She had to ask, even knowing that it might cross a line between them. “Not everybody is happy with me at the head. There are a couple men I need to watch for, who might still come for me. I’m not safe until I deal with them. I need to be as strong as I can be, and that means I need everything else to be as stable as possible. Can you wait, for rest of the week, like we talked about?”
She hoped Nick would trust Angie, and her, and accept their relationship—maybe even see the benefits of the connection. But Angie was clearly concerned that he wouldn’t, and if Nick pulled his support from her right now, everything around her could fall.
Angie dropped his arms from her and walked away, all the way to her front windows, where he studied the view of the harbor and the Charles. He was still in his coat. “Goddammit, Giada.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll understand if you can’t wait.”
“This is killing me, you know?”
She’d been following after him, but she stopped now, seeing his reflection, and the bleak look in that diffuse image. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I never wanted this. I was happy as I was. No complications.”
“I didn’t want this, either.” Not for a very long time. Not since she was a girl dreaming of rescue.
Rescue hadn’t come, so she’d taken over the castle.
Now, with just a little more time, she could have everything she’d ever wanted.
Giada finished the journey to the window and stood behind him, setting her hands on his broad back. The cashmere was warm from his body. “I don’t want this to stop between us.”
He chuckled grimly, watching her reflection. “Bella e impossibile.”
“Not impossible. We can make it work, if you want it, too. I just need a few more days.” She tugged on his sleeve, and he turned to face her. The brash, he-man enforcer was gone. Now he was raw, torn apart.
“It shouldn’t be a betrayal to fall in love,” she murmured.
He studied her eyes, diving deep, before he asked, “Is that what’s happening? Love?”
“Isn’t it?”
A heavy sigh lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “I wish I’d never gone to that fucking wedding.”
Giada’s feelings weren’t hurt by his harsh, despondent assertion; she understood where it came from. But she didn’t share the sentiment. She cupped her hands around his cheeks—they were smooth; he must have had a second shave—and said, “And I’m very glad you did.”
A groan full of bitter pain left him as he lowered his head to hers and kissed her. Giada tried to salve him with her body, pulling him close, showing him all she felt, how glad she was to have this chance with him. If he couldn’t survive the turmoil, if he had to tell Nick now, she’d understand. No matter what happened, she’d understand. But if he could give her a little more time, she was sure she could make everything right for them both. Nick was a good man. He was a wise man. He’d understand. Eventually, if not right away.
When they both needed a breath and the kiss eased to an end, Angie rested his forehead on hers.
“Can you stay?” she asked.
He shook his head, rocking against hers. “I can’t. It was stupid to come.”
“I’m glad you did.”
Pressing another kiss, this one light and gentle, on her lips, Angie stood straight and set her back. “I hope we both survive this.”
“Together, we will.”
Another bleak chuckle. “We’ll see.”
~ 15 ~
La Cosa Nostra, what outsiders called the Mafia, had its origins in the mid-nineteenth century, when Italy annexed Sicily. The feudal system of the old way was abolished, and land redistributed from the few to the many. With property spread more widely, with more possessions and wealth to amass and protect, clans rose up to claim territory and warred with each other to keep it.
In the new way, as in the old, those who held the most land, and the fullest coffers, wielded the most power. But now, there was no caste to hold it in place. There was only the will to fight and die, to take and to keep.
The most powerful clans became the new lords. As lords do, they formed alliances, making friends with enemies to ally against others, concentrating their resources again. As their power grew it broke the boundaries of the sunbaked island of Sicily. First it moved north, into mainland Italy, where, as such things do, it splintered and spawned competitors from its own roots. Then, immigrants brought it over to the great, gleaming wonder of America. Over the ages, as the world progressed and technology made borders porous and distances insignificant, what evolved from those humble, post-feudal origins stretched all the way around the globe.
But in all those decades, all those friendships and alliances, enemies and wars, all the miles from Palermo and back again, only one descendent ever matched the power of its ancestor: the Americans.
New York and New Jersey got all the glory, thanks to Hollywood; everyone’s first association to the word ‘Mafia’—a word actual members rarely used—was either Corleone or Soprano. The true New York Council of Five Families had bought into that hype—and, thus, they’d almost been destroyed. When omertà broke in the 1980s and 1990s, and made man after made man turned rat to saved himself, New York fell to its knees. They’d never been as strong since. Countless other groups, from all corners of the world, surged into the void. African American, Haitian, Irish, Dominican, Russian, Ukrainian, Albanian, Chinese, Korean, Colombian, Salvadoran: if there was a neighborhood in the boroughs, an enclave where folks of shared heritage—and the crews were all connected by heritage, because blood doesn’t lie—built their lives together, there was a crew looking for a piece of the pie the Italians had always before kept on their own sill.
New England watched what happened to New York, and learned. They let the spotlight settle on their flashier brothers and kept their own businesses quiet. They invested in building relationships with powerful people in law and politics—outsiders would call it payoffs—and, as a Council, they agreed to chase the steady dollar before the quick one. When the so-called ‘War on Drugs’ sent the profits of drug trafficking into the stratosphere, and other organizations were diving into the trade with both feet, the New England Families held back. And watched the drug trade light the fuse that blew up in the middle of the New York Council.
Since then, New England had become the real power players in the ‘American Mafia,’ and Nick Pagano was the real power in New England.
For years, the New England Families had held fast to that agreement to stay out of the filthy business of drugs. They recognized that the fall of one family meant the likely fall of the others, and they agreed on caution and longevity. But eventually, the money became too good for some to pass up. First the Abbatontuonos, and then the Saccos, gave in to the allure. So far, they’d kept their involvement lowkey, working through contractors, putting several layers of distance between them and the traffic, but Tommy Sacco had been making brasher moves lately.
It was one of the main reasons Donnie had agreed to bring Giada’s request for help to Nick. Tommy was becoming a danger to the Council, and there was no one better suited to take his place than the woman who had so far been keeping her brother’s damage under control.
The other reason Donnie had promoted her plan was, of course, Nick’s own intentions for rocking their world: Trey. With a woman on the Council, a half-blood heir wouldn’t be such a blasphemy.
But Nick was a true ally because he respected Giada herself and thought she would be a good don. His tests of her had been, Angie knew, more to make sure she believed it as well. They were about to make history together, and he couldn’t have a partner beset with self-doubt.
All families of La Cosa Nostra, wherever they called home, considered themselves related, deriving from the same ancestor. They were largely independent, subject to their own ways and the bonds of their alliances. But they shared the foundation of their origins, and with that came a set of traditions considered sacrosanct throughout
their world. That tradition gave Sicily authority over them all.
Sicily, was, in other words, not unlike God—not involved in the daily workings, but paying attention from above.
And Sicily had noticed the big moves happening in New England.
Giada had wisely allowed Tommy to have the honor of a don’s burial, with a three-day vigil and visitation before the funeral Mass and burial. The story she’d crafted, that Tommy had gone out on his own and had been mugged and shot in the alley behind a nightclub, was entirely plausible to those who knew him and also allowed his memory to retain some respect. Moreover, it cast no blame on any player, thus incited no beefs with other crews. But everyone who needed to know the truth knew it.
During the vigil, dignitaries from all over the underworld, New York to Florida to California, north and south of the border and across the oceans as well, came to the funeral home to pay their respects to his grieving family, and Giada had, by dint of taking on the roles and responsibilities thereof, presented herself as the new head of the Sacco Family.
The first day was for family only. When the Paganos arrived on the second day of the vigil, Nick had helped her in the way he’d promised. By his proximity and the kind of respect he paid her, he showed that he considered her to have equal standing with him. She was a colleague, another don on the Council. The crowded vigil hummed with the news, but no voice had challenged it, not loud enough to be heard. And other dons and crew leaders followed suit.
Giada had the support of the most powerful among them. At least for this moment, no one questioned the rightness of her claim.
Angie had kept his distance since that night he’d recklessly, stupidly shown up at her place, the night she’d asked him once again to keep a secret from his don, and he’d once again agreed. They’d had no contact in more than a week, but still she dominated his thoughts, which kept his guilty turmoil churning. Every day he kept the secret was another hit to his chance to be right with Nick when he did come clean.
He’d told her this was killing him, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. It took all his will to focus on his work. Not even sparring at the gym could clear his head.
But he stood with Nick and Donnie in this elegant visitation room, where Tommy’s body was displayed in a pearl-grey casket, and watched Giada accept condolences like a don, not a mere sister. He heard the name Donna Sacco whispered around him, and he knew he’d been right to wait. Whatever hit he took for the secret, she’d be okay.
And then, on the afternoon of the third day of the vigil, which was almost entirely underworld visitors, the Sicilians walked in.
What could only be called a delegation—six men—strolled in together. The oldest of them, a short, round man with a few wisps of combed-over white hair and small black eyes under bushy white brows, led the group, walking with a pronounced limp Angie knew was from an old gunshot wound.
Ettore Cuccia, called Il Padrino. The Godfather. The real one.
At Angie’s side, Donnie made a soft sound, the one he made in place of a whistle. His mouth wouldn’t make the shape to whistle. But the connotation was clear: he was as shocked as Angie. Cuccia never left Sicily. That he was here meant something big.
The old man limped to Tommy’s wife first and paid his respects. Giada was elsewhere in the room, talking with Mick Donnelly, the head of the Boston’s influential Irish organization. She noticed Cuccia, like everyone else had, but she didn’t go to him.
It was a savvy choice, but also risky. Aside from the widow, nobody in this room deserved more respect than Cuccia, not even Nick. Setting aside the controversial matter of her position as don, one could still argue that, as the deceased’s sister, Giada was also due elevated respect, and that argument gave her room to wait and watch for a minute.
The worst possible outcome, while she was just asserting her seat at the head of her family, was for her to go to Cuccia and be openly rebuffed; standing back protected her from that.
Cuccia paid her just enough attention to be seen to have seen her. Then he turned and went to Nick.
That was not good.
But Nick’s reaction was flawless. “Padrino.” He held out his hand. As Cuccia gripped it with his gnarled paw, Nick tipped his head maybe an inch. Not a bow, only a nod, but a clear sign of respect.
“Nicolo.” He spoke an Italian thick with Sicilian dust. “It is good to see you, son, but the circumstances are unfortunate. I don’t speak of young Sacco’s death, may he have peace, but of this mess you’re making.”
“All change makes a mess, Godfather. Even when necessary.”
Nick’s Italian wasn’t as good as Angie’s, and Angie stood ready to translate if he had to, but Nick managed. He answered slowly, but correctly enough to be understood. His accent was the more generic shape of an American second-language speaker.
Angie had learned Italian and English at the same time, from his bilingual Sicilian grandparents and parents. He didn’t know what his own accent was like, but he imagined it was some kind of cross between Rhody and Sicily.
Cuccia shook his head. “Our ways have reason, Nicolo. Change makes holes. It is weakness.”
From the corner of his eye, Angie saw Giada coming to them. She was taking the chance that Cuccia would treat her differently while she stood with Nick.
And Nick honored his promise again. He saw her, smiled softly, and held out his arm, ushering her close. “Do you know Donna Giada Sacco, Godfather? She is Tommy’s sister and has taken over her family. She is a dear friend to me. Giada, this is Ettore Cuccia, The Godfather.”
Giada spoke in Italian as well, and she was fluent. She’d learned from her Sicilian family, no doubt, and there was a little Boston—not so different from Rhody—in her Sicily. “Hello, Godfather. I have heard much of you, and I’m glad to meet you. I am deeply touched that you would come all this way for my brother.”
She hadn’t offered her hand, and neither had Cuccia. He squinted at her, and his beetle eyes disappeared under the snowy thicket of his brows.
“I come all this way for more than that, little lady. There is business I must set straight as well.”
Angie was watching closely, and saw the spasm of tension in her spine, at the disrespect in the word signorina, but she smiled—a tight little smile crafted to be both respectful and rhetorical. She was wicked good at interactions like this. “Then I wish you good dealings, Godfather. Please excuse me. There are others arriving to pay their respects.” With a quick nod, she strode off.
Angie couldn’t help but watch her go. Goddamn, she’d just shut down the actual fucking Godfather. He honestly didn’t know whether she’d made a huge ridiculous mistake or a beautiful bold power play, but either way, he was impressed.
There hadn’t been anyone of note coming in; Giada was talking with her uncle. Another rhetorical move. She meant Cuccia to understand that she would not be cowed.
She was going to get her way. Angie could see it. Everything she wanted, she would take it. Not wait for it to be given, not ask for permission. Just fucking take it. Grab the world by the collar and spin it in her direction.
Goddamn, that was hot.
He turned to Nick, to judge his reaction to Giada’s aplomb.
Nick was staring at him, frowning.
~oOo~
That hopefully final tantrum of winter had passed, and spring came in on a late-March breeze. The day of Tommy’s funeral Mass and burial was still chilly enough for coats, but the sky was clear and the air held a whisper of warmth, encouraging the mourners to linger a bit on the steps after the service, pay respects again to the dead don’s family, and gossip in groups about the presence of Ettore Cuccia and his Sicilian associates.
Cuccia had spoken at length with Nick, alone, at the vigil the evening before. Afterward, Nick had shared with Donnie and Angie that Cuccia wanted to sit at table with the New England Council before he left.
The Council hadn’t met yet regarding Trey’s making or Giad
a taking the Sacco seat. Cuccia was here now, and not staying long. What he wanted meant that the Five Families would contend with the changes among them with Sicily sitting there to witness what would no doubt be a messy and combative reckoning.
Il Padrino was a wily old bastard. He meant to sway the Council against these new moves.
Today, before and during the funeral, Nick, Donnie, and Angie had studied the other made men around them.
There was dotty old Gianni Abbatontuono, still don of his family, but his stooped body leaned heavily on his nephew’s arm, and he stared blankly at the sidewalk between his shoes.
The nephew, Leonardo, was devoted to Gianni but weak. He had no mind for business or heart for violence. In his keener days, Gianni had understood Leo’s limits, but as he’d aged into senility, he’d given over most of his thinking to him. After some unfortunate events, Gianni no longer had an underboss. Leo was nominally in charge, but he had little idea what he was doing—and, Angie suspected, would never be capable of handling as much power as he’d fumbled into. Basically, a couple capos were running that family.
Literally, nobody was running the Conti Family. Vito had died without an anointed heir, or even a clear preference, and they couldn’t get their shit together enough to choose among them. Months, they’d been treading water, the capos doing their jobs, and cuts getting doled out, but nobody making big decisions. Two men were jockeying for position, and there were signs that it would never be resolved until there was only one left standing. They were a fucking mess.
The Marconis were strong. Like his father, who’d had a near lifelong friendship with Ben Pagano, Vio had been tight with Nick since they were kids. The alliance between the Marconis and Paganos had been strong right along with those friendships. Even as Nick had risen in power among the dons, Vio had been there supporting him, and was stronger for coasting in Nick’s wake.
The Name of Honor Page 19
