by Dana Delamar
“I know you didn’t approve. You should be happy. Papà got his way.”
Her mother shook her head. “How could seeing you hurt make me happy?”
She was being unfair to her mother. “I’m sorry, Mamma. I’m just upset. I need to talk to Cris, right this minute. Where is he?”
“Out back.” Her mother touched Delfina’s cheek. “Come see me when you’re done.”
Delfina nodded, but she wasn’t sure she could bear her mother’s sympathy. Not when her mother believed that women in their world shouldn’t have jobs outside the home. Any sympathy she offered would only be accompanied by assurances that Delfina leaving her job was for the best.
When she walked out onto the back terrace, Cris looked up from a book. It was the same one on economics that he’d been reading the day of Nick’s initiation. A cup of espresso steamed by his side. Her feelings must have shown because like their mother, he immediately asked her what was wrong.
“I trusted you. I trusted you to be my brother, not to act like the Andretti capo. But you couldn’t resist, could you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That day where you told Signor Morelli to put my dress in the show.”
“I didn’t make him do anything.”
She snorted. “You practically forced him. ‘This should be on the runway.’”
Setting down the book, Cris raised his hands in surrender. “Seriously, Delfi, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The more he protested his innocence, the more heat flamed up in her. Her face was hot, her voice thick. “Stop pretending. You knew what you were doing. I couldn’t see it at the time, but I certainly see it now.” Her blood thundered in her ears, and her hands trembled. “I hate what you’ve become.”
He rose, the metal chair scraping along the stones as he moved. “Are you saying you hate me?”
He sounded so wounded, she wanted to take it back. But she said nothing. A gulf had opened up between them. A gulf she didn’t know how to close.
“Delfi, I’m your brother.”
“You are Papà’s son. And that means you can’t be loyal to anyone else.”
Cris let out a small pained sound, and he stepped toward her. “That’s not true.”
“If I asked you to step down as capo di società, would you?” It wasn’t fair of her to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself.
He reached out, putting his hands on her arms. “Papà would never forgive me.”
She twisted out of his reach. “I knew it.”
He took her by the arms again. “Let me finish,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “It’s always been you and me, Delfi. The two of us together in this mess. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.” His voice was hoarse when he finished, his eyes filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t seen since he was a little boy. Maybe he was telling the truth.
“You honestly weren’t trying to intimidate Signor Morelli?”
“I wasn’t. Look, I forget sometimes. I still think I’m just this kid, you know? I sometimes can’t believe anyone listens to me. Or takes me seriously.”
She touched his temple, smoothing back the curls that had fallen over his bandage. “I’m sorry, Cris.”
“And I’m sorry about the misunderstanding with Morelli. I’ll fix it tomorrow.” When her vision blurred with tears, he said, “What happened at work? Why are you home early?”
She started to tell him the story. When she faltered, he pulled her close, and that was when she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. She sobbed against his shoulder, not listening to the comforting words he murmured until he said again that he could fix things with Signor Morelli.
“I quit, Cris. I’m not going back there.”
“But you were so happy. And Nick seems fine with you working.”
Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from him. “It’s tainted. Don’t you see? I thought I got that job on my own terms, I thought my dress got in the show on its own merits. But it was the Andretti name, the Andretti money, the Andretti threat that got me in the door. They don’t want me there. They’re afraid of us.”
Cris slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He turned from her, looking out across the lake. “There’s no escaping who we are, is there?”
Her throat and chest ached. If she thought she had it bad, Cris had it worse. He truly had no choice, no hope of ever escaping. And the odds were he’d end up dead well before his time. If he didn’t end up in prison first.
She embraced him from behind, no longer able to comfortably rest her chin on his shoulder. Her little brother was still growing. “All I do is whine about myself and my problems. I haven’t been much help to you lately, have I?”
He shrugged, but put his hands over hers where they circled his chest. “Things could be worse. We could be digging through the trash for our next meal.”
She chuckled. “You sound like Gio. She gave me a lecture about how I’ll never be Mother Teresa.”
He laughed, his chest rumbling under her hands. “She’s right.”
“I know.” Delfina squeezed him hard, then let go. She walked over to the table, taking a sip of his cooling espresso. He followed her, and they both took seats.
After they’d gazed at the lake for a while, passing the espresso back and forth, Cris said, “I know this might sound like a stupid question, but are you going to be happy with Nick?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he is an ‘Ndranghetista now. I know you didn’t want that.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Delfi.”
She looked at him. “He’s a better choice for me than Leandro. Much better.”
“I thought you loved him.”
“I do.” She smiled. “But he’s horribly stubborn and he doesn’t listen.”
Cris chuckled. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
That made her laugh. “Okay, we’re probably well-matched that way.”
“I want you to be happy. One of us should be.”
“Are you thinking about Gio?”
He shrugged, his answer for everything. “Maybe.”
“Now that Leandro and I—”
“Maybe.”
“Cris, you can’t give up on what you want.”
Eyes hard, he held her gaze. “I will do what’s necessary.” Then he added, “But I am going to try.”
And she needed to try for happiness too. She’d promised Nick she’d help him atone for what he’d done. Now was the perfect time to ask Cris about the recordings. “I need to ask you something.”
He ran a hand over his hair. “Ask away.”
“I need to know where Papà keeps the recordings from the bugs in the guest house.”
“Why?”
“Nick and I…” Though it was the perfect excuse, she still blushed. “The other night—”
Holding up a hand, Cris pretended to shudder. “Say no more. I can fill in the blanks.”
“No doubt you heard us well before you saw us at the temple. That was all on you.”
“I was curious. I didn’t think it was going to be my sister.”
“Well you certainly didn’t walk away.”
He pursed his lips. “I was angry. So were you. I think we’re even.”
“True.” After a moment, she said, “I could use your help. I want to get that recording before Papà does.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. I don’t know where they are.”
Damn it. Resting her elbows on her knees, she asked, “He hasn’t told you?”
“It’s not that.”
Raising a brow, she said, “What is it then?”
Cris leaned forward. “You can’t tell anyone this. Capisci?”
“Of course. Now spill.”
“Nonno had bugs all over Benedetto’s and Lorenzo’s homes. Aunt Toni was a genius at planting them. No one suspected her.”
; Excitement sizzled through her. This could be what she and Nick needed. “But?”
“Nonno never told Papà where the recordings were.”
Now that was a surprise. “What if you help me search for them?”
Cris frowned. “You can’t let Papà know that I told you. He was furious over the initiation.”
“He knows I didn’t want Nick to join. That’s no secret. And Papà seemed pretty happy in the end.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Nick didn’t know what he was getting into.”
Cris’s voice sharpened. “What has he said to you?”
“Nothing. He’s happy about it. It’s what he wanted.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“He’s not like you. He hasn’t been raised for this since birth.”
“He got a good taste before the initiation.”
She traced a finger over the design on the beautifully painted ceramic tabletop. “I don’t want to be worrying that my husband will be gunned down.”
“Nick’s not going to be doing the typical work.” Cris downed the rest of his coffee. “He’ll have it quite easy in fact.”
“Except that he runs the risk of prison. Or perhaps Benedetto will put a bullet in him.”
“Why do you say that?”
She stared at him, open mouthed. “Now who’s being naïve? Benedetto doesn’t like anyone to have an advantage over him, certainly not Papà. And having a spy in Interpol is a big advantage. And then there’s the business with the Russians.”
“What about it?” His voice was sharp, defensive.
“Cris, are you being deliberately obtuse?”
“You mean the money. Or the lack of it.”
“Exactly. Why were they underpaying?” she asked.
“Maybe they’d paid some other way.”
“Or maybe Benedetto owed them a favor or a large chunk of money.” Did she have to spell it out for him? Dio mio, her brother would be loyal to the family right until Benedetto put him in his grave.
Cris rubbed his chin. “What I don’t understand is why he didn’t tell me to expect the underpayment.”
“Maybe he wanted to weaken Papà.”
Cris looked at her, his eyes troubled at last. When he spoke, his voice was little above a whisper. “He suggested I take Nick. And that I keep it absolutely quiet.”
Bile rose up in her throat. She didn’t want to be right, but… “I’m afraid he’s going to try to finish what he started.” Chris said nothing, but the expression on his face spoke volumes. He was starting to believe. She took his hand. “There may be a way to save you both. Do you think Benedetto could have been working with the Russians?”
“Possibly.”
“Then you’ve got to tell Bisnonno Lorenzo.”
“What if I’m wrong?”
Fire burned in her chest. “Who cares? He tried to get you and Nick killed.”
“I don’t know that for sure.”
“Do the math, Cris.”
He focused on the lake for a long time before he spoke. “He’s my blood. How could he?”
“Not everyone has honor. We both know that.”
“He’s the head of La Provincia!”
“I’m sorry, Cris.”
He turned to her, eyes blazing, hands balled into fists. “If he set us up, I will hunt him down and shoot him like the dog he is.”
Maybe she shouldn’t have told him. But if she hadn’t, he’d never have seen the danger Benedetto posed. “Be careful, per favore. I beg you.”
“Only one of us is ending up dead. And it won’t be me.”
More than ever, she had to find those recordings. Now. Before Cris did something they’d both regret.
CHAPTER 20
Ilya Vilanovich’s latest call had veered from threatening to homicidal. He wanted blood for his sons. And he made clear if he didn’t get the shooter, Benedetto’s blood would do just as well. “You are hearing me?” Vilanovich growled in his clumsy English.
“Patience, Ilya. You will have your vengeance. The Lucchesi boy will soon marry my nephew’s daughter. Send your men to me the usual way, and we’ll go over the plan. My only condition is that the boy’s father, Enrico Lucchesi, not be harmed. I need him alive—for now. But you can have my grandnephew, the Lucchesi boy, and my nephew as well.”
“Why this nephew?”
“Because he will want vengeance upon you.”
“And your father? He will want same, no?”
Benedetto chuckled. “He will see the wisdom of my choices.” There was no need to mention that having the Russians strike against two ‘Ndrangheta families was exactly the unifying provocation that Lorenzo hoped for, an undeniable catalyst for bringing the clans together. Under Andretti “guidance” of course.
“I will send my men. And I will come also.”
Porco Dio! The last thing he wanted was the volatile Russian in the mix. “Scorched earth” wasn’t a military policy to Ilya Vilanovich. It was a way of life. The old man had risen to prominence through the ruthless and unstinting application of violence. “There is no need to trouble yourself.”
Ilya barked with laughter. “Trouble? Trouble is stepping on landmine and hearing click. Trouble is having RPG pointed at your face. Trouble is running out of credit at casino, and when they threaten to break your legs, you ask Russian friend to help. And you hope his memory is no good from vodka.”
Benedetto’s face heated. He hated that Ilya knew his weakness and felt free to throw it in his face. The day the Russian finished playing his part, he’d force Vilanovich to eat those words, to plead for mercy. But today was not that day. “I did not mean to minimize your pain, Ilya. I meant only to assure you that I have the situation under control.”
Vilanovich laughed again, the sound harsh. “You are referring to how well you handled this?”
Oh yes, Ilya would eat a gun barrel before Benedetto was through.
“Nothing’s perfect.”
Except revenge.
After his meeting with Fuente, Nick drove aimlessly around Como. Why was he being thwarted at every turn? Was this a sign from heaven, a sign that he should walk away?
Nick returned to the church and retrieved his mobile and the GPS tracker, placing it back on the Spider’s undercarriage where he’d found it. As he was about to turn on the car to leave, a flash of sunlight glinting off the stained-glass window caught his attention.
He’d never been a particularly religious person, and he no longer considered himself a Catholic, but something drew him to the church. Exiting the car, he headed up the walkway to the steps, his chest tight, his eyes aching. He hadn’t set foot in a church since his mother’s funeral. As he climbed the steps, he rubbed at the ache behind his sternum. What the hell was he doing?
The church, though small, boasted an ornately decorated interior, including a stunning depiction of the crucifixion. Nick walked down the center aisle, his feet drawing him forward. He stopped at the front row of pews and knelt, clasping his hands in prayer. But he didn’t know what to pray for. This was daft. He didn’t belong here. He rose hastily and hurried back down the aisle. A strong clear voice halted him.
The hairs rose at the back of his neck, and for a second he had the sensation that Jesus himself had said the words. But when he turned, of course he saw a priest, all in black, a short, balding, portly man with red cheeks and kind eyes. He asked again in Italian how he could help Nick.
“I don’t know why I came here.” Realizing he’d answered in English, he started to repeat himself, struggling to put the words into Italian, but the priest held up a hand to stop him. Then he answered Nick in perfect English.
“There was a reason you came. Perhaps you need to unburden your soul?” The priest motioned to the row of confessionals.
Nick hadn’t confessed since he was eight. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. So many sins to catalogue since then. He shook his head, but didn’t turn to leave.
The priest approac
hed and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come, my son, release your burdens, and you shall be healed.”
Numbly, Nick let himself be led to a booth. He took a seat and faced the priest through the grill. “I haven’t been to confession in almost twenty years,” he whispered.
The priest chuckled. “Well then, only the major sins, my son.”
“You cannot repeat anything I tell you?”
“Everything you say here is between you, me, and God.”
In a rush, Nick described the shooting at the docks and the warehouse arson and murder. “Four men are dead because of me.”
“God understands the intent behind your actions.”
“But I chose to save myself each time. Those men died because of my selfishness.”
“Do you repent your choices?”
Nick’s gut clenched. He hated to admit the truth. But if he didn’t do so here, when would he? “I want to say yes, but in my heart…”
“It is the rare man who can willingly sacrifice his life for another’s. Even Christ had his doubts.”
The answer was little comfort. “How do I live with what I’ve done?”
The priest drew in a breath, then let it out. Nick heard the creak of wood as the man shifted in his seat. “Are you seeking absolution, my son?”
“I cannot ask for that.”
“That is because you haven’t forgiven yourself.”
“How can I? All I want is to bring the men who ordered these crimes to justice, but the avenues I’ve tried are closed to me now.”
“Is that really true?”
No. He did have one more option: pursue the prosecution through Interpol and accept his own dismissal for Mafia ties. Of course, Émile’s wife might die because of his choice. He explained his dilemma.
“Is it certain that she will suffer due to your actions?”
“No. But it’s possible.”
“You must trust in our Holy Father.”
Or maybe, he should trust in his father. “Can a man be moral and still be part of the Mafia?”
The priest chuckled. “Anything is possible. But such a thing would be a miracle, yes?”
Nick stared at the dark wood paneling of the confessional, searching his heart for answers. For some reason, he remembered the day his father had left them for the last time, remembered his father swinging him up into his arms and whirling him about in a circle until he was dizzy. Then his father had pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “I love you, Nico.” There’d been tears on his father’s cheeks. Tears that had prompted Nick to beg him to stay or to take him and Mummy back with him to Italy. “I cannot.” There had been such sadness in his father’s voice, such regret. A fierce grief in his eyes.
