Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  She’d be an easy kill.

  But I simply watch her go.

  We hear her stop just outside the door, Frank and I, and he raises an eyebrow as she curses quietly. We left every man out there dead, and Joey Fuscone took so many bullets from the both of us that he’ll need to be identified by dental records. After a brief silence, there’s the sound of high heels running quickly away.

  I waste no more time and run over to Finch. He’s slumping over, face screwed up in pain and relief, and his hands, when I grab them, are ice cold. “Angel, angel,” I murmur, pulling at the ropes. “Stay with me. Don’t you pass out on me.” I turn my head and hiss, “Frank! Get a fucking knife!”

  “I got you, bro,” Frank says, pulling out a Swiss Army knife.

  “You’re such a fucking Boy Scout, Brother Frank,” Finch says faintly, his head falling forward.

  “Shh.” I tip his face up, wiping away the blood while Frank saws at the ropes.

  “Shh,” Finch slurs back at me. “M’talking too much?”

  “You can talk all goddamn day after I make sure you’re alright.” I lean in and kiss his forehead.

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry, sorry—” The ropes come loose and Finch falls forward into my arms.

  “Get me out of here,” he mutters into my neck.

  “I will,” I promise. “We’re going home.”

  It’s a full twelve hours later before Finch comes to, and as soon as he does, he’s complaining about his bladder. But I know he’s really feeling better when he makes a suggestion about watersports while I’m helping him pee.

  I’ve been concentrating on whether or not there’s blood in his urine, but his hopeful tone makes me laugh in surprise. “Just keep your libido on lockdown for now, okay?” I tell him, and tuck him away in his pants.

  “You’re no fun.”

  I take him back to the bed, where he lies down again with minimal ouches, but then grabs my hand, his eyes wide.

  “Celia?”

  “She’s fine,” I say soothingly, and run my other hand through his hair. “They didn’t hurt her, just tied her up. I left Marco with her and Frank and I came for you.”

  “But where is she—”

  “She and Frank are right here, in the townhouse with us. And I have Marco watching the door. Everything’s fine, angel.”

  He goes quiet, thinking. “Thanks for not killing Maggie, I guess.”

  I say nothing. What is there to say? I should have killed her. It would have been the smart thing to do. I still don’t really understand why he wanted me to let her go.

  “Why didn’t you?” Finch asks.

  “Why didn’t I kill her?”

  He nods. It’s not a question with any blame attached, only curiosity.

  “Because you asked me not to,” I tell him. “And because I love you.”

  Finch goes very quiet at that, even his breath stilling. I reach over and take his hand, his left hand with the wedding ring. His fingers wind through mine, and he smiles.“Sorry,” he says lightly. “I didn’t quite catch that. Say again?”

  “I love you, angel. I love you with everything in me. And for the rest of our lives together, I will never deny that again.”

  His eyes are bright, but he’s still smiling. “I love you, too, baby. Forever.”

  He can’t hold back the one tear that slips out of the corner of his eye, but I don’t mind. For once in my life, I’ve made someone cry with happiness.

  We spend a pleasant interlude making promises in between gentle kisses until he pauses, pushes me back, and narrows his eyes at me at me. “How did you know where they’d taken me?”

  Ah. I thought we might come to that eventually. I’m not sure how Finch is going to take this news, but I don’t want to hide anything from him anymore. I take out my phone, smashed screen and all, and bring up the tracking app.

  He frowns at it. “That’s me? That glowing circle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you put a fucking implant in my neck or something? Where’s the—oh.” He gets it. He looks up at me, face darkening. “Oh, you son of a bitch.”

  “Look, the important thing is, you’re safe, and it’s thanks to—”

  “You put a tracker in my fucking wedding ring, didn’t you?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

  I’ve never heard my husband sound dangerous before. It’s cute. But I try not to smile.

  “That is not okay, Luca,” he says. “That’s so far from okay I can’t even begin to tell you—”

  “How about this,” I break in. I could point out that he was supposed to be a prisoner, a hostage, but I don’t think that would calm him down any. “I’ll get a tracker in my ring, too, and you’ll get your phone back. You can keep tabs on me, if I can keep tabs on you. Deal?”

  His glare eventually softens. “A new phone, not my old one. I want the latest model.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you have to eat my ass for a week, every night.”

  I can’t help snorting at that. “Fine. What a terrible punishment. Am I forgiven?”

  “No.” He pouts, then relents. “But you will be, eventually.”

  Before I can lean in to kiss him carefully, there’s a quiet knock on the door. I look up, senses alert. “What?” I call.

  “We need you downstairs, Boss,” Marco calls back. “We got a visitor.”

  I go down with Marco and find Frank standing in the foyer with his gun drawn, eyes fixed on the sheer curtains that look out onto the stoop. And waiting on that front stoop is Angelo Messina, Tino’s bodyguard. Seeing him here without warning, and without Tino, makes my blood run cold. There are only two things Angelo’s visit can mean.

  One, I’m about to get whacked for disobeying orders.

  Or two…

  Celia comes into the hallway from the kitchen, her face pale and dark eyes wide with fear. “Frank? What’s going on?”

  “Take Cee up to Finch,” I tell Marco. “Protect them.”

  Marco hustles Celia upstairs, and once I hear the bedroom door shut and lock, the small sound carrying in the silence, I give Frank the nod. He steps up to the door and calls through it, a simple, “Yo.”

  “Let me in, Frankie,” Angelo calls back. “News to share.”

  He sounds exhausted. Frank looks back at me, and I nod again.

  Angelo, when the door opens, is battle-worn and weary. He leans up against the doorframe and gives a head-nod of greeting, and hands over his gun to Frank.

  “Better get inside,” I say, putting my gun back in the holster. Frank, who has taken Angelo’s gun, keeps his own trained on Angelo.

  “Pat me down first,” Angelo says with a glare. Always conscious of security.

  “If you’re planning to kill me, get on with it. No? Then get in the fucking door so I can lock it up again.”

  Grumbling, Angelo follows me into the lounge room. His handsome face is bruised and bleeding, but he sits upright and alert in the armchair.

  “Why aren’t you with Tino?” I ask, no preamble. If he needs first aid, he can have it after our conversation. Because I think I know what’s coming, and it’s more important than cuts and scrapes.

  Angelo looks at his hands. “Tino’s dead.”

  I can’t help the involuntary swallow, the rush of strange regret. If I’d gone there when ordered—but I push it away. “Who else?”

  He names the dead, and more than one of my crew are among them. I sent them there without their Capo to lead them, and they’ve paid for their obedience with their lives. But not me. No, I’m still breathing. I feel disgusted at myself.

  “I should’ve been there,” I mutter, but Angelo shakes his head.

  “Wouldn’t have made a difference. The Clemenzas were there too, backing up Fuscone. There were plenty of casualties on their side, I’m glad to say, but Fuscone got away. I hear Joey’s dead, though?”

  I give him a grim smile. “He most certainly is. But none of this explains why you’re here, Angelo. If
it’s just to give me the bad news—”

  “No.” He reaches into an inside pocket and Frank, who’s been standing in the doorway, takes a step forward. Angelo holds up his hands slowly. “Told you to pat me down,” he says with a ghost of a smile. “It’s a phone. Tino recorded something for you.”

  “Then I’ll get it out for you,” Frank says, and reaches into Angelo’s jacket. His hand comes out with a phone, which he looks over as though it might be booby-trapped, before giving it back to Angelo with a sniff.

  Angelo says nothing more, just scrolls through his phone to find the video, and shows it to me. It’s not long, but it pains me more than I ever expected to see Tino cornered. He’s huddled in a dark room, and in the background I can hear shouting and gunfire. The lighting from the phone makes his face stand out, ghostly white.

  “Luciano,” he says, and his voice has lost none of its timbre. He even smiles. “You made the right choice today, and I thank you for it. I’m glad that my last night on this earth was spent with you and Finch and Connie last night. All of you, truly, are my Famiglia. And now, I pass my family into your care.” He pauses, as the guns get closer. There’s a muffled scream, and I see that Connie is huddled up against him, her face pressed into his chest. “I am sending Connie to you with Angelo. Please protect her. And my child, eh? Trust Angelo to help you—he is a good man. I hope he will serve you as faithfully as he has me.”

  The screen stops, frozen on Tino’s face. He’s smiling, even in his darkest hour.

  I look up. “Where’s Connie?”

  “The hospital,” Angelo says, his face creasing with regret. “They shot at the car as we drove away, hit her. There was nothing I could do except keep driving, get her to the hospital. Tino made me take her and leave him. I didn’t want to leave him, but he…he ordered me to go.” Angelo drops his face into his hands, shoulders shaking, and not for the first time, I wonder exactly what his feelings for Tino are. Were.

  “You’re sure he’s—”

  “I’m sure,” he says, wiping at his face. “I just got Connie out through the back when I heard them break down the door… He shot at them, they shot back. Then afterwards, they were cheering about it…” He looks up, face wet and gray but determined. “I’m going to kill every last one of those motherfuckers. Slowly and painfully.”

  “We’ll hunt them together.”

  Angelo shakes his head. “Not you, Boss. You’re too important to the Family.” At my frown, he continues: “You heard what Tino said. The Family is yours now.”

  “But he—he only meant—”

  “No. It was his dying wish. He has passed the Family into your care…Boss.” Angelo inclines his head respectfully.

  “Holy shit, Georgie,” Frank whispers.

  But words have failed me. I’ve just had everything I ever wanted handed to me on a silver platter. This is the moment I’ve been working toward my whole life.

  I never thought it would taste so bitter.

  “There’s one more thing,” Angelo adds. “About Finch.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  FINCH

  “I don’t hear guns,” Celia whispers after a while. We’re huddled up on the bed together and I have my arm around her. She burst into tears as soon as she saw me, and I’ll admit I got a little teary, too.

  Marco is standing at the door, gun out, like a statue. You have to admire his work ethic.

  “Maybe we should go down and see…” Celia trails off.

  “No,” I say, rubbing her arm. “Luca and Frank want us in here. We should do what they say.”

  She gives a tremulous smile. “Now I’m really worried, if you think we should do as we’re told.”

  But before I can reply, there are footsteps outside, and a tap on the door. Connie and I tense up, but then a voice says: “It’s me. Open up.”

  Luca. I relax. But once Marco’s unlocked the door and I see Luca’s face, I get worried again. He comes over to the bed and actually smiles.

  “Oh, God. What is it?”

  “I need to talk to you, angel. Alone, if you wouldn’t mind, Cee?”

  Celia scrambles off the bed without a word, and runs downstairs calling for Frank. Marco goes out after her and Luca locks the door again.

  “Baby, you’re scaring me,” I say, and pull back the covers.

  “Stay there,” he says quickly, coming over to me. “I need to talk to you about…things.” He pushes me back gently, and I let him rearrange the covers so I’m all tucked in.

  “It doesn’t look like good news.”

  “It’s not,” he says simply, and then he tells me.

  He tells me that Tino, the great Don Augustino Morelli, legend and lord of New York City, is dead.

  That Connie is in the hospital, and probably won’t make it.

  That half the Morelli Family have defected to Sam Fuscone, and half of the ones who stayed loyal are now dead anyway.

  And that he, Luciano D’Amato, is the new Boss of the Morelli Family, such as it is.

  It’s a lot to take in. “Isn’t it the D’Amato Family now?” I ask, because my head is swimming and I have to start somewhere.

  Luca gives a small smile. “It doesn’t work that way. We’ve been the Morellis for generations, and I’m not going to change that now. The name has power. Besides, angel, there’s something else I need to tell you. Angelo gave me a copy of Tino’s will. He changed it not long ago, after Connie got pregnant, I think.”

  “Okay?” I say with a frown. I don’t see how this has anything to do with anything.

  “He left half his fortune to his child by Connie, predicated on the fact that it is born, and, well, that it’s his.”

  I snort. “He’s no fool. But neither’s Connie, and I bet that baby’s Tino’s. She wouldn’t risk running around on him. She was so happy when she told me…” I trail off. “Luca, we have to protect her. And if we can’t—if she dies—we have to take care of their kid. Promise me.”

  He takes my hands. “I promise you we will. But there’s more.” He takes a deep breath. “The other half of his fortune goes to you.”

  I give a faint huff of laughter. “Yeah, okay.”

  Luca says nothing.

  “Wait, are you serious?”

  “Baby bird, I wouldn’t be making jokes at a time like this.” He swallows. “Tino left it to you because…I really didn’t want to tell you like this, but, uh—”

  I feel cold all over. “You’d better just tell me,” I say, but my voice sounds far away to my own ears.

  “You were—you are—Tino Morelli’s son. His son by Orla Fincher Donovan. Your mother, uh…” He pauses, thinking, trying to find the right words.

  I guess I can’t blame him. There’s no good way to tell someone their mom was running around on their dad. Their not-dad, in fact. “Well, shit,” I say. “Everything Maggie said makes a lot more sense right now.” My voice sounds light, but I’m not.

  The whole world is shifting around me, and I’m trying to grasp on to the new sense of things, but it’s like trying to hold water. I remember Maggie’s words, the hatred in her face as she said it. I am my father’s daughter. But you—you’re just some mutt.

  “But I never knew…” I start, and then the truth of it hits me. I never had the chance to get to know Tino, not as my father. I’m an orphan now, and I never even had the chance to know my father before he died. “It’s—it’s not fair…”

  Luca pulls me close and holds me while I cry, his hand rubbing up and down my back. He doesn’t tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m glad about that, because it would be a lie.

  There’s nothing okay about this at all.

  The next few days pass in a blur for me. We go to funerals, so many funerals, for the men who died with Tino and finally, for Tino himself. There are large gatherings in the townhouse, lots of muttering men and alcohol and toasts and memories shared, but I try to stay upstairs with Celia and think about other things.

  There’s one good thing, a
nd even this is not a good thing: Connie’s not dead. Only she’s not alive, either. Celia goes to visit her every day, and I go several times a week. The doctors tell us she can’t hear us, but we hold her hand anyway and tell her lies. That she’ll be okay. That we’ll get the best care for her when she wakes up.

  She’s not going to wake up. But her baby is growing, and Celia got hysterical when the doctors suggested we take Connie off life support. She couldn’t stand the idea that the baby wouldn’t get a shot at life, and neither could I. This kid is going to be my baby brother or sister, after all. So we all agreed in the end that once the baby is born, we’ll revisit Connie’s treatment.

  That’s another lie, though. Connie’s soul is already gone, and once the baby is born, I’ll ask the doctors to turn off life support.

  On the other hand, everything Luca told me turned out to be true.

  We’ve speculated together on just when Tino knew I was his kid, why he was so sure, why he never said anything about it until so long after we were married… At least one of our questions was answered, though, when Marco sheepishly owned up to having provided some of my hairs to Tino at his private request. And Luca found a letter locked in Tino’s safe from a lab, confirming my status as his child. It was dated the same day he changed his will.

  But Tino must have known before that, I think.

  Now that I know the truth, I can see his features overlaying mine. My weird eyes are a mix of my mom’s green and Tino’s caramel. My nose is the same as Tino’s, and maybe even the shape of my lips. Yeah. I’m sure in my heart that Tino must have known exactly who I was all these years, but chose to stay out of my life for one reason or another.

  Maybe Mom wanted Tino to stay away, for her sake as well as mine. But I was always Mom’s favorite, and I think part of the reason for that was because I reminded her of the man she really loved: Tino Morelli, her neighborhood friend in childhood and her husband’s enemy as an adult.

  Or maybe Tino understood the danger. If Howard Donovan, Irish Mob Boss, figured out his only son was actually not his—that his namesake was really the love child of his wife and his enemy—