Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)

by Bella Di Corte

  “We need to get her to—”

  “We are going to a place now,” he said. “Your husband has been shot.”

  I wondered if the sound of my flats clacking against the floor would stay with me forever. Each footstep that brought me closer to him made me wonder if the next would be the one that would change the entire course of my life.

  Nunzio did not have specifics, only that Corrado had been shot and where we were to go.

  We were in a plain-looking building from the outside, but inside, it reminded me of the place I was taken to in Milan. It was equipped with rooms to help men, even if it was not a real hospital.

  Nunzio carried Brooklyn next to me. When Uncle Tito met us, he pointed to a room a few doors down. “Dr. Carter will see to her,” he said.

  Nunzio nodded and took her into the room.

  Uncle Tito took one look at my face and grabbed my hand. “He is fine. You can see him in a minute. We will speak first, ah?”

  I went into the room he pointed to. He told me he would be right with me.

  There were a few folders out on the counter. One was open. I glanced at it and could not stop staring. Photos of Corrado’s grandfather—dead in the street.

  Uncle Tito came in and noticed it. He slammed it shut, pushing it behind him as he took a seat with wheels. He pushed himself closer to me, taking my hands. “Your godfather would not tell you lies,” he said. “It was a near miss, but he is doing fine. Only a flesh wound to the head.”

  “To the head,” I whispered.

  He nodded, studying my face from underneath his glasses. “How is our little baby?”

  “Fine,” I said, but words were not coming easily. I kept imagining Corrado in the same place as his grandfather, dead on the street.

  “Alcina.”

  I met Uncle Tito’s kind eyes.

  “I cannot promise you that your husband will be safe in this life. There are no such promises in anyone’s life, but you are one of the strongest women I know. You have more strength than most of the men I deal with.”

  “Did the man Corrado has been looking for do this?”

  “No. A man within the family.” He waved a hand. “However. I do want you to speak to him about the man he is looking for. Perhaps where my advice has fallen on deaf ears, yours will fall on an open heart, ah? It is not worth his time to pursue dead ends. There is no honor in it. Things are as they are supposed to be now. Maybe even better. Time will only tell.”

  I nodded. “I would like to see my husband now.” I squeezed Uncle Tito’s hand and we both stood.

  He led me to Corrado’s room. He was sitting up in bed, a bandage around his head, one spot soaked with blood.

  Nunzio stopped talking when I entered the room. He nodded at Corrado and then shut the door on his way out. I stood with my back against the door, staring at him. He had a card in his hand, twirling it between his fingers.

  “You gonna say something to me?” he said.

  “A minute,” I said. I was trying to catch my breath. Trying to moderate my irrational anger at him for getting ambushed and the hate I had for the men who’d tried to do it. Then there was the fear, the worry, the uncertainty, matching the pulse of my blood.

  He stopped twirling the card, staring at it before he started doing it again. “This is nothing,” he said, and I knew he was referring to his wound.

  I marched across the room and lifted my hand to slap him across the face for being so smug—so disrespectful—in the face of death. Like him leaving me did not matter.

  He grabbed my wrist, pulling me into him, and I fell awkwardly against his body. “They can’t kill me that easily, angel eyes,” he whispered in my ear as I held on to him tighter. “I’ve had worse is what I meant.”

  I took a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of him. “But you did not have me,” I said. “You told me you would die for me. What gives worth to the things you will die for, if you are not willing to live for them, too?”

  He grabbed my shoulders, moving me away some so he could see my face. He looked into my eyes. “I am who I am.”

  I nodded. “Me, too.”

  “What do you want from me then?”

  “Your life more than your death.”

  “You already have it,” he said, touching my stomach. He kissed me on the forehead and then pushed me away a little more. “Let’s go. I hate these fucking places.”

  26

  Corrado

  “It feels like old times,” Uncle Carmine said, getting comfortable in the seat he had held for many years.

  We were in my grandfather’s office in his home. I kept my finger up to the lace curtains, holding them back. My wife was out in the garden with my nonna and Brooklyn. Her dress showed the swell of her stomach. Her hands were underneath the smallish ball, and every so often, she would trace the shape with a finger.

  “It does,” I said, but I refused to look away from her. I didn’t like the fucking way her light seemed to be dimming. It concerned me in a way that I had never understood before.

  Uncle Carmine came to stand next to me. As my grandfather’s consigliere for many years, he was a man I had great respect for. He was wise, and even though my chosen consigliere, Francesco Di Pisa, was just as good, it was still wise to consult with the old timers who were left. Uncle Carmine knew what I was trying to bring back, the code as it used to be, and he supported me in doing it in accordance to the old ways.

  “Your grandfather was worried about you marrying her,” he said. “He thought you’d lose your focus.”

  “Only when she’s around,” I said. “I don’t bring my personal life into this life.”

  “It’s just that she’s so beau—”

  I looked at him and he closed his mouth. It was no secret that we were expected to marry the girl next door, ones we grew up with even, like Martina. Back in the day, virgins. My wife was fucking gorgeous, but she was a woman of great respect, and in any social situation, superior to any woman I’d ever known. It was the same in the bedroom.

  I was a rarity in this life—a man who could be a gangster and a businessman—and so was she.

  He sighed and took his seat again. “How long do we have?”

  I stuck the curtain behind the holder, keeping it open, and checked my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Fucking Silvio,” he said, growling. “He started this entire mess because of jealousy. Rules are like bones. We have them for a reason. If one man breaks them, it gives another man the right to do the same. Then what do we have? No body.”

  I nodded. “It’s been a long time since our family has been at war from within.”

  It took him a moment to answer. “Would you call this war?”

  I thought about it for a minute. “Yeah, I would. Vito tried to take me out. He has men who back him. Any bloodshed is considered an act of war.”

  “At least your men don’t have to go to the mattresses.” He took a sip of his drink and set it down. I heard the glass hit the table. “I’ll never forget my first time. I was a young man, and I’d never heard of such a thing.”

  Yeah, in his day, going to the mattresses meant that all of the men had to stand together or risk getting caught alone. Nothing was worth leaving your crew for because alone, it was easier for the enemy to pick you off.

  “I won’t allow it to get that far. Vito and his crew will be done for in a week.”

  After Silvio’s underboss had tried to have me killed, the commission ruled that, again, it was unsanctioned, and he had no backing whatsoever. They had given Vito a pass after Silvio, but now he had run out of his nine lives. I was taking his men out one by one, until I got to him.

  If anyone would go to the mattresses, it would be Vito and his crew. But they hadn’t. They had scattered like pigeons and were hiding out like the cowards they were.

  “We’ll get to that in a few minutes,” I said. “But I want you to tell me about Vittorio Scarpone.”

  “Skilled in warfare, and that’s all you need
to know.”

  “You’re telling me he was smart in life. So you’re also telling me he’d be smart in death.”

  “Whatever you’re thinking, let it die, Corrado. Your grandfather wanted you to leave it alone. Why can’t you?”

  “You know as well as I do that the Scarpones never belonged in this life. They were fucking brutal, but that’s all they were. They were left in power too long because the commission decided not to touch them. The commission voted against my grandfather when he wanted Arturo removed. The Scarpones made money but let their men starve. They put family second. They wanted all of the money for themselves and the bloodshed for everyone else.”

  “I agree,” Uncle Carmine said. “But what’s done is done.” He rubbed his hands together, like he was wiping them clean. “The commission voted, and Emilio listened. What else can you do in this life, Corrado? Rules. Rules. Rules. Are like bones, capisci? You break them and you weaken this thing of ours.

  “That’s why Vito is where he is. You’re no better than him, Corrado. No one is better in this life, only smarter. I knew your grandfather for years. I’ve known you your entire life. You’re cagey, just as good as the old timers, and you’re too smart to waste it all on a ghost.” He paused. “Off the record. A ghost who deserves revenge.”

  “What’s so fucking special about this bum?” Why did everyone like the motherfucker?

  “Other than he probably lived years as a ghost in his own town?”

  Yeah, I’d give him that. If it were true, which I tended to believe, he had pulled off something massive.

  I’d seen parts of the motherfucker twice. Once at The Club, when he opened the door for the girl Mariposa and her friend, Kelly’s wife, and I saw his hand. A wolf tattoo on it. He closed the door right after. I would have been stupid to believe he left it open for me. I was a smart man, so I didn’t even try.

  As I was leaving his restaurant, and the fuckers tried to lay me out like they had my grandfather—poetic justice and all that shit—a shooter took out one of the guys who had aimed for me. Then all hell broke loose with my men.

  I’d gotten a glimpse of the extra shooter, though. That Machiavellian motherfucker with the wolf tattoo on his hand again. The Scarpones had them. It was their thing.

  A knock came at the door, and I told the men to come in. My underboss came in first, Calcedonio Badalamenti, followed by Adriano and Baggio. The rest filed in after.

  “So I says, ‘He’s like a fucking dog! He comes when I call him,’ and the motherfucker says, ‘Prove it!’ First the thing with my ma and her cooking. Now this?” Baggio was saying.

  “I bet Gilberts comes when you put food out. That’s why I’d come,” Adriano said as they all shook my hand and Uncle Carmine’s, and then took a seat.

  “It’s more than that,” Baggio said. “I’m tellin’ ya. He’s a fuckin’ genius fish.”

  “Yeah, but does he like worms or flakes better?” Adriano said.

  This fucking guy. I had considered making him my underboss, but after spending time with him in Sicily, I decided on Calcedonio. He was less food-motivated and more money-minded. And he was respected, which also meant he was feared.

  But fuck me, no one was better with a gun than Adriano Lima. The men respected him, too. He just had to quit his obsessive relationship with food. Some of the men had recently started calling him Adriano Lima Bean.

  The men all quieted down as I became quiet. Then we got to business. We discussed small matters first.

  “Sammy Bravata.” Sal said. “He got picked up on some charges.”

  “Take care of his family while he’s in,” I said. “Keep an eye on his businesses until he gets out.”

  A few more of these went around. Then we got to one of the main points.

  “Vito,” I said to Calcedonio. “Where are we?”

  “He can’t make a fucking move without us knowing about it. He’s hiding out with his current goomah.”

  I sat back in the chair, steepled my fingers, and set them over my mouth. “Baggio,” I said.

  He nodded. “You got it, boss.”

  “Get with Calcedonio on his location. It’s not going to be as easy as you think, but since he’s alone now, we only need him.”

  “I’ll have more than one plan in play, Don Corrado,” Baggio said.

  I nodded.

  This wasn’t going to be an ordinary hit. I wanted Vito’s head on a stick and scorpions stuck in his eyes and mouth. Since he cared enough to send them to my wife as a warning, and put my family—my wife and baby, my little cousin—in danger, I’d care enough to give them back to him.

  “Nunzio,” I said, taking a card out of my desk. I flipped it around my fingers, thinking about the fuck who offered my wife candy. I had asked one of my younger guys if “candy” was code for sex these days. If it had been, Halifax would have been buried underneath his building, not leaving it. “How’s the situation?”

  “Gone back to England. The store will be closed in a week.” Nunzio grinned at me. “I made him an offer he could not refuse. We will have sweets for a long time.”

  “I’ll take it off your hands,” Adriano said.

  “Get outta here,” I said, waving my hand. They all started to leave and I stopped Nunzio. “Adriano doesn’t go near that shop.”

  “He needs an intervention,” Nunzio said, lifting his fist, and then he shut the door behind him.

  An intervention to Nunzio would be breaking Adriano’s jaw so he couldn’t eat. He’d suggested it in Italy.

  Uncle Carmine remained with me, since he was staying for dinner. I went back to the window and found my wife again. She was in the same spot, staring toward the sky, the sun falling on her face. She could have been sitting in the dark, for as blank as her expression was. I didn’t fucking like it.

  “Uncle Carmine,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get Tito on the phone.”

  It was time to make some plans.

  27

  Alcina

  Winter had been brutal, but spring was blooming all around us. I could barely get up without help these days, but to get out of the house, and to do something different than make candles, I spent time with Corrado’s grandmother out in her garden.

  She grew frangipani on one side. Her husband had the other side of the garden when he was alive. He only grew tomatoes. They were all dead. I had asked her if she wanted me to help her replant when it was time. She told me no, they had died with her husband.

  The wind swept the ground, and the sweet but spicy scent of the flowers drifted in the air. The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and roses all mixed together in the breeze. They were a common flower in Sicilian gardens. Some even grew them on balconies.

  The smell brought me home. I held my rosary tighter, thinking of my famiglia.

  I missed Anna’s big mouth. The way we would fight and then laugh over nothing.

  I missed mamma chasing us with wooden spoons. Her words of wisdom. The smell of her cooking. The way papà would be grumpy until we made him laugh.

  I missed Sicily. The colors. The smells. The sounds.

  My eyes moved to the big house. My heart twisted with pain at the sight of it. It was more like a prison than a fortress.

  “My nonna gave me this plant the day I was married,” Teresa said, pointing to the frangipani with her trowel. She moved the wide-brim hat from her face so she could see me better.

  Her hair was pure silver, always pulled back into a chignon, and her eyes were warm brown. She was short and plump, and her eyes matched her face—warm. I had seen a picture of her on her wedding day. She had been a pretty woman, and some of that youth came through her smile, when she used it.

  “To bring to your new home.” I smiled.

  It was an old tradition for Sicilian women to plant the flower and then give it to their daughters or granddaughters after they were married.

  She smiled, too, maybe remembering. “I decided to plant it here. I was close with my nonna.�
�� She had started to dig around the flower when we first came out, and I did not realize until then that she had probably gone deeper than the roots. She stopped for a second, looking up at the window. “My grandson is watching you again.”

  I looked up and met his eyes. We did not turn away from each other. That was not the problem—no. Problems. He had become obsessed with my safety after the scorpion incident, especially since the man who had sent them had not been found. He had become obsessed with the man without a name, too. And it seemed like each day he moved into places that I could not follow without a bright light.

  He was always watching me, though. Per sempre. Maybe waiting for another full moon so he could find me again.

  I looked away from him and back at his grandmother. “Did your husband watch you from the same window?”

  “No,” she said, going back to digging. “He did not watch me at all. He saw his wife. The mother of his children. But he did not see me.”

  I braced my hands against the bench, sitting up some. She did not look at me, but I knew she could feel me watching.

  “This life of theirs becomes ours, too, ” she said. “It’s not business for them, it’s a way of life. When you choose this life, there is no other. We live on the outskirts of real life, even though we can see it happening right in front of us. We socialize with other wives—their children become like our own. We throw parties for our family—Christmas, New Year’s, Easter, Fourth of July, weddings, baptisms. It all looks so glamorous. It looks like we live the life.

  “You’re a smart girl. I don’t have to lecture you on the realities. The constant scrutiny from the government. The constant hovering around your house. The other women—we go to some places, and they go to others. They can have a goomah, but they can’t disrespect us by bringing the woman, or women, to the same places. It’s expected that they have them. How can a man that powerful only have one woman? What would that make him?”

  “A man,” I said. In this life, it would be harder to stand up to that particular expectation than bowing to it.