by Dana Delamar
He was probably going to regret this, wasn’t he? He might very well end up in the same position as Delacourt—or worse. But how else was he to get answers? To get justice?
No risk, no reward. No doubt the famous last words of many a fool.
CHAPTER 3
As the plane touched down at Milan’s Malpensa airport, Nick balled his hands into fists and bumped them down on the armrests. Show time.
Hefting his carry-on case, he hailed a taxi and directed it to his hotel in Milan. He flipped his mobile over and over in his hands, itching to call Dario Andretti and berating himself at the same time. You’re walking into a trap, you idiot.
Delacourt had warned him, and Nick wasn’t such an idiot that he couldn’t see the danger himself. And yet, how else was he ever going to get answers? How else was he ever going to get justice for his mother or for his father’s other victims? Fiammetta Trucco hadn’t deserved to die any more than his mother had. Enrico Lucchesi had used both women and discarded them like so much used tissue. And who knew what else he’d done. Maybe he’d killed that judge too.
Never again.
If he was smart, the first thing he’d do would be to talk to Silvio Fuente, the local carabinieri contact. The question was: could he trust the man? Delacourt seemed to think Fuente was reliable, but more than one officer of the carabinieri had been caught taking bribes from the Mafia.
Nick did need backup though. And some sense of who Andretti was. If he consulted Fuente, it had to be off the record. And without letting Fuente know his true purpose.
Even amidst the mid-morning bustle of the Piazza del Duomo in the heart of Milan, Silvio Fuente was hard to miss. He was in full carabinieri dress uniform, the long black cloak over his shoulders making him look like a cross between a Nazi SS officer and an eighteenth-century soldier. Fuente was fit, dark-haired, and somewhere in his forties. A pair of tourists snapped Fuente’s picture as he stood beneath the weathered bronze statue of Vittorio Emanuele II astride his horse.
When the tourists moved on, Fuente tipped his black officer’s hat at Nick. “Signor Clarkston?”
Nick held out his hand to shake. “Signor Fuente.”
The man smiled, revealing a flash of white teeth beneath a dark mustache, as he took Nick’s hand in his gloved one. With his other hand, Fuente pointed to the rank insignia at his neck. “Sottotenente. Lieutenant second class.”
“I apologize.” Firm shake, strong, direct eye contact. All good.
Fuente waved off Nick’s words. “No need. My promotion was hard won, and perhaps I am too proud of it.” He laughed at himself. “What brings you to Milan? You told me precious little on the phone.”
“We’ve run across some data that indicates a major drug shipment is coming to Milan.”
The lieutenant raised a brow. “Who are the involved parties?”
Deep breath. You can do this. “We believe half of the transaction involves the Andretti and Lucchesi families. The drugs are coming out of Spain.”
With a chuckle, Fuente stroked his mustache. “You are at least part wrong. Enrico Lucchesi may be many things, but he is staunchly anti-drug. His family is not involved.”
Sure. “Sometimes people say one thing and do another.”
Fuente’s mouth twisted. “I am sure this will sound strange, but Lucchesi is a man of his word. I would trust him above many others.”
“You know him personally?”
“I have met him in the course of my duties, yes.”
“I find it odd that a man in your profession would defend a mobster.”
The lieutenant’s dark eyes locked on to Nick’s. “Are you implying something about my character?”
“Not at all. Just remarking on a curiosity.” Nick paused. “But sometimes we can get too close to the men we chase. “
“Silvio Fuente is not for sale.”
I wonder. “So, if Lucchesi isn’t involved, what about Andretti?”
Tilting his head, Fuente shrugged. “It is certainly possible. Though we have not heard anything to corroborate your intelligence.”
“Do you know everything these men are up to?”
“You would be surprised.”
“How?”
A half-shrug this time. “I have my ways.”
“I thought we would be working together, not playing games.”
Fuente pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered them to Nick, and when he declined, Fuente lit one and took a drag before answering. “I have a network of paid informants.”
He needed that long to say so? What was the man up to? “And they’re reliable?”
“For the most part.”
“So this Andretti family. What do you know about them?”
“Regarding the Milan branch, the old don, Carlo Andretti, was recently murdered. We have not found the killer yet. His son, Dario, has taken over.”
“You think he killed the old man?”
Fuente blew out a stream of smoke, politely directing it away from Nick. “Possibly, but Carlo had many enemies.”
“His primary one?”
The man smiled. “Enrico Lucchesi.”
“That name again.”
“The very same.” Fuente scanned him up and down. “Tell me. What is your interest in Lucchesi?”
“He’s a suspect.”
The lieutenant seemed to be holding back amusement. “May I give you a word of advice?” Nick nodded. “You seem awfully young. Fresh to the job, yes?” Nick’s jaw tightened. Fuente had seen right through him. “Go home, Signor Clarkston. Before you are killed. These men, they have little patience.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then you are a fool. Dario Andretti would have you for breakfast. Before breakfast.”
“You know Andretti?”
Another draw on the cigarette, another pause before answering. “We have met. He is a real dark horse, as you English say. A rather cunning one, I believe. Stay away from him.”
“And Lucchesi?”
Fuente smiled. “Go home, signore, while you still can.” He tipped his cap at Nick and set off across the park.
Nick flushed, his cheeks heating. Idiot. Fucking prat. You thought you could fool him? The man had probably seen every liar and con man there was. And Fuente had very nicely told him he was out of his league, though he had barely held back laughing. Nick couldn’t have been a bigger fool if he’d charged out onto the football pitch during the World Cup and tried to play striker for England.
He ought to turn back, if he knew what was good for him. But there was no other way. If even the local police were on his father’s side, the man would never see justice. Unless Nick kept pushing.
What was it about his father that seemed to charm every person he encountered?
Nick laughed. He was probably the only person immune to that charm. Well, except for Dario Andretti. Which was why the way forward pointed to Andretti.
Nick had no choice—it was into the lion’s den or back to a life of toothless outrage.
Dario Andretti hung up with Fuente and smiled. Interpol was so predictable, and so was the boy; the first thing he’d done was reach out to Fuente for information, though he hadn’t received anything of substance—just enough of a tease to keep him intrigued. Fuente had even thrown in a warning for good measure, like some grizzled police veteran warning off a “rookie” in an old American film noir. He really didn’t pay Fuente enough.
Dario laughed again. That wasn’t true, but Fuente had a way of pleading poverty that was highly amusing. The man was forever wheedling raises from him, first to fund his children’s education, now to refurbish his ramshackle home. Dario had never been there, but it must have been an utter shambles considering how many euros it had cost so far to renovate. Someday he’d have to look in on it. For all he knew, the man was building a palazzo to rival one out of imperial Rome.
But he was worth every cent.
As Fuente had predicted, Clarkston called Dario anyway, less than fifteen minu
tes after his meeting with the carabiniere. Gutsy little stronzo. Dario had to admire him a bit. The boy didn’t give a damn about his own safety. That would probably make him easier to control, easier to manipulate. Easier to manage, in whatever way he wished.
Dario sent one of his men in Milan to get Clarkston and bring him to the lake, over his objections. Didn’t the boy realize he’d displayed fatal weakness by coming to Milan? This game would be played on Dario’s terms, or not at all. The boy seemed not to realize how vulnerable he was. How vulnerable his grandparents were.
The question now was what to do with Clarkston. With Enrico Lucchesi’s son. The thought rolled through Dario’s mind with great satisfaction. He had Lucchesi by the balls, and Lucchesi didn’t yet know it.
Even though Lucchesi had killed Dario’s father Carlo, Lucchesi thought Dario had agreed to a détente. Forever the optimist, forever the fool—Lucchesi, like his son, was utterly predictable.
Killing Clarkston would be easy, but not satisfying. No, the revenge Dario wanted was more complicated. Lucchesi would beg and crawl before Dario was done with him. Lucchesi had insulted him too many times over the years. First he’d stolen Toni away from him, all those years ago. Most recently, he’d implied that Dario hadn’t earned his place as capo. That Enrico had given it to him by killing Carlo, that Carlo would have never willingly let Dario have it.
There was a grain of truth to that, but things had changed by the end. Carlo had saved Dario’s life by not revealing his role in Rinaldo Lucchesi’s death. Enrico’s father had died hard, his death savage and brutal. Not at Dario’s hands, but by his order. He looked down at the void on his right hand, at the little finger that was no more.
Rinaldo Lucchesi had taken that finger from Dario when he’d discovered that Carlo had murdered his wife and sons in retaliation for Dario’s kidnapping. Dario supposed Rinaldo had been sorely provoked, but he’d never forgiven the man. A true man of honor would never have maimed a fourteen-year-old boy. Never. And then on top of it, it was Enrico who’d stopped his father from doing worse, from taking Dario’s whole hand.
The humiliation still burned. No wonder Lucchesi still thought of him as a child who couldn’t fend for himself. Who had to be helped.
He was no child. He needed no one’s help. Certainly not Lucchesi’s.
So what to do with the boy? Kidnapping was an option; the boy was delivering himself, and even if he did resist or escape, there were the grandparents to keep him in line. Once he had the boy, he could lure Lucchesi in and kill him. But that was too easy, too swift. Lucchesi needed to suffer.
He could certainly feed the boy information, point him in the right direction, use Fuente to lead him along to certain conclusions, conclusions that would put Lucchesi in jail for the rest of his life. That was good; Lucchesi’s confinement would be especially bitter if his own son were the one who put him away.
But perhaps he could try another tack, one that would require finesse and time: turning the boy. Making him part of the Andretti cosca. The payoff would make the delay worthwhile. Lucchesi would be devastated to lose his son in such a manner. And once Lucchesi was crushed, Dario would swoop in for the kill, and Milan and the lake would be his alone.
It was a brilliant idea, but a tendril of unease wound through his gut. What if somehow this were all a trap? What if the boy were in league with his father, what if Enrico Lucchesi were behind the boy’s foolhardy, nonsensical behavior? He must proceed with caution, take his time. Study the boy. And then make the move no one would suspect.
Someone tapped on the door to his study. He glanced at his watch. It couldn’t be Clarkston; the trip between Milan and the lake took at least forty-five minutes. He didn’t expect the boy for another half hour at the earliest. The door opened a bit. “Papà?” Delfina. She’d cracked at last. He’d known she would. Everyone did in the end.
Delfina stepped into her father’s study. The smile on his face sent guilt arrowing through her. He stood up and greeted her, placing his hands on her upper arms, holding her still while he planted kisses on her cheeks. “Your mother tells me you’ve finally forgiven me.”
She started to object, then realized it would be better if he thought she had; then maybe he’d take the news that she’d invited Antonio to the birthday party a little better. “Yes, Papà.” She tugged on the hem of her blouse, acting contrite. “I know I’ve been…” She cast about for the right word.
“Ungrateful?” he suggested, his tone light.
“What about we just say I’ve been angry?” At least it was true.
He smiled, chuckling. “Okay, Delfi.” He rubbed her arms, squeezing her biceps lightly. “You know I love you, yes?”
“I know.” She looked up, her eyes wet. Why did he have to be so nice to her now? “I love you too.”
His smile broadened and he hugged her close. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice muffled by his shirt.
He let her step back. “Next time I find a suitor for you, you get to meet him first. And if you say no, I won’t argue.” He raised his brows in a silent plea. “Is that reasonable?”
Why couldn’t he have been like this before? “But I don’t want to marry just yet. Maybe after I find a job.”
“You know you’re just wasting your time.”
“A career is not a waste of time. I’ll need something to do before and after I have kids.”
“You’ll have a household and a husband to take care of. Won’t that be enough? It makes your mother happy.”
Does it really? “I want more. I have dreams. I have talent. Can’t I do both?”
He pursed his lips, letting a breath out through his nose. “Cara, that’s up to your husband.”
She lost her patience then. “Why is it that women have careers in America and women here are stuck in the past?”
“You really think they’re any happier? They say half of American marriages end in divorce. That means many people are unhappy. And I think it’s because the women are trying to do too much.”
“Well then, I won’t marry.” She crossed her arms.
Her father laughed and pulled her close again. “You’re not quite twenty-two yet. Listen to your old father for once. You’re going to want to marry and have a family. And it’s best to do that when you’re young. Maybe when your children are older, you can do something else. If you married now, by the time you’re thirty-five, you could be making dresses, if your husband doesn’t mind.”
She twisted out of his embrace. “Why does he get to decide?”
Her father’s face grew somber. “You know in our business that it pays to keep a low profile. Maybe your husband wouldn’t want a famous fashion designer for a wife.”
There was so much wrong with what he’d said, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You think I could be famous?”
“Of course. With my money behind you, you could be anything.”
The air leaked out of her, her chest shrinking like a balloon days after a party. She searched his face. He hadn’t a clue.
“Cara, what did I say?”
“If you can’t figure it out, I can’t help you.” He loved her, but he didn’t believe in her. He just didn’t think of her as a person. She turned on her heel and fled.
In her room, she grabbed her sketchbook from her desk and sat down on the bed. Dropping the book onto her lap, she curled herself over it, her cheek pressed to its cover. Tears welled up in her eyes. She would never get what she wanted. She might as well face that now. Hers would be a life of yearning, not fulfillment.
Part of her had always known it would be this way, but the dreamer in her had resisted, had insisted she had rights, choices. But that was all fantasy; no one born into this life escaped it without dying young. Her role was to bear the next generation of the ‘Ndrangheta, nothing more. Her father’s legacy would haunt her all her days. Oh yes, she’d be rich; she’d never lack for anything. But her heart would be poor.
&nb
sp; There was a rap on her door; it opened before she could answer. “Cara?” Her father poked his head in.
Delfina raised her head, hastily wiping her wet cheeks and shoving the sketchbook under her pillow. But her father wasn’t fooled.
“What is that?” he asked, coming into the room.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re crying.” He sat down next to her. “Show me, please. I can’t bear to see you so unhappy.”
She pulled out the book and tossed it to him. “Just a bunch of silly dreams I’ll never see come true.”
He opened the book and flipped through it. Despite herself, she studied his face, searching for clues as to what he thought of her sketches. “I’m no expert,” he said after a while, “but these seem to be very good.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Papà.”
He closed the book and held it for a few moments. Then he said, “Delfi, if you wanted, I could help you with this. If it would make you happy.”
A spark of hope lit up her chest, filling it with warmth. “It would, very much. But what do you mean? How can you help me?”
“The recession has hit the fashion industry just like everyone else. There’s a designer, Enzo Morelli, that I’ve bankrolled. I can get you a job in his shop.”
“I don’t want to get in that way!”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. It will be just an interview. I’ll make that plain. No problems if he says no.”
She thought about it. She still had another year before she finished her bachelor’s degree, then two more to finish a master’s in design. Was she even ready for such a challenge? “I don’t know, Papà. I haven’t finished school.”
“All the more reason to do an internship. To be sure you want to devote another three years of study to this.”
Maybe he just wanted to save money, but part of her saw the wisdom in what he was saying. What if she hated working in fashion? Then she’d have wasted a lot of time and effort. And even once she did finish her degree, it could be years—if ever—before she’d be able to get such an opportunity on her own. Signor Morelli would probably say no anyway. What could it hurt? An interview would let her know what to expect, and hopefully she could learn something too. “Don’t you dare threaten him. If he gives me the job, I want to have earned it.”
