She would never utter those words.
Her uncle had known nothing, yet he’d known enough to understand she needed to feel pure love, protective love, so he’d swaddled her in his own lonely version of it and given her a place to feel safe.
He’d always been there for her. A mentor, a cheerleader, a sage, a warm fatherly presence, while her true father had been aloof and rigid. A protector, though he didn’t know what he shielded her from. If not for Enzo’s love, she might have become a woman like Fallon or Mia, who didn’t know they deserved more than the pain the men in their lives dealt them.
He’d always been there for her, and now he was dead. Shot down in the act of protecting her yet again.
His last act had been for her. He’d sacrificed his very life to keep her safe. He’d used his last breaths to tell her how proud he was of her, how strong he thought she was.
Weariness had so overtaken her that she didn’t know she was crying until she felt the wool of Angie’s suitcoat soaking under her cheek. This man who’d also sacrificed everything for her now held her snugly, pulling her into the shelter of his body, and she finally felt every agony of this great loss.
Her knees buckled, but Angie held her up, took her weight. He said nothing, no soft, empty words meant to quiet her, no attempt to stem her grief. He held her and let her feel it at last.
She was safe with him. With him, she could take a moment to be weak, and he would hold her up.
~ 19 ~
Settling his sweatpants at his hips, Angie left the bedroom and went looking for his woman.
As he headed to the main part of the apartment, he smelled coffee and heard doings in the kitchen, and he flexed his shoulders against the twitch through his spine. A month after his life had come crashing down and he’d found himself living in Boston with Giada, he was still not used to her full-time housekeeper, a gay man named Jonathan.
It wasn’t his gayness that bugged him, but his guyness. In fact, the gayness helped a little with the guyness, because the dude was fit and good looking, and if he’d been straight, Angie would have a whole different kind of trouble with him all up in Giada’s personal space.
It just struck him wrong to have a male housekeeper. Giada was surrounded by men who did her bidding.
Including, now, him.
He came into the big, bright expanse that was Giada’s main living space, an all-in-one kitchen, dining room, living room practically the size of a ballroom. Jonathan, in his white chinos and white polo that was, apparently, his uniform, smiled and poured him a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Mr. Corti.” He set the cup at the end of the counter and pushed the sugar bowl close.
“Morning. Thanks.” He scooped a spoon of sugar and stirred it in. The sun streamed in from the wall of windows, and Angie saw Giada on the balcony, seated at the table, bathed in a sunbeam. Her dark hair shone and wisped like a shampoo ad, and the white silk of her robe fluttered in a whisper of breeze.
She was on the phone. Working already.
“Would you like some breakfast? Eggs, maybe?” Jonathan asked, and Angie pulled his attention back into the room.
There was a braided loaf of golden bread in a cloth-lined basket, and he could smell the warm sweetness. “Is that Italian sweet bread?”
“It is.”
The guy made a lot of Italian foods. “You’re not Italian, are you?” He was blond and fair, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t.
Jonathan laughed. “Nope. Just your garden-variety Euro-mutt. Healthy dollop of German. But I’ve been working for Giada a while, and she prefers Italian cuisine.”
“So do I. A couple slabs of that bread and some butter will do for me.”
“Coming right up.”
As Jonathan put a plate together for him, Angie leaned against the counter and considered the room before him.
Though Giada’s style of dress was sleek and assertive, in reds and blacks primarily, with lots of gold jewelry and perfect hair and makeup, her home was the polar opposite. Every single room, from this big, bright space to the bedrooms, bathrooms, office, and home gym was the same style and color scheme: pale pink and pearl grey on white. Even the wood floor throughout was a pearl-grey, wide-plank oak. The upholstery was pale pink leather or white wool. The area rugs were either patterned wool or deep sheepskin, in pink and grey or white. The walls were white—until you realized they were either the palest blush of pink or the slightest cloud of grey. The marble in the bathrooms? White with a pale grey vein. The wood furniture pieces? Distressed white. The metal finishes? Brushed chrome. Even the fucking lightbulbs had a pink cast.
And Giada herself? She was pinker and softer, too, at home. She tended to wear slouchy sweaters and soft leggings in faint pastels. Nothing sloppy—every moment of the day or night she was dressed, she was elegant—but much, much softer and more forgiving than the clothes she wore in the world.
It was all gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, and living with her here he’d understood why her home was so different from the way she went out in the world. That bold red and severe black was her armor. This was her sanctuary.
But he was like a grizzly bear barreling through a spun-glass forest.
It was more than the male housekeeper he was having trouble getting used to. Everything about this world he’d fallen into fit him wrong.
Jonathan handed him a pale pink plate with two thick slabs of sweet bread, the butter already melting delectably, and Angie picked up his pale pink coffee mug and went out to the balcony.
The clamor of a major city beginning its day overwhelmed him at once. Giada’s building was in the Financial District, right in the middle of the commotion, and Angie didn’t think he’d ever get used to the noise. He’d lived in Quiet Cove all his life—a little seaside town whose main industry was tourism. The loudest the place ever got was a summer Saturday on the boardwalk. When he’d gone out to sit on his patio in the morning, what he’d heard was seagulls and waves crashing, even away from the beach. Now what he heard was trucks backfiring. Cars honking. The T. The howl of the ships in Boston Harbor, much louder than the traffic in the Cove’s small harbor. Even from her penthouse atop this midsize building, the racket jarred his ears.
Giada’s call was over, and she looked up as he came out. “Good morning, bello.” She lifted her face and pursed her lips, and Angie bent to kiss her. “Mmm,” she purred as he sat down.
He wished he’d pulled a t-shirt on, too. The May morning, with the breeze coming off the harbor, had a chill.
“That was a pretty early call. There some kind of trouble?”
“It was Nick.”
Angie set his bread back on the plate and sat back. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in the Pagano Brothers since Enzo’s funeral, when Donnie had laid out the terms of his exile: he could return to Quiet Cove to handle personal business and see his blood family. He was to have no personal contact with any member of the organization. Any attempt to do so would result in his death. But as Giada’s consigliere, he could serve as her emissary for business purposes. Nick, however, would not meet with him one-on-one, under any circumstances.
Giada hadn’t, as far as Angie knew, had any contact with Nick herself, since the funeral. She’d been occupied straightening out the Sacco Family business and running Sacco Development as well.
Angie had been, more or less, twiddling his thumbs. Aside from trying to get to know and build a rapport with the Sacco men, who were deeply suspicious of him, and understanding the way this family ran, he’d had little to do. There was no place for him at Sacco Development. Unlike the Paganos, the light and dark sides of the Sacco Family operated almost entirely independently of each other. Currently, she was the only member of the family who also worked at the company.
Giada controlling both would give them a stronger nexus, but her C-suite offices were filled by legit business people. She couldn’t just fire her COO to make room for Angie. Her COO was a Wharton MBA who’d been with the company for al
most twenty years.
Angie had a high school diploma and a talent for torturing people.
He was also good at managing them and their work, and had long years of experience, but Boston was not Quiet Cove. Giada did not own her town the way Nick owned his. She had to play well with others, and kicking a Wharton MBA to make way for a known thug would get her the wrong kind of notice and hurt her company.
So there was no place in management for Angie at Sacco Development.
Angie pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the matter at hand. “What did he want?”
“Gianni Abbatontuono fell out of bed. He broke his arm and his hip, and hit his head. He’s unconscious, and it’s pretty serious.”
What an ignominious way for a don like that, once feared across the country, to finish his life.
“Fuck. If he goes, that’s two families in total chaos.” The Conti Family trouble had finally broken out into open civil war: Furlani and Ganza, the two capos who’d been vying for control, were both dead, and several other men besides. If they kept killing each other, there wouldn’t be a Conti Family left. The same fate loomed over the Abbatontuono Family—two capos who’d been carrying the weight of an ailing don, and the weak nephew who might or might not feel he should be heir. That all blew up the minute old Gianni got planted.
“It is. Nick wants to meet.”
Angie’s stomach lurched, and his few bites of sweet bread churned uncomfortably. He didn’t think he was ready to be in the same room with Nick again. “Council meeting?”
“No. Pagano, Sacco, and Marconi only. The three strong families.”
“Did he say anything more?”
“No. Just gave me the news and invited us to a meeting in Quiet Cove.”
In the room above West Egg, no doubt. The last time Angie had been in that room, Trey had been made.
He looked at his hand, at the newly healed red line across his palm. The Sacco ritual required a long cut to the palm rather than a slice along the trigger finger. There had been a few such differences, but at its heart, the initiation rituals of both families hit all the same notes.
Except that the first time, he’d been nearly overcome with pride. The second time had been the last step of his fall.
“Are you ready for that?” Giada asked, and when Angie looked up, he saw her gaze where his had just been, on that new scar. “To be a Sacco man at a table with Nick?”
“You want me there?”
She leaned close and took his hand, covering his palm. “Of course I do, bello. You are my consigliere. I need you there.”
“Then I’m there.”
~oOo~
He’d expected it to be difficult. But when he topped the stairs leading to that room above West Egg, led by Donnie, who’d greeted them downstairs, Angie almost missed the last step. To be a visitor in a sacred space in which he’d once belonged was a pain greater than he’d been able to imagine.
Though Giada, Angie, and Bruno had arrived a few minutes early, the Marconi men were already ensconced: Vio Marconi and his underboss and consigliere, Ed Alberici and Jerry Lovatelli.
Nick had only Donnie with him. Though Angie was certain somebody had replaced him as head of security, at the very least, it appeared Nick had tightened his already small circle of trusted advisors down to one man. Donnie was smart, and wise, and steady, and he was both able and willing to speak truth to the don. But only one set of ears to hear Nick’s plans as they developed or share with him the discussion of a Council meeting? Only one voice to challenge Nick’s thinking? That was very nearly an echo chamber, and dangerous as fuck.
However, Angie wasn’t overly surprised. He knew no one who trusted more reluctantly than Nick, and a betrayal only made him warier.
The men at the table stood as Giada, Angie, and Bruno came into the loft. Nick went to Giada at once. “Thank you for coming, Giada.” He added a warm handshake and a kiss to the cheek.
“Of course,” Giada said. “There’s a lot going on.”
“Yeah, there is.”
As Vio greeted Giada, Nick turned to Angie. His expression, typically, gave nothing away, but there was a slight pinch at the outside corners of his eyes that was either anger or hurt. Normally, Angie would judge his inscrutable ex-don’s mood in the context of the situation, but in this case either anger or grief were appropriate. Or both.
“Angelo.” Nick offered his hand.
Angie shook it. “Nick.”
And that was that. Nick moved to Bruno, and, chest aching, Angie greeted Vio.
~oOo~
Though this meeting wasn’t a full Council meeting, there was still a meal. It was a tradition in their world for meeting families to break bread together, and remember that they were family, before they conducted business. Billy Jones, the owner of West Egg, and Nick’s nominal ‘landlord,’ had a excellent chef and kitchen and wait staff, and Nick had arranged a simple but savory summer meal of Crab fra Diavolo, served with warm garlic bread and an excellent Lambrusco.
Angie enjoyed the meal well enough but didn’t participate in the amiable chitchat that accompanied it. Normally, he would have, especially when there was talk of baseball, but today, he had no spirit for friendly talk. When he was addressed directly, he responded. Otherwise, he simply listened.
After a strawberry semifreddo for dessert, once the table had been cleared of all but coffee and the servers had returned to the kitchen, Nick got down to business.
“I wanted our three families to meet because right now, we’re the only viable families on the Council, and that’s a concern we need to address.”
Giada set her coffee cup on its saucer. “Has anyone had another update on Gianni? The last we heard was half an hour ago.”
“That’s fresher than my intel, maybe,” Vio said. “What is it?”
Giada turned to Angie. “Ange?”
He was the one who’d tracked down the intel, so it was appropriate for him to share it with the table now, but it felt like she was throwing him a bone. Still, he picked it up and answered, “He took another turn. There was bleeding on his brain, and it didn’t go so well when they went in to relieve it. They’ve got him on life support.”
“Fuck,” Donnie said. “He’s, what ninety-three? Why do that to him?”
“No DNR,” Angie answered. “Anyway, we want him still breathing, don’t we?”
“We do,” Nick agreed without looking Angie’s way. “It’s macabre, maybe, but as long as he’s alive, he’s don. The only don the Abbatontuonos have ever had. His family will hold onto a thread of order until he’s gone.”
“But when he’s gone ...” Vio made an ‘explosion’ gesture with his hands and whistled.
“Exactly,” Nick said. “And that’s a big problem, particularly with the Contis imploding at the same time, and Sicily breathing down our necks.
“Any more word on the Conti situation?” Bruno asked.
Nick turned to Donnie, who answered, “Furlani and Ganza dead. Three more capos: Breda, DeLuca, and Scarpa. Plus two lawyers, and four made men, all executed by other Contis.”
“Breda, DeLuca, and Scarpa, too?” Angie mused. “That’s their numbers guy and the two guys covering the northern export. Jesus. That’s the bulk of their work.”
“It’s also all their capos,” Nick added. “There’s nothing left of them but soldiers, and nobody to pay off law. The Feds will feed on that family down to the bone.”
“So will every other crew in Maine. It’ll be a fucking feeding frenzy,” Ed Alberici grumbled.
People thought of New England, and maybe especially Maine, as a place where the residents wore plaid and lived in quaint little seaside towns where they fished and smoked pipes and told seafarin’ yarns. All of that was true enough; Quiet Cove was just such a quaint little seaside town that earned its keep on the cozy stereotype.
But it was also on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean and nose to nose with Canada. Borders were where the dark shit got done best. The underworld thr
ived under that salt-kissed, wind-blown veneer. And Maine had a unique position because it was so rural and easily dismissed. Lots of territory no one was paying attention to.
With a wry laugh, Vio shook his head. “I’d just like to point out, here among friends, that the Marconis are the only family on the whole fucking Council who are just doing our work. I mean, I love you Nick, and I’m at your six, per sempre. And Giada, I’m fucking impressed. I’m not sure how I’d feel if we throw open our doors to women, but you, I got your back, too. I’m not wholly clear on how Angie’s sitting beside Giada now, but I’m smart enough to sketch it out, and I hope to hell that’s more stable than it looks. Because we three need to be stable. You all picked the worst possible moment to throw shit at our fan.”
“Or we happened upon an opportunity,” Giada said, and the whole table went quiet.
“Tell us,” Nick said.
“Sì. La prego di spiegare,” Lovatelli added.
Giada explained. “The Conti Family is dying. It’s killing itself. When Gianni goes, the Abbatontuonos will probably do the same. Between them, that territory covers Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire. I’m curious what happens if we move on it, take it over amongst the three of us.”
Jerry Lovatelli, the oldest man at the table, goggled at her. “You’re sayin’ we turn on two families of this Council?”
He was obviously appalled, and condemnation dripped from his tone, but Giada didn’t flinch. “I’m saying we act before the ruin of forty percent of this Council takes down the other sixty percent.”
“There’s no honor in it.” Lovatelli turned and spat to make his point.
“Easy, Jer,” Vio said, patting his consigliere on the shoulder.
The Name of Honor Page 25
