by Holly Hart
“Ha!” I laugh. “Mickey couldn’t get a flock of pigeons to follow him if he held a crate full of breadcrumbs.”
Lucio raises his eyebrows. It’s the same look that Papa used to give me. It’s a discreet warning. A cold chill runs through me. I try and explain it away as coming from a sharp blast of wind, but I’m not sure I believe that.
“Are you sure, Miss Morello?”
“Go on,” I say. My face is blank, but I’m biting the inside of my lip. I remember Papa’s lessons, even if Mickey doesn’t. I listened, when he wouldn’t. I learned when he didn’t. Papa always taught us never to listen to the violence of our own emotions. “They will tempt you,” he often said. “Don’t allow them to.”
I listen.
“You think of your brother as a bumbling fool, as a drunk; as a –.”
“Lucio,” I interrupt. The old caporegime raises a finger to hold me off.
“He may well be all of those things,” Lucio says, changing tack. “And yet is there anything in this world more dangerous than a fool?”
I fall silent, lost in thought. Lucio doesn’t make a sound. There is no need. Every word he has already spoken hits home. He’s right. My brother is an angry young man. I don’t know if Mickey has anything planned – anything at all – but I wouldn’t put it past him.
That makes me worried.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say, Lucio,” I say, finally breaking my silence.
Lucio nods. “These are dangerous times, Miss Morello. I will understand if you don’t wish to talk to me again. I thought it only right to bear you a warning. But if you have no further use for me, I imagine my wife will be happy to see me home more often.”
I glance up at him, my brow wrinkled with surprise. “The day you stop telling me the truth, Lucio, is the day you’ll have outlived your usefulness to me.”
Lucio’s eyebrows tent with surprise. “As direct as always, Miss Morello,” he says, dipping his forehead with respect.
I laugh. “Call me rude, if you want. I am. That was. But I mean it. I don’t need hangers on: I don’t need sycophants; nor people willing to tell me whatever they think I want to hear. If I’m going to keep this organization in one piece, while my brother threatens to tear it apart, I’ll need your counsel every step of the way.”
“You will have it, Miss Morello.”
“Tell me what you know of these whispers.”
“Your brother spoke to a man called Tony Bianchi yesterday,” Lucio says, as his face wrinkles with sadness.
“So?”
“A Byrne soldier,” Lucio pauses, checking a notebook that appears from the inside pocket of his overcoat, “called Danny Murphy ended up in the ER last night. Ten stitches in his head.”
I wince. I know what point Lucio is getting at. “So you think this Bianchi, he did it?”
“I have the CCTV footage.”
Throwing off my hood, I throw my head back, and run my fingers through my hair. An idle corner of my mind wonders whether Kieran shares the same burdens that I do. I bite my lip – hard – until his face disappears from my mind.
Then I make a decision. One I’ve never made before.
“Lucio?”
The old man turns his face up inquiringly.
“Call me Sofia, will you?”
His expression is blank and inscrutable – like any caporegime’s should be. “It would be my pleasure, Sofia.”
I nod my thanks. I don’t know why, but that felt significant. The old man might well be my only ally in this fight. But I can’t think of another man I’d rather have by my side.
“And Lucio?”
“Yes, Sofia?”
“Get me in a room with Declan Byrne.”
6
Kieran
“How’s the head, Danny?” I ask the man seated in the red leather booth in the old-school diner. The squat, powerful, street soldier turns to face me with a look of surprise. His forehead is marked by a jagged, raw diagonal cut still held together by white surgical tape. It’s going to leave a scar.
“Sorry boss, I didn’t hear ye comin’,” he says, wincing, “everything’s been a bit fuzzy, ye know, since the –.”
Danny pauses. I think I know the battle that’s raging in his head. It’s over what to call what happened to him: an accident; an attack? I guess he would rather call it an attack, because that is what it was. A Morello soldier snuck up on one of our men and bashed him in the head without provocation.
Least, that’s the story I’ve managed to track down so far.
“Sit, sit,” I say, waving a hand at Danny, ordering him to relax. I catch the eye of one of the diner’s waitresses. The slim blonde scurries over, fumbling with her notepad.
“Can I get ye anything?” I ask the wounded man.
Danny shakes his head.
“I’ll have a coffee, doll,” I smile, winking at the blonde. But it feels, I don’t know, fake; like I’m flirting because I’ve got a reputation for it, not because I’m expecting to get anything out the other end. I’m not even sure I want to get this gal’s number. There’s only one girl on my mind, and it sure as hell isn’t this blushing blonde.
I take a seat in the booth next to Danny.
“She’s hot,” the red-headed soldier grunts, “…great legs. You know how to pick ‘em, boss.”
“Eh,” I grunt, “I’m not sure. I’m not feeling ‘er.”
Danny pokes his head out of the booth. “Hell,” he growls, “if you don’t want her, boss, I’ll take a crack.”
“Don’t ye ‘ave a wife?” I grin. I know Danny, and I know his wife Kate. He’s been loyal to the family for a long time. He’s even more loyal to his broad. I know he’d never do anything to hurt that girl. He’s madly in love with her.
Danny shrugs. “Maybe I can propose one of those, ye know, open relationships. You think Katie’d go for tha’?”
The blonde waitress comes back with my coffee, and sets it down on the table. She licks her lips. “Can I get you anything else, sir,” she says in a sweet, girlish voice, “anything at all?”
I shake my head. “I’m good, doll,” I smile. The blonde pouts, but takes her leave, shaking her ass as if to say: “look what you’re missing out on…”
“Shit, boss,” Danny grimaces, his eyebrows disappearing into the sky, “you must have balls o’ steel to turn down a lady like that. What do ye think she’s like in bed?” He asks wistfully.
I roll my eyes at the man’s excitement. “Listen, Danny, ye know why yer here?” I ask.
Danny runs his fingers through his hair. “Te be honest wit’ ye,” he says, “not really. I guess this has got something t’ do wit’ me getting jumped t’other night. Ye know who did it?”
“A little birdie told me something,” I nod, pensively dragging a finger across my lower lip. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything ye want, boss.”
I glance up at the two people entering the old diner. I somehow manage to squash my surprise and hide it from Danny.
“I need you to sit there and shut the hell up,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from the woman by the sliding glass doors. “Can ye do that for me?”
“You got it, boss,” Danny confirms.
I get to my feet. “Fancy seeing you here, Sofia,” I grin, extending a hand. Sofia raises an eyebrow at the gesture and ignores me entirely. She takes a seat on the opposite side of the red booth, and a brute of a man – all bunched muscles and the squat, squashed forehead of a Sicilian – follows her in behind.
“You can call me Miss Morello,” she says curtly. “I thought I was here to meet your brother.”
My eyebrows wrinkle this time. I knew that Sofia Morello was carved straight from a block of ice, but I thought I warmed her up the night we shared at the Ritz: apparently not.
I slide next to Danny to face her. “I guess we can’t always get what we want,” I smile, studying her face. Sofia’s features are delicate. She’s lightly tanned – the Italian in
her, I guess – and her dark brown hair almost seems to glow a russet red in certain lights. My eyes fall lower, too.
“Sometimes we shouldn’t try,” Sofia replies in a warning tone of voice. I take it on board, but decide to ignore her barely concealed advice.
“Where is he?” Sofia asks. She seems antsy.
“On honeymoon,” I reply. “Not fer much longer, thank the Lord. Okay, my turn.” I point at the ugly street soldier who sidled into the booth next to her. “Who’s this?”
“This,” Sofia says, glancing at the Sicilian, features wrinkling with barely disguised disgust, “is Tony Bianchi: the man who assaulted your colleague, here.”
Danny bristles beside me. I don’t blame him. That cut on his head isn’t going to heal anytime soon, and when it does – it won’t be pretty. I’d want to beat this punk into submission as well. But I’ve got to tread carefully here, and that means Danny does too. Nobody wants a war. Not now.
I interlink my fingers behind my head, and glance at the sullen brute. “Any reason, or was yer man here just having a bad night?” I move my gaze to Sofia, and don’t let her slip in. “Maybe Tony hasn’t got laid in a while. Maybe his balls are busting.”
“Maybe,” Sofia allows in a tone that suggests she knows exactly what game I’m playing.
“So – tell me,” I say, stroking my lower lip, “where’s Mickey. See, I was under the impression that I was getting to see the boss as well.”
Sofia stiffens when I say that word: boss. I make a note of it. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark – or at least, the Morello household. If Sofia thinks that she can pull the wool over my eyes, and play me like some kind of joker – I’m going to make her think twice.
“Michael,” she says, concealing her distaste well, but not well enough, “is indisposed.”
“Huh.” I nod. “I bet he is. Well, I guess for both our sakes it’s a good thing he has such a… capable lady to take charge when he’s not feeling up to it.”
A fire burns in Sofia’s eyes when she detects the slight emphasis I put on the word lady. Good. I was beginning to wonder if anything was alive behind her impassive face at all. “Enough,” Sofia growls, as she pushes her man out of the booth.
“You,” she says to Tony in a voice that has him flinching, “sit. And you,” Sofia says, stabbing her finger in Danny’s direction, “play nice.”
Danny glances up in my direction. I shrug, as if to say: “do as the lady tells you.”
“Come with me,” Sofia demands archly. She storms towards the glass entranceway.
I groan. I leave my jacket next to Danny. Sofia might have ice in her veins, but some of us are made of sterner stuff. Still, I follow behind. This is as good a chance as I’m likely to have to get Sofia by herself. I’ve barely been able to sleep, or even go ten minutes without her face dancing across my mind, so this meeting has been a long time coming.
“You sure that leaving those two together is a good idea?” I ask the back of Sofia’s head.
I shove my hands into my jean pockets, and glance through the glass. Tony and Danny are facing each other down like shooters in an old time western. I can sense the anger radiating off them from here. If only it could heat me up…
“If you have your dog on a leash, then everything will be fine,” Sofia says, turning to face me. Steam dances off her lips.
“He’s not my dog,” I reply mildly. I get nothing but a pointed glare in response.
“How about we ditch these two,” I suggest, giving into my most unprofessional urges. “Leave them to work things out between themselves. In the meantime, we,” I raise my eyebrows suggestively, “can go work a few things out ourselves.”
Sofia eyes me up and down. Her stare is hard enough to cut glass. In her case, probably ice. “I don’t,” she hisses, “think that is a very good idea.”
“Funny,” I grin. “That’s not what you said last time. Four times, in fact, if I remember rightly…”
My cock twitches at the thought. I get an image of Sofia lying spread-eagled underneath me, begging me to fill her up. It’s a good memory. One of the best I’ve ever had. I thought about it more than a few times over the past couple of weeks.
“We’re not talking about that,” Sofia says. Her mouth is set in a tight, thin line.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Think about it,” I say reasonably, “who else are you going to screw who understands your position better than I do? I mean – it can be stressful at the top… Maybe you need a release.”
“Your mistake, Kieran,” Sofia growls, “is thinking I’m looking for a boyfriend. I’m not, and I won’t be. I operate better alone.”
“The thing about lone wolves, Sofia,” I say, glancing at the booth to make sure we’re not being watched, “is that they really want t’ run in packs.”
“Cool it, Kieran,” Sofia mutters, picking at an imaginary piece of dirt on her coat. “That schmaltzy Irishman act might work on some girls – but it won’t work with me.”
I nod, thoughtfully. I decide to dial things back – just a touch. I’m clearly not getting anywhere with Sofia, not like this.
“On to business, then,” I smile. “Tell me why exactly Tony decided to lay my man out in the gutter wi’ half a dozen stitches. Seems like an awful dangerous thing fer a Morello soldier to be doing…”
Sofia grimaces, and takes a pace towards me. She’s now standing so close that – if I chose – I could lean forward and plant a kiss on her lips. The only thing that’s stopping me is a sneaking suspicion that she’d simply catch my tongue between her teeth and bite it off. Sofia Morello strikes me as a feisty kind of girl.
“Is that a threat, Kieran?” She growls. Apparently that’s the default setting of her voice – at least it is around me.
I shake my head. “Not a threat,” I assure her, “just an observation, like. Believe me,” I say, leaning forward half an inch and smiling a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “If I was threatening ye – ye’d know about it.”
Sofia lets out an angry breath. I get the sense that it’s not me she’s annoyed with. I file that little piece of information away, too. It might come in useful one day.
“Okay, okay,” she sighs, “let’s take a step back. I don’t want to start a war over this. Neither of us wants that. What do you want?”
I shrug. “I want the truth. Why the hell did Tony drop my man like they were in the middle of some blood feud?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it,” Sofia remarks acidly, taking a step back. It feels symbolic – like we are stepping away from the brink of something ugly. “And the truth is – I don’t know. A lot of my soldiers –,” she catches herself and winces, “my brother’s soldiers are still angry about what happened a few months ago.”
“About what happened?” I growl. It’s my turn to have an edge to my voice. “The way I remember things, your organization needed cleaning house. Maybe I should get me brother t’ send you the bill.”
“You killed –.”
I cut Sofia’s protest off at the knees. “We killed men who were happy to trade women like property. Is that the kind of business you want to run, Sofia?”
The Morello sister chews her lip. I can’t tell whether she wants to kiss me, punch me in the face, or storm off. In any event, she picks none of the above.
“Papa was a good man,” she offers, simply. “But in his old age, perhaps things didn’t run quite as smoothly as they once did. Perhaps we recruited some men that we shouldn’t have. Perhaps there are things we could have done better.”
“Perhaps?”
“I’m offering you an olive branch, Kieran,” Sofia bites out, “don’t throw it back in my face.”
I raise my palms in apology. “You’re a difficult woman to like, Sofia,” I remark. “But you want to know the strangest thing?”
Sofia shoots me a look that says neither yes, nor no. I can’t tell if she likes me or hates me, and the damnedest thing is that her coolness is on
ly fanning the flames inside me. The more she ignores me, the more I want to press my lips against hers again. The more I want to touch her, to taste her. To…
“I think that’s what I like about ye.” I smile. Sofia doesn’t so much as blink. “I’ll take the olive branch. I doubt my brother will be very happy if there’s a shooting war going on when he returns to Boston.”
“What do you suggest?” Sofia asks.
“I’ll get my man, and we’ll walk out of here and forget this ever happened. But –,” I raise my finger, “ye need to do something for me.”
Sofia’s eyebrows wrinkle.
“I need you to clean out that house of vipers. My men won’t stand for another attack, not like this. They’ll demand war, and I won’t be able to hold them back. Hell, I won’t stand in their way at all.”
I extend my hand. “Deal?”
Sofia stares at it for a second, and I think she’s going to ignore me – again. This time, however, her delicate little fingers close around mine, and we shake. “Deal.”
I turn into the diner.
“Send my man out, will you?” Sofia asks. Her tone is softer. We don’t sound like enemies – at least for a little while. I nod, and head inside.
“Danny,” I whistle. My man’s battered head turns. “Come here, will you – and bring me jacket. Tell Tony to meet Sofia outside.”
I wait by the door until Danny limps over to me, and Tony broods past. Even his presence seems evil. He heads out into the cold. I squeeze Danny’s shoulder. “I need ye to do me another favor,” I say, “and yer not going to like it.”
“Name it, boss.”
“I need you to forget this ever happened: the attack – everything. I have a funny feeling about tha’ Tony guy; I think there is more to this mess than meets t’eye. But I don’t want to pick a fight with the Morellos until I’ve got all the facts. Are we all good?”
“You got it, boss,” Danny grimaces. “You make the big calls; I just shoot who I’m told.”
