With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1]

by Jennifer Lane

  A black cowboy boot emerged from the vehicle, followed by a solid leg clad in black pants. Carlo set both boots firmly on the concrete of the small parking area facing the grassy graveyard and stood, three inches shy of six feet.

  His jet-black, spiky hair was paired with thick eyebrows. His white button-down shirt was open at the chest, but tucked neatly into expensive slacks with nary a wrinkle. Despite the humidity, Carlo appeared calm, cool, and professional. But Logan knew appearances could be deceiving. Beneath Carlo’s frosty exterior was a fiery rage that could ignite instantly. He retaliated for any perceived slight with fierce ruthlessness and torturous cruelty.

  As Logan also exited his car, he thought back to the storied death of Vince, one of Angelo’s men. Vince had been stupid enough to criticize Carlo’s mismanagement of the Blackfoot heist after botched plans resulted in the arrest of several wise guys. Two days later, Vince had been found in his apartment, stabbed to death, with charred, black feet. The rumor was Vince’s feet had been singed while he was still alive, though nobody knew for sure, and the murderer had never been found. No one had openly questioned Carlo since.

  The cousins approached each other guardedly. Carlo should have deferred to Logan, Don Enzo’s firstborn. Instead, Carlo acted like he was in charge, which made Logan’s blood boil. Logan had little ground to stand on right now, though, and he had nobody to blame but himself. Losing hundreds of thousands of family dollars and being on the run from the law had placed him in quite a vulnerable position—one he despised.

  A sneer formed on Carlo’s face. “Still grieving la madre, Lo? When are you going to let her go?”

  Logan felt his throat constrict, and his knuckles whitened as he curled his fists tightly, though he said nothing.

  Carlo shook his head. “It was so easy to find you, cugino. You’re getting careless. You don’t think the cops will track you down here too?”

  Logan’s jaw clenched. “What do you want, Carlo?” Hearing himself ask the same question Grant had asked him at their mother’s grave, Logan felt ashamed. Did Grant view him the way he viewed Carlo? An evil, no-good, slithering snake, so damaged he was beyond redemption?

  Carlo narrowed his black eyes. “You know what I want. You know what the family wants—what the family needs. Two hundred Gs.”

  Logan averted his eyes, and Carlo moved in closer, his forehead somehow dry while Logan’s beaded with sweat.

  “We all know where the first hundred thou went, don’t we, Lo?” Carlo seethed. “You enlisted your little brother—the saint—and he can’t even steal back your own money.” Carlo laughed snidely. “But what about the second hundred thousand? Where did that go, cuz?” He sidled even closer to the larger man. “You holding out on us, golden child? You take that money for yourself?”

  “I don’t have the money!”

  “Then you get it,” Carlo snarled. “You and I got history—we’re family. And out of respect for that, I’ll give you some time to refill the coffers. But it better happen fast, cuz. If you don’t produce for the family, I’ll find someone who will.”

  “Leave Grant out of this,” Logan warned.

  Carlo laughed again, a maddening laugh. “That’s cute, cugino. You’re suddenly all protective of your brother—the same one you sent to prison for a three-year stretch.” He stared menacingly into Logan’s deep-blue eyes. “Which I hear ain’t quite a full three years now, is it?” The wheels turned in his head and Carlo smiled. “That’s what you’re doing here, isn’t it? Searching for a saint. To what—warn him about me? Let him know I’m looking for him?”

  Logan’s heart thumped though he showed nothing. He was much better at keeping his cards close to his chest than Grant. He was a much better liar.

  “But you don’t know where he is, either. Turns out Karita’s baby boy is more resourceful than either of us predicted, sí?”

  Swallowing hard, Logan remained silent. He remembered Carlo at eight years old. He’d been a spoiled boy, the only son of Angelo and Anna Maria Barberi, and the only cousin to Logan and Grant since Joe remained childless. When Carlo was eight, Logan was eleven and Grant six. Times had been different then.

  The eight year old’s laughter echoed in the basement playroom. Looking at the frightened expression on his little cousin’s cherubic face, he taunted, “Why are you so scared, Grant Pants?”

  Grant grimaced, furious that Carlo had somehow learned of his peeing his pants two years ago. Grant’s wary crystal eyes darted back and forth from his cousin to his older brother standing nearby. His voice trembled. “Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?”

  “Trouble?” Carlo scoffed. “For telling my dad to shut up?” He exhaled derisively, “Hardly.”

  Grant and Logan exchanged knowing glances. They wouldn’t dare talk back to their father. They knew what would happen if they tried.

  “My dad told me his dad used to beat the crap out of him and Uncle Enzo when they were kids,” Carlo explained. “He promised himself that when he became a dad, he wasn’t gonna hit his kid, like ever.” Shrugging, he added, “So I can do whatever the hell I want.”

  Grant’s eyes lit up with terror at hearing his cousin use a bad word like h-e-double hockey sticks, and he nervously glanced up the stairs to make sure his dad and uncle were still up there, unable to hear the conversation.

  Logan felt his chest tighten. He wished Angelo could be his father instead. It wasn’t fair.

  Carlo’s honey voice belied the menace in his words, bringing Logan back to the present. “Maybe Grant isn’t sufficient motivation for you, cuz. You threw him under the bus a little too easily. Maybe there’s somebody else you truly care about—somebody with great potential to become a real businessman, somebody who can contribute his share to the family, somebody who’s your own flesh and blood.”

  Logan lunged for Carlo, gripping the smaller man’s arms. They were inches apart as Logan shouted, “Don’t you dare touch Ben!”

  Carlo flinched as his cousin grasped the scarred flesh of his upper right arm. But he recovered quickly. “Get the fuck off of me, you Neanderthal.”

  Realizing he was threatening Angelo’s son, the second in command, Logan reluctantly released his cousin.

  Brushing off and straightening his shirt, Carlo glared. “Swear to God, you are as stupid as your father.”

  Logan was at his limit. If this asshole didn’t shut up soon, he was going to receive the beating of his life—regardless of his position in the Mafia hierarchy. Shaking his head incredulously, Logan fumed, “My father saved your sorry ass, cuz. And, yes, turns out saving you was a very stupid move.”

  Carlo couldn’t help but flash back to when he was ten years old, his body thrumming with excitement. The smell of booze and the palpable fury emanating off his Uncle Enzo, the thrill of secretly tagging along on an adventure, finally feeling like somebody important, hiding in the back of his uncle’s car, the hum of the tires on the highway …

  He despised this memory. He wished he could banish the experience from his brain, but the images were there, and they would not go away. Carlo was forever haunted by his childhood mistake.

  “That fucking pussy piece of shit!” Enzo raged, pacing the great room with a glass of scotch in his hand.

  “Easy, brother,” Angelo advised from his place at the wet bar. The two men, both in their thirties, both with midnight-black hair and deep charcoal eyes, traded intense stares.

  Ten-year-old Carlo took it all in from his hiding spot behind the sofa. He had never seen his uncle so angry before and was delighted to hear such bad words spewing like venom from his mouth.

  “Fanocelli thinks he’s going to inform on me?” Enzo demanded incredulously. “Son of a bitch. When is the fucking indictment coming down?”

  Angelo sighed. “From what I heard, about four days.”

  “I’ll fucking rip his heart out. I’m not going to prison.”

  “I know you’re not,” Angelo replied. “And that’s because we just found out his location.”r />
  “Whose location?”

  “Fanocelli.”

  Enzo’s eyes widened. “The cocksucker’s not in protective custody yet?”

  Angelo grinned. “Nope. He’s all by himself in a house on the south side.”

  A wondrous smile erupted on the don’s face. “You are a fucking genius, Ange. We’re obviously paying off the right government pricks. Give me the address.”

  “Now wait, Enz, we gotta plan this out, send a team in there—”

  “Bullshit! We wait, he goes into custody before we have a shot. I’m going there now.”

  “No, it’s too dangerous.” Angelo gestured to the empty glass in his older brother’s hand. “Hell, you’re two sheets to the wind by now, anyway. I got some guys on their way here and we’re gonna—”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to? You give me that goddamn address this instant.” Enzo’s voice took on a menacing growl, and Carlo felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Maybe he should return to his bed, where he was supposed to be at the moment. This situation was becoming serious.

  “This ain’t right, Enz. If something happens to you, what are Logan and Grant going to do?”

  “I’ll take care of things and be back home before they know the difference,” Enzo said.

  Carlo grinned. He knew something Logan didn’t! He finally had a leg up on his cousin, the boy his father constantly fawned over—it was so unfair. Carlo was finally part of the club. He was playing with the big boys now.

  “Quit dicking around, bro,” Enzo ranted. “If Fanocelli gets away and I go inside, I’ll never forgive you as long as I live.” His voice dropped as he stepped closer to Angelo. “Tell me the address, and I’m driving over there right now.”

  Hearing those words, Carlo slunk off to find a new hiding place: the back of his uncle’s car. He wasn’t going to miss the real adventure.

  Tucked away on the floor of the backseat, the diminutive ten year old prayed he wouldn’t be detected by his uncle. Luckily, Enzo didn’t even bother to check the darkened interior before getting into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.

  His excitement building with each passing mile, Carlo shook with anticipation when the car finally stopped. He held his breath as his uncle rustled around in the front seat for a few moments before quietly leaving the vehicle. Peeking out the side window, Carlo watched him stealthily move toward a darkened house. His uncle wore black gloves, and he’d stuffed a handgun into his waistband.

  Carlo gasped when he saw the gun gleaming in the streetlight. What was Uncle Enzo doing with a gun? Was he like a police officer or something? Was he going to arrest a bad man? This he had to see.

  Crawling out of the car, Carlo watched from the bushes as Enzo glanced around, then leaned down and fiddled with the knob on the back door of the house. The ten year old was even more intrigued when somehow his uncle got the door open and disappeared inside.

  Should he follow? Carlo stopped and started several times before telling himself to quit being such a pussy. He crept toward the same door that had swallowed his uncle. He winced as the hinges gave a small creak, and then suddenly he was inside the strange, dark house. Trying to adjust his eyes to the blackness, Carlo carefully stepped forward. His heart thumped and he wondered if this was such a good idea, but it was too late to turn back.

  Just as Carlo made it to the base of the stairs, he froze. His uncle was descending, coming straight for him. Enzo inhaled sharply when he caught sight of the boy. He surreptitiously pocketed his gun. Swiftly making his way down the last few steps, Enzo seized Carlo by the scruff of the neck and growled in a seething whisper, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Wincing and squirming in his uncle’s painful hold, Carlo whispered, “I was following you! T-t-t-to see why you had a gun.”

  “Jesus.” Enzo narrowed his eyes. “I was looking for somebody, but he wasn’t where I thought he’d be. Let’s get out of here.”

  There was a noise to their left, and Enzo clutched his nephew’s neck even tighter. He held his index finger to his mouth to signal Carlo to be silent. Carlo whimpered in pain—his uncle was really hurting him now.

  “Shut up!” Enzo hissed, and suddenly a shot blasted through the darkness, causing Carlo to slump into his uncle’s arms. His arm was on fire.

  “Shit!” Enzo yelled, dragging Carlo to the floor of the hallway. Carlo felt his uncle claw at his pajama shirt, seeming desperate to find the source of the blood.

  From the darkness came a small voice. “Dad?”

  In his haze, Carlo tried to make sense of what was happening. There was another kid there?

  Then a gruff adult voice admonished, “Get down, Tony!”

  “Richie Fanocelli,” Enzo angrily whispered, halting his search. “He fucking shot my nephew?”

  Carlo moaned, which refocused his uncle’s attention, and rough hands frisked his body. When his uncle’s hands grazed the bullet wound on his right arm, Carlo gasped. Enzo’s eyes lit up with fury.

  Shaking with rage, Enzo whipped out his weapon and fired into the darkness. He gave a satisfied grin when he heard the other man holler, “Nooo!” But Carlo watched Enzo’s grin vanish when the man started wailing. “Tony, nooo! My Tony. You’re only seven—oh, God!”

  Carlo sat up a little, panting with fear in his uncle’s arms. Enzo frantically looked back and forth from his injured nephew to the place in the darkness where a grown man was whimpering. Carlo felt drawn to the darkness, wondering what had happened.

  Enzo rose and attempted to pull Carlo to a standing position. Carlo cried out in pain, and Enzo flinched and backed away. In that moment, Carlo rushed forward into the room. “Carlo!” his uncle shouted after him.

  Gingerly holding his right elbow, Carlo stopped short. There, lying on the floor next to a discarded handgun, was a young boy. Carlo felt his uncle come up behind him, but he couldn’t look away.

  A sticky, dark-red substance poured from a hole in the boy’s throat as he clutched at his neck, wheezing and gasping for air. A heavyset gray-haired man crouched over him, cradling his small head in his hands and sobbing. Both man and boy wore pajamas.

  The man turned his weeping eyes to Carlo and his uncle, standing in the dim light.

  Carlo felt frozen, entranced by the blood oozing from the boy’s throat. He heard himself say, “It’s like Buckingham Fountain.”

  Enzo turned to him. “What?”

  Feeling the wet stain on the sleeve of his pajamas growing by the second, Carlo nodded toward the other boy’s throat with a zombie-like stare. “Blood. Gushing like that fountain in Grant Park.”

  Suddenly Enzo yanked Carlo into his arms, despite his cries of pain. Carlo looked up to see his uncle take one last look at Fanocelli and the stray gun on the floor before running out of the house, jostling Carlo’s wound with every step.

  Enzo huffed from the effort of carrying him across the lawn, but they finally reached the car.

  “Stay with me, Carlo,” he ordered.

  Carlo felt his eyelids droop, and he moaned as Enzo buckled him into the front seat.

  Enzo floored the accelerator, headed to an unknown destination.

  Despite his wooziness, Carlo was thrilled to be in the car, speeding down the deserted road—on an adventure with his uncle. “Uncle Enzo, tell Lo about this, ‘kay? Tell him I helped you and Dad.” Carlo’s voice faded, but he added, “He’ll be so jealous.”

  “Stay with me!” Enzo shouted. Carlo felt his uncle’s hand trying to prop him up in the seat, but all he wanted to do was sleep.

  The tires screeched to a halt and Carlo squinted at the bright lights. Abruptly he found himself cradled in the arms of his uncle, who was sprinting toward some sliding glass doors.

  “Help us!” Enzo shouted, bursting through the entrance.

  A startled nurse instructed, “In here!” and guided them into a curtained room where Enzo laid Carlo on a gurney. “What happened?” she demanded.

  “He’s been shot.�
��

  The nurse began cutting off Carlo’s pajama top, now sopping wet with blood. “How old is he?”

  Enzo’s voice sounded weird, sort of strangled. “Ten.”

  Two doctors bustled into the room and went to work.

  Amidst the chaos of people darting around his bed, barking orders at each other, Carlo’s head lolled to the side. The last thing he noticed before he lost consciousness was his uncle ducking behind the curtain and stealing away. Uncle Enzo had left him.

  Weeks later, when Carlo asked where Uncle Enzo had gone, his father filled in the rest of the story:

  Once out of the building, Enzo had broken into a run. He was almost to his car when a commanding voice ordered, “Freeze!” Enzo looked to find a uniformed police officer aiming his weapon straight at him. The officer’s partner jogged up to join him, and Enzo had no choice but to halt, glaring at the two cops.

  “Vicenzo Barberi, hands up!” the first officer shouted. The Mafia don did as he was told, noticing the gun weighing down one of his jacket pockets. The murder weapon. He was screwed.

  The officers were on him in a second, forcing him to the ground, finding the weapon, and roughly cuffing his hands behind his back. One officer radioed headquarters, informing them of the arrest. They’d suspected Enzo might hit the hospital after a 911 call.

  Fanocelli had called the police. The informant had fulfilled his duty.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” Logan’s deep voice broke through the memories.

  “What?”

  Logan squinted at his cousin, whose black eyes were even wilder than usual. Carefully he took a subtle step back.

  A car engine rumbled in the distance, and Carlo demanded, “Stop looking at me like that!”

  The noise increased, and Logan caught a glimpse of a car approaching. He inhaled sharply. Was that a cop? Quickly he jogged back toward his car.

  “Ah, life on the lam for a wanted man.” Carlo delighted in Logan’s fear of capture.

  As Logan hustled, Carlo called after him, “Don’t be a stranger, cugino!”

  As he started the car, Logan exhaled slowly, grateful for an excuse to get the hell away from his cousin. Carlo was bad news. He had to keep Grant away from him. He had to find Grant.