. Or in this case, the tearing of shrapnel from an explosion.
He frowned when Antonio, his newest bodyguard, stepped in front to shield him from a potential blast. He never should have endangered the boy this way. A familiar litany filled Enrico’s head: Will he be just one more dead body you walk away from? Just one more unfortunate mistake? Just one more eventually forgotten casualty in your quest to outlive Carlo Andretti?
Ruggero eased open the latch, then edged the lid up, its metal hinges creaking. The stern lines of his face deepened as he stared at the contents. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair.
Enrico uncrossed his arms and took a step forward. “What is it?”
The guard let the lid fall completely open, then stepped away from the box, shaking his head. “You’d best see for yourself, signore.”
Enrico crossed the room and looked into the box. As he registered the contents, his stomach flipped like a dying fish. Nestled within white tissue paper, a falcon stared up at him, its gray and white feathers limp, its round dark eye filmed over. A black cord cut into its neck, strangling the bird. The raptor’s open beak suggested it was giving a last angry cry at the injustice of its death.
He looked up at Ruggero, their eyes locking. A falcon was featured on the Lucchesi coat of arms. The message was obvious.
As he lowered the lid, Enrico’s fingers lingered over the etched surface. A pattern of vines and flowers danced around the edge, and a boar-hunting scene occupied the center. Where had he seen this box before?
And then it came to him. It was the box Carlo Andretti stored his cigars in, the one he’d offered to Enrico on several occasions when he’d been in Carlo’s study. And if he had any doubt about who was sending this message, the timing of it couldn’t be ignored.
“It’s from Andretti,” he said to Ruggero. He drew in then let out a deep breath, seeking calm. Andretti wanted him dead. That was nothing new.
“You aren’t surprised.”
“Do you remember what day it is? What happened exactly a year ago?” Enrico fought to keep his voice steady, yet still he detected a catch.
Ruggero thought for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face. “Your wife. I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“Carlo didn’t forget. He still blames me.”
“He thinks you can cure cancer?”
“I don’t know what he thinks. Only that I didn’t do enough.” And maybe I didn’t.
Ruggero motioned to the box. “What do we do about this?”
“For now, nothing.”
The guard’s brow creased. “You are virtually undefended with only me and Antonio. We should call in more men before leaving the city.”
“We leave today, as planned. Just us three.” He’d be damned if he’d let Carlo pick the tune he danced to. He’d seen what fear had done to his father, what mistakes it had caused him to make. What a bleak future it led to.
“Don Lucchesi, that’s suicide,” Antonio said.
A muscle in Ruggero’s jaw jumped and he pinned the boy with his eyes, not looking back to Enrico until Antonio lowered his eyes and mumbled, “Forgive me, signore.”
Ruggero took a breath then said, “With respect, capo, Andretti knows where you are. He could have men waiting for us outside.”
Enrico shook his head. “Carlo likes to play with his food before he eats it.”
“So, you are the mouse?” Ruggero asked.
Enrico scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He thinks he’ll see me cower and run. But I am no mouse.”
“At least let me call in reinforcements for when we arrive in Milan.”
Enrico nodded. “There’s no sense being completely foolish.” As he watched his guard make the call, he rubbed his stomach, a queasy feeling growing, like he’d just eaten a pound of pancetta. He hoped he wasn’t leading them into a trap. A giant, man-sized mousetrap.
“Carlo is a dead man,” Enrico muttered to himself as he strode through the crowd in the hotel lobby hours later, his empty stomach knotted, drawn up tight under his chest. His eyes swept the area, noting the details of his surroundings, the placement of people and weapons—at least those he knew about. His guards were good; in fact, Ruggero was one of the best. But no one was perfect.
“What did you say, Don Lucchesi?” Antonio asked as he matched Enrico’s pace.
“Andretti is dead.”
“So you’ve decided then?” asked Ruggero, on his right.
Enrico heard the anticipation in Ruggero’s voice and wondered again if there wasn’t a touch of the sociopath to him. Enrico hated killing, though it was sometimes necessary. But Ruggero seemed perfectly suited to his line of work.
“Don’t get excited yet. I decided the moment I saw what was in the box. Now all that remains is the when.”
“Soon, I hope,” Ruggero said.
Enrico gave him a tight smile. “Soon enough.” If only Antonella hadn’t made him promise not to harm her father, he’d have given the order long ago. He owed his mother and Primo and Mario justice. But he’d promised his wife that he’d keep the peace between their families, that he’d honor the truce that had been sealed by their marriage. Those twenty-six years of peace were over now—undone by her death. At least Andretti seemed to think so.
Perhaps Enrico had been naïve to think that Carlo would honor his daughter’s memory by keeping the peace she’d helped broker. He should have known better. A vulture would never be anything but a vulture. Andretti had never had a scrap of honor and never would. The man was a bottom feeder, a scum, a leech on society—
Enrico’s attention was caught by a large, heavyset man in a sharply tailored suit standing to the left of the lobby doors. Massimo Veltroni, Carlo’s man. Veltroni’s black eyes snapped to his, the intent in them clear. A chill ran through Enrico, that sick anticipation rising again, his skin prickling with awareness. Damn it—he’d been stupid, stupid, stupid. And now it was going to cost them dearly. Per favore, Dio, spare Antonio. He’s too young.
He tapped both guards on the shoulders and they followed his gaze, closing ranks in front of Enrico, automatically shielding their capo from danger.
Enrico’s hand fell down to grip the Glock 9mm in his jacket pocket. As capo, he rarely carried a weapon, but Ruggero had insisted after seeing the dead falcon. Now he appreciated his guard’s caution.
He coul
dn’t tear his eyes off Veltroni. The image of a cobra looking to strike came to Enrico’s mind. The man reached into his suit jacket, a tight smile on his face.
Enrico tensed, and Antonio and Ruggero pulled their weapons, Ruggero’s movements so fluid and practiced they made Antonio look like a clumsy amateur. Which he almost was. Antonio had his gun out and ready mere seconds after Ruggero did. But seconds counted. Seconds meant the difference between alive and dead. Enrico heard women shriek at the sight of the guns, and then the scuffle of feet as people scrambled to get away from them. But he didn’t look behind him; eyes on the threat, always. That was the rule. Distractions meant death.
When Veltroni saw the guns, he broke into laughter, a genuinely mirthful smile creasing his features this time. Enrico was puzzled. There was nothing funny about the situation. Not in the slightest.
Veltroni slowly withdrew his empty hand from his coat, his fingers in the shape of a gun. He pointed at Enrico and pretended to take a shot, even blowing off smoke from the end of his thick forefinger. Reaching up, he tipped the brim of his fedora to Enrico. Then he turned and ambled out the door.
“Fuck,” Antonio said, his voice hushed.
Fuck was right. They’d almost walked into a trap, and Enrico’s pride had led them there.
Antonio and Ruggero put up their guns and Enrico released his grip on the Glock. Glancing around them, they hurried outside to the car waiting to take them to the private airstrip.
This day had started off bad, and it was quickly going straight to hell.
Kate Andretti snuck out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband. She looked down at him, his wavy, sandy brown hair scrunched up by the pillow, his tanned face slack and innocent as he snored. She hated sneaking off to take her birth control pills, but Vince couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to get pregnant now. There was no sense bringing a child into a marriage that was less than stable.
But she had hope. Three months ago, Vince had told her about a job at the Lucchesi Home for Children. Even though the work was glorified data entry, she’d taken it. She was happy computerizing the orphanage’s records and helping out with the kids.
And she was happy that Vince had actually listened to her when she’d said she needed to work, that she needed to make friends. Maybe he’d finally understood—at least in part—her reasons for waiting. But still she hid the pills from him. Just in case.
Easing the bathroom door shut behind her, Kate crouched down and pulled a box of tampons out from under the sink. Vince would never think to look in that box. For a big tough guy from New Jersey, he was bizarrely squeamish about her “woman things.” Fishing around the bottom of the box, her fingers connected with the packet of pills.
Every day, she pulled that box out. Every day she hated the necessity of doing so. Vince was under a lot of stress—he’d been working long days and sometimes nights in his uncle’s business—but that didn’t give him a free pass to yell at her. He’d always begged forgiveness later, so she’d let it go. To a degree. But something told her to stay cautious. To wait.
She stared at the pill packet in her hand. How had she’d gotten to this point? Lying to her husband. Lying to herself. Hiding things and hoping their marriage would survive somehow.
This sucks. It just does. I want to trust him, I want him to trust me.
But what about the spots on his jacket last night, the reek of gunpowder all over him?
Maybe he’d just splashed wine or something on the jacket. And he often went target shooting; she’d gone with him many times and had proven herself an excellent shot. The first time she’d pumped a full clip into the two kill zones on a target, Vince had looked at her with more than a little admiration.
But what if it wasn’t wine? What if it was… blood?
Dread coiled in her belly. Something wasn’t right. She’d known it ever since she’d met Vince’s uncle, Carlo Andretti. Her immediate impression had been favorable; Carlo was relatively handsome for a man in his sixties, with thick silvery hair swept back from his hawk-like nose and dark eyes brimming with intelligence. He’d kept himself trim, his waist showing only the slightest paunch, despite his love of cigars and fine Scotch. His grasp of English was nearly impeccable, though his accent was a war between British and Italian inflections.
Carlo had seemed charming enough until they were actually introduced. His keen eyes had flicked over her in a lightning-quick inventory that had made her think he wanted to see her wearing much less. She’d told herself she was imagining things, but when Carlo took her hand, his index finger had snaked across the back of hers, not once, but three times. Then he’d smiled at her, and she’d barely suppressed a shudder, feeling like a small and tender animal who’d been sighted, and the wolf was licking its chops.
That was when she started wondering about Carlo. Who he really was, what his business really was. Why he thought he owned her. Why he thought he owned Vince. Why everyone around him jumped when he spoke.
Supposedly Vince was acting as a liaison with Carlo’s import/export operations in the United States. More or less the same job he’d had in New York, except that now he was handling matters from the Italian side. He’d told Kate it was a promotion of sorts, a tryout to see if he could handle additional responsibilities in the organization.
Was any of that true? Something about Carlo screamed “Mafia.” Was it his swagger, the way he seemed to view everything around him as his property? Or was it just her dislike of the man that was coloring her viewpoint?
Vince couldn’t be Mafia too, could he?
The day they’d met, at her cousin Terri’s party in Jersey, Vince had played airplane and ball with Terri’s kids for hours. Her heart had melted at the sheer joy on his face, and then it had turned to absolute mush when he’d asked her out, after saying that he’d cleared it with Terri, because he thought it important that her family approve of him.
Could a Mafioso be that tender?
Kate shook the memory away and pushed a pill through the foil backing on the packet. Taking a swig of water, she swallowed it. She loved him, her tough guy with the soft heart. But something had happened to him in Italy, something that had changed him.
The bathroom door swung open. Vince blinked, scrubbing a hand through his rumpled hair, his handsome face creased from the pillow. Then he squinted at her hand. “What’s that?”
Kate flushed, her heart hammering, and closed her hand around the packet. “Nothing, honey.”
“Give it.” He held out his hand.
She cursed under her breath. Why hadn’t she put the packet away first? “It’s just some pills.”
“I’m not gonna ask again.”
That tone, too familiar of late, raised her hackles. “Fine.” She slapped the packet into his open palm. He held it up to the lights above the mirror so he could read it. After a moment, his face went dark.
“Birth control? You’re on fucking birth control?” His anger seemed to expand in the small space, echoing off the marble tiles on the walls and floor.
Kate forced herself not to cringe. “Look, I told you. We’ve only been here six months. It’s just too soon.”
“So you fucking lie? You told me you’d stopped these.” He tossed the packet in the toilet and flushed it. “I’ve been fucking you for nothing.”
Kate’s jaw dropped open. It was time to whip out her NYC-girl attitude. Never mind that she’d been raised upstate. “Piss. Off. What do you mean you’ve been fucking me for nothing? Supposedly you love me, right?”
“I been trying to make a baby with you. And you been lying to me.”
She snorted. “I’m not the only one of us who’s lying.”
His hazel eyes bore into hers. “What’re you saying?”
“You reeked of guns when you came home last night. And what was all over your jacket?”
He hesitated, just the barest millisecond, but she caught it. “I went shooting with the boys. And I dropped my fork in some sauce at dinner, got it
all over my jacket.”
Funny how when he said it, it sounded like the lie it was. She was about to call him on it when he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his eyes darkening. “You’re the fucking liar. Who is he?”
What the…? Oh, he was back to the pills. “Calm down, Vince. I just wanted to wait.”
He stared at her, disbelief on his face. “Fuck!” His fingers dug into her arms. “I knew it. You been acting weird for months. You never want to go to my uncle’s. And now I know why. You’re fucking him.”
Kate choked. “I’d rather slit my wrists than fuck your uncle.”
“Then what the fuck is it?”
If he says “fuck” one more time, I’m going to kill him. If I say “fuck” one more time, I’m going to take a vow of silence. She had a Masters in social work, from Columbia no less, for Christ’s sake. Why was she letting him drag her down to his level? She took a breath, deliberately lowering her voice. “All you do is yell at me these days. It’s not like when we were first married. I’m worried about us.”
“What does that have to do with my uncle?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t like him. That’s all.”
“Why the fuck not? He puts food on our table. You damn well better like him.”
She looked at him this time. “Unlike you, I don’t have to like him.”
He flushed red. “You’re not answering the question. You fucking my uncle?”
“For the last time, no!” She blew out fiercely, striving for control. She wanted to scream at him, to slap him until he saw sense.
He shook his head, his eyes turning mean. “You’re lying; I can see it. I’m gonna kill him. And then I’m gonna kill you.”
His hand came out of nowhere, backhanding her across the right cheek. The blow made her stagger, her hip striking the sink, her eyes instantly welling up with tears. She touched the spot where he’d hit her, the skin flaming hot and prickling beneath her fingers. Her stomach ached and she thought she was going to vomit up that damn pill.
She had one crazy idiotic thought: Karma’s a bitch. Serves me right for thinking of slapping him.
