Basically, Sunday dinner on a more lavish scale.
My grandparents had spared no cost when it came to this wedding. They had three daughters. Two were no longer living, and the third was dead to my grandfather in a sense.
Bianca’s mother had suffered a stroke and died not long after. My grandparents felt it was their duty to step in and take care of what my aunt couldn’t.
My mother hadn’t stepped foot in this house since a couple of days after I was born. My grandmother went to see her occasionally, but the relationship between my mother and grandfather was nonexistent. They didn’t speak. Hadn’t since she left his house and never looked back.
Neither one of them would tell me the reason. I got the feeling it had to do with me, but neither would speak on it.
One of my cousins had told me it had to do with my mother getting pregnant out of wedlock, but her husband had married her, so I couldn’t see my grandfather refusing to speak to her because of it. Not after all of this time.
I called my father “her husband” because he was never a father to me. He treated me like the bastard son of an enemy, so I never felt he deserved the title. It was earned, just like everything else in this life.
He was straight with the title, too. So that was how we addressed each other. Her husband. Her son.
My grandfather was more of a father to me, and after he heard the way her husband had been treating me when I was a kid from an older cousin, her husband stuck to himself, and we rarely spoke a word to each other.
My mother got the message. If there was something she needed help with, in regards to me, my grandfather handled it. He even changed my last name to his.
“Oh, mamma!” the cheer went up from the backyard. La la la la la followed right after.
I watched the flow of the crowd, already starting to clap even before they made it to the center of the celebration. I was watching for Bugsy.
After we returned from the desert, the night the moon was full and blood was spilled underneath it, there was already a message waiting for me at Paradiso. My grandfather had sent an order, one word—home.
I was ordered to go straight to the Primo Club, a place where he frequently did business. After I’d met my grandfather there, we went straight from the club to his home, where he had me sit across from his desk. He eyed the tattoo on my neck and on my hand. He was a traditional man, stuck in traditional ways, and he always dressed the part. He didn’t like the tattoos on my body.
“You will go to Sicily,” he had said, his eyes hard on mine. “Until the situation can be taken care of.”
The situation. The bum that Bugsy had killed was connected, and he was making some men some serious cash. There were rules to consider, as well. A made man never touched another made man unless it was approved. The guy I’d killed, Garlic Breath, was an associate, but also an informant. The picture he’d taken was sent to all parties involved. I had a feeling my grandfather was going to argue that I didn’t actually kill the made man, Bugsy did. I killed the associate, who was not protected like a made man. Besides, he was a rat. I did them all a favor. Unless it brought some heat down on the family.
“With all due respect,” I’d said, sitting forward, fixing my suit and tie, “a man who runs is a coward. I refuse to run.”
We watched each other until he nodded once. “We will see how this goes.” Then he looked at his other underboss, Silvio, and nodded.
There would be men around me twenty-four/seven because of who the bum was and what he had meant to them. There was no use in arguing. My grandfather and I had conversations, but only if the lines of communication were open. He’d closed it with that nod.
Besides, arguing wasn’t allowed. Punishment was to be taken like a man. And to have men surround me constantly was the equivalent of serving time for a man like me.
It had been a week since that conversation, and my grandfather hadn’t said anything about it since. That could mean he was taking care of the situation, or it could mean something else—he was dealing with another situation that took his attention.
All five families were getting hit lately. One family blamed another, because there were things that tipped us off on each. The Scarpones were at the center of the distrust, even though they claimed to have nothing to do with what was going on. They were getting hit hard, too.
Silvio thought they were staging the hits on their own shit, just to make it look a certain way, but my grandfather didn’t believe they were that smart. He said only one man was smart enough to pull this off: Vittorio Scarpone.
Vittorio was the son of Arturo, the head of the Scarpones. Vittorio had had his throat slit years ago. His own father had ordered the hit. Vittorio didn’t kill a man named Corrado Palermo and his family when Arturo gave the order, after Palermo tried to slit Arturo’s throat.
There was just one issue with the theory that Vittorio Scarpone had arranged the mayhem that ensued: He was supposed to be dead.
I sat back in my seat, checking my rearview mirror. Silvio was coming toward my car, a cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth. Silvio had been around since before I was born and had about thirty years on me. He had started out like everyone else and worked his way up. He wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been. My grandfather considered him family.
Silvio stopped at the window, leaning in some, smoke blowing in the car. The sweet smell paired perfectly with the scent of the old leather seats. “Afraid you gonna catch the garter?” He grinned at me.
“I’m quick,” I said, returning the grin. “If I can dodge a bullet, I can dodge that fucking luck.”
“Don Emilio has taught you everything but the most important thing.” He laughed. “That a woman is quicker than a bullet.”
“None have hit me yet. A woman or a bullet.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He used the car to lift himself straight, blowing out another ring of smoke. “You just jinxed yourself.”
“Bullshit,” I said, shutting the car off. I stepped out and shut the door, pocketing my keys. “I’m stating facts. Even fate can’t argue with those.”
“You willin’ to bet your balls on it?”
We both turned to look at his son, a mini version of him, Silvio Junior, or as everyone called him, Junior. His nickname was “The Bull,” though behind his back, most of the guys called him “No Nuts.”
No Nuts had been sent to Sicily after he’d killed the wrong guy and caused some issue between our family and another. It was a straight hit—bing, bam, boom, done—but somehow he got the cars mixed up. He didn’t bother to check the car’s license plate. So instead of killing an associate, he killed someone important to another family.
Silvio had gone to my grandfather and asked a favor of him after: to hide No Nuts until things could get straightened out. While No Nuts was there, he fell for a Sicilian girl, who didn’t seem to feel the same about him. She castrated him and then ran and hid.
No Nuts lost his mind when he lost his balls, like they were directly connected, and no one could locate her or them since—the woman or his nuts.
We both shivered, cupping ours, protecting them from evil. That poor motherfucker was the poster boy for ball loss. I couldn’t be sure, but after he came home, it seemed like his eyes had crossed some as a side effect.
“Poor bastard.” Silvio shook his head. “That bitch is going to pay. You can’t run and hide forever. Your bad deeds always catch up to you.” He stared at No Nuts for a second before he shook his head. “Don Emilio sent me out to get you. He wants pictures done of the family.”
We watched No Nuts dancing around a bunch of cars, mouthing the words to “Mambo Italiano,” before we went to find my grandfather in the mix of the crowd.
There were more people than I thought. Most of them were crowded around my grandparents, watching as they danced to a slow song. Once the dance was over, and so were the pictures, my grandfather and I headed toward his office.
One foot inside of the house, and i
t was like taking a step back in time. Most of the furniture had been imported from Sicily. Some had been passed down through the generations. The only difference was that the entire house had been decorated with flowers for the wedding.
I followed my grandfather up the steps, eyeing the hand-carved cross and then a picture of my aunts and mother. It was an oil painting done years ago, when they were just kids. They were all pretty close in age.
My mother, Emilia, and the little girl sitting close to her in the painting, Luna, were the closest in age and in life. My grandmother told me that wherever Luna went, so did Emilia. Emilia treated her little sister like a baby doll. Luna died not long after I was born. From what Silvio had told me, my mother and grandfather were never the same after. Luna was the baby.
When I realized my grandfather had reached the top of the stairs, I started moving again, meeting him in his office. I wasn’t surprised that my uncle Carmine was already in the sitting area, Tito Sala next to him.
Uncle Carmine was my grandmother’s sister’s husband, and my grandfather’s consigliere. He counseled my grandfather on issues. Tito Sala had done the same for the Fausti family at one time.
The Faustis were the bosses of the bosses. Most people assumed men of such high ranking didn’t exist any longer, but the Fausti famiglia existed, and in the old country. Italy. When the worst of the worst couldn’t be controlled, or issues like the ones going on between the five families cropped up, their leaders stepped in.
Most of the time, though, it was their lower-ranking men who dealt with the petty shit. If their capo dei capi—bosses of all bosses—stepped in, it meant that the entire organization was close to the end. That’s why the family always stepped in before it could even get that close.
Marzio Fausti had been the capo dei capi for as long as I could remember. But he’d been killed, and his son, Lothario, was acting in his place until a new leader was announced officially. They were sniffing around more than usual lately because of the issues between the five families.
Tito Sala could be here for the wedding, or he could be here to judge the mood and report back to Rocco, who was in our area as of late. Then Rocco would pass that information on to whoever in his family.
I greeted Uncle Carmine and then Tito Sala. They both took a seat after we all shook hands. My grandfather took his seat at the head of the desk. I took the seat across from him, glancing down at my phone for a brief second.
My mother had tried to call me during the church service. The missed call was stuck on my screen, and it showed a voicemail. I turned my eyes up before my grandfather demanded my attention.
He looked me straight in the eye. “You and I, along with the men in this room, know I have prepared you all of these years to take over.”
It wasn’t the norm to have two men prepared to take one spot, but my grandfather had taught Silvio the same as he had taught me over the years. He had groomed us both for the position he held in the family.
Our family was separated into two factions. Silvio ran one. I ran the other. One governing body separated into two territories.
My grandfather’s intro into this conversation had me thinking. Had he been thinking about retirement? He was ninety years old, and he was growing older by the day.
I nodded. “Yes.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. The weight of his stare felt even heavier with whatever he was thinking. “I did not want you to be a part of this life. I wanted you to go to college. To get a degree. To take a different road. I had hoped Silvio would one day take my place. That he would one day sit in this seat.” He knocked on the desk once with his pointer finger. “But as you grew older, there was no denying the blood that ran through your veins. Mine. You are a born leader, Corrado. But there is one thing a leader should learn before he takes this seat. He cannot rule alone.”
He paused and the air in the room stilled. “There is one thing you must do before you take this seat. Before you will be called Don Capitani. Before you secure your vote: take a bride.”
I took out my gun and slid it toward him. “Shoot me.”
None of the men even grinned.
“Put that away!” My grandfather waved his hand. “This is not a joking matter. You must prove to the men that you will settle down. Be responsible enough to rule this family the way I did, but even better.”
Our eyes met and clashed in a silent battle, even though I knew I was going to lose. His mind was made up. He wouldn’t give me his vote, his blessing, unless I did what I said I would never do. Get married.
Uncle Carmine cleared his throat, but my stare still didn’t leave my grandfather’s. “The men call you Scorpio, the man who never allows an enemy to defeat him. You have to learn that you are not immune to rules or being ruled on occasion.”
So the three of them—my grandfather, uncle Carmine, and Tito—had come up with this, after what had happened in Vegas.
I thought of Bugsy, who hadn’t showed his face at this wedding. I grinned. My grandfather and his were usually of the same mind when it came to punishment. His was just more fucking showy about it. He was probably rolling the dice on Bugsy’s future right now, or already had.
My grandfather gave me a slight grin. He knew my thoughts and was confirming them.
“With all due respect,” I said, “I can’t say I feel the punishment fits the crime.” Even though I couldn’t be disrespectful, even raise my voice, I had to try once more.
“Punishment,” Tito said, tasting the word with the thought of vows fresh on his tongue. He had a good marriage and a romantic nature, so it made sense that he wouldn’t understand my hesitation toward being forced into it.
I could’ve said no, but I had two choices: take a bride or lose my grandfather’s vote to Silvio. Even though the men would vote, my grandfather was a great boss, and the men respected him. They wanted to keep the family as is, or make it even greater. His opinion mattered and could sway the election either way.
The men liked my numbers. I brought in more than any man outside of Capone, and at a much younger age. Money and men came to me, which I knew bothered Silvio. He was older and couldn’t bring in half of what I did.
However, this life had many tests, and I’d passed all of them. I always would.
“You will choose for me,” I said to my grandfather.
“I will arrange it.”
Arranged marriages were not uncommon in our culture, and since this was supposed to be about teaching me boundaries, and nothing else, let him decide on my behalf. I’d claim my seat, become the man I was born to be, and the rest would fall into place.
One hard knock came at the door. My grandfather took a minute before he nodded at uncle Carmine to answer it. The whispers were lost among the noises in the house and the music coming from outside. Tarantella played.
A minute later, uncle Carmine came back in. He seemed to be a completely different man. The minute it took him to answer the door and come back had aged him somehow. It was a look I’d never forget. Like he’d been drained of blood.
My grandfather noticed and his posture went rigid.
“Emilio,” Uncle Carmine said, putting a hand on my grandfather’s shoulder, squeezing. He looked between the two of us. “Emilia.” He hesitated on my mother’s name. Then he cleared his throat. “She has been murdered.”
The mandolin sneaking in through the open door seemed to cry.
3
Corrado
Rain started to fall after they lowered my mother into the ground and sealed her in forever. She and her husband both. They killed him as soon as he’d opened the door to their house. He was on blood thinners, and it didn’t take much to make him bleed out.
My mother—Emilia—they beat her until she could no longer get up. Then strangled her for not talking.
I looked down at my phone, rain splattering against the screen, and pressed a few buttons. I hit speaker so I could hear her voice.
“Corrado,” she had said. “This is your mo
ther. I haven’t heard from you—” She stopped talking. I could hear her breathing and a rush of voices from the other side.
“Where is she? Who the fuck is she? Palermo’s kid!”
“Fuck you!” she spat at the man.
There was more than one. They were yelling back and forth. The pottery she made and sold crashed to the floor in the background. Then everything went quiet, and my entire life seemed to go dead.
When I returned to the land of the living, I was a new man.
The autopsy report gave the reason for death, but it also said that my mother—Emilia—had never had any children. I demanded a DNA test for her husband, and it turned out, the fucker wasn’t my father.
The woman I believed to be my mother was my aunt.
My grandmother finally broke down and told me the truth.
Emilia and Luna left New York when they were young against my grandparents’ wishes and went to Las Vegas. Luna became pregnant with me after she got there. Luna must’ve either fallen in love with the bastard or was afraid of him, because she refused to give up his name. Even to my grandfather. He refused to talk to either one of them after. When I was only a few months old, Luna died in a car accident.
Emilia brought me back to New York, and my grandfather demanded to know my father’s name. She refused to give it to him. That was when he told her he would take care of me, but until she told him the truth, he wouldn’t speak to her.
He’d never speak to her again, because she went to the grave with the secret.
Tito Sala had told me who my biological father was because he thought I deserved to know after Emilia’s murder: Corrado Palermo.
Palermo was a capo in the Scarpone family who’d tried to kill his boss—Arturo—by slitting his throat. Palermo married after I was born, and after doing some research, I discovered he’d had a daughter with his Sicilian wife.
Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3) Page 2
