Faneuil Hall was a twenty-minute walk from Terme. My meeting with Luca in the North End wasn’t till two, but I needed to clear my head. Of Anna, the Irish, my European office. Of everything.
The wind whipped across the Commons, and the overcast sky blocked even the slightest breakthrough sun. Homeless people gathered their belongings close. Runners tugged on their winter gear to cover their faces. A few businessmen charged through the streets, heads lowered to the wind. It was going to storm again tonight, maybe even this afternoon. The air was thick with humidity, and the dense clouds loomed heavy in the sky, readying themselves for release and doing nothing to lift my dark mood.
The empathy and determination in Anna’s eyes when she’d promised to find the leak had eased something in my chest. She was giving me the partnership I’d been missing, and it made my heart ache with a tenderness a man in my position couldn’t afford.
I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head the entire time I was in Italy. I’d jerked off more times in the past week than I had since I was a teenager. And when I’d found out she’d been on a date? Thank God I’d been in my hotel room when Vito’s email came in. One thought of another man’s hands on Anna’s body made my eyes flare and fangs descend.
The way she fidgeted that damn necklace when she was nervous or too flustered to find words. The way she lost her temper each time I pushed her buttons. The way she shifted and stumbled, unsteady in heels. I smiled and shook my head remembering how she’d wobbled that first day.
She struck the perfect balance, a harmonious chord. Timid yet fierce; reserved in manner yet bold in brilliance; self-conscious yet undeniably sexy.
But to expect a sheltered, educated woman to accept a made man was delusional. Our worlds were too different. Right now, she skirted the periphery. Getting involved would put her in real danger, and that wasn’t an option.
And when she found out I was a blood demon? I chuffed out a snort and yanked open one of the doors to Faneuil Hall.
I’d been worried about distraction, but this was bordering on obsession. If I didn’t keep my eye on the game, things would get a lot worse than a dislocated jaw.
My favorite chowder stand was on the far end of the buzzing hive of vendors, tourists, and school groups. I found a seat at the counter and removed my gloves.
“Cup or bowl?” the grizzled old man in a Sox cap and dirty apron shot across the counter.
“Bowl.”
Armed with his ladle, he spun around to a stainless-steel pot in a single choreographed motion, and within moments, the rich, comforting flavors of Boston soothed my hunger and my temper.
A vaguely familiar man on the opposite end of the counter stared at me with a wide, grateful smile. It took a second, but eventually the connection snapped into place—a newly immigrated blood demon. Gina was using DeVita Foundation funds to help him get settled in his new country. The chowder stand was a known friendly spot for our kind. Leave it to Gina to help a person feel right at home. I acknowledged him with a nod.
There were a lot of humans who found out about blood demons and accepted them as a fact of nature, just another part of our crazy world. Most were Sources who, for their own reasons, benefited from the knowledge. But the majority of the population refused to believe, their logical brains discounting the supernatural. They’d make any excuse to keep their understanding of the world intact.
Then there were the humans who found out about blood demons and the knowledge broke them. Discovering the world wasn’t what they were taught to believe? That their understanding was an illusion? The abyss of their fear devoured them whole, and they couldn’t escape.
Like Lucia. Fear had killed Luca’s mother, God rest her soul. I couldn’t risk Anna suffering that fate.
I tossed a twenty on the counter and checked my watch. Another fifteen minutes to the North End. I pulled on my gloves and, armed with a stomach full of chowder, braced myself for the cold.
The clouds had lost the battle to withhold their winter burden. Snowflakes kissed my cheeks, and a thin sheen of white blanketed the frozen landscape.
My capi from the West Coast and Canada would arrive tomorrow. We gathered in Boston for two weeks every three months to discuss business. We talked about the crew—who were the top earners, who was ready to be made, who was dead weight—how to expand our rackets, increase tributes. We played cards and shot pool, smoked cigars and drank whiskey, shared meals with our families.
I’d spent the morning trying to figure out how to break the news, but there was no gentle way to say it. We were losing money, and there was more at play than poorly performing hotels and spas. I felt the truth in my bones as sure as I felt the oncoming blizzard. Vinnie’s visit and the Shaughnessy interest in the financial district were too coincidental. But I needed proof. I needed Anna.
I walked past the entrance to Stanza dei Sigari, an iconic feature of Hanover Street and one of the last bastions of another time. A lot of the Italian immigrants had moved out of the North End over the past few decades, out to the suburbs where it was more affordable to buy a house. But there were holdouts, including my family and a handful of restaurants, delis, and bakeries who refused to relinquish the “Little Italy” of Boston.
Vesuvio dominated the second half of the block, windows dark, red marquee dim and waiting for twilight. The high-end nightclub was a front for where I really made money with the property—illegal card games and professional sports betting. The same setup I’d create in the financial district.
I turned down the alley, climbed the back stairs to the second floor, and punched in the door code. Enzo stood behind the bar cleaning glasses, and the only other person on the floor was Luca. He sat at the bar with a glass of scotch.
I tugged off my gloves and tossed them on the bar.
“Hey, boss,” Enzo said and placed the pint glass he’d been drying on the shelf behind him.
“Enzo. Will you give us a minute?”
“Sure thing.” He walked out from behind the bar and down the hallway to the girls’ dressing room and lounge.
“Ciao, Luca.” I slapped him on the shoulder and rounded the end of the bar to pour myself a finger of whiskey. “È bello averti a casa, nipote.”
“Grazie, Marco.”
The high-backed stool next to Luca creaked under my weight. I pulled out two Nicaraguan cigars, and we went through the slow, methodical dance of retrieving our cutters and readying our smokes in the comfortable silence only possible with family.
The peaceful moment eased my worries. I needed him in Italy, but I wanted him in Boston. I might have called him nephew, but for all intents and purposes, Luca was my son, and when he was home, it was like a piece of my best friend was still with me.
Smoky cedar notes settled on my tongue, and I washed them down with a sip of whiskey. “How’s Gina?” I asked.
“Mamma Gina’s fine,” Luca said, and a heartfelt smile softened his mask.
Mamma Gina. He still called her that after all these years. Tony had called her Mamma Gina when Luca was little, as if the nickname could replace the mother he’d lost.
“She made lasagna and bought cannoli from Mike’s.”
“She still spoils you.”
He chuckled. “She does. I’m not complaining.”
The comfortable silence returned while we enjoyed our cigars and drinks, but it didn’t last long.
“That FBI agent was skulking around outside Terme when I stopped by yesterday,” Luca said.
“Agent Johnson.” I let out a tired sigh and closed my eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t engage.”
He snorted. “Non preoccuparti, zio. Didn’t have to. Siobhán came out and read him the riot act. Told him he was impeding business and if he didn’t leave, she’d call his supervisor.” He chuckled and shook his head.
“She’s got moxie, that one. Couldn’t find a better GM if I tried.”
Luca puffed on his cigar and gave me side-eye. I knew they didn’t get along, but when it came to business, they both had enough sense to keep things professional.
“He been coming around a lot, lately?” Luca asked into his drink.
“No more than usual, but I’m not surprised you saw him yesterday.” I blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Vinnie came to see me last week.”
Luca’s head snapped up.
“I know. I had the same reaction. I don’t remember the last time he came to Terme.”
Luca took a long drag off his cigar and swiveled his barstool to face me. “What did he want?”
“He wants to use Terme to expand his Source racket. Provide lodgings and meeting places for higher-end clients. Legitimize a portion of his income by laundering it through DEI. For a cut, of course.”
Luca shifted and cleared his throat, his eagerness unmistakable. He’d always wanted to involve himself with the Valenzanos, follow in his father’s footsteps out of some misguided sense of tribute or legacy. I thought he’d moved on. Apparently not.
“What did you say?” he asked.
I lifted my whiskey. “I told him I wasn’t interested,” I said and took a sip.
He swiveled back to the bar and stared into his drink, disappointment evident in the set of his jaw.
“Might be worth considering.” Luca’s words were muted with hesitation. I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. “You know as well as I do Roma and Sicilia aren’t doing well. Fucking economy. But the Source racket is steady, and he’s offering you a cut.”
“We’ve been down this road before, Luca,” I said, my tone thick with warning. “I won’t tie myself financially to the Valenzanos. I’ve been running my crew my way for longer than you’ve been alive, and I’m not going to jeopardize our independence now.”
The muscles of his hard, angular jaw twitched. My involvement, or lack thereof, with the Valenzanos had been a recurring issue between us since he’d turned eighteen and decided he wanted to be made.
“It’s not just the money. It’s the alliance. The Irish are getting bolder. Expanding. Taking more business. It’s only a matter of time before they encroach on Italian territory. You want them running books in the North End? Taking business away from Vesuvio?”
Fuck, no. Especially given my suspicion that the Shaughnessys had a hand in the poor performance of my European properties. But I didn’t need Vinnie’s help to put a stop to that.
“How about real estate development? Between you and Vinnie, the Italians have city hall and the unions, but how long will that last with those Irish cops Shaughnessy has on the take?”
“Law enforcement is the exact reason we shouldn’t take this deal. You just finished telling me you saw Agent Johnson outside Terme. You think bringing Source traffic through there is going to make him less interested in what we’re doing? You want to jeopardize the safety of blood demons on top of our rackets?” I shook my head. “Our lives are dangerous enough, Luca. Your father—”
“My father’s been dead for almost forty years, Marco. Paddy Shaughnessy put a bullet through his head. Or have you forgotten?” Hesitation fled Luca’s voice, leaving only bitterness. I chewed the end of my cigar and let him finish. “I’m tired of living in his shadow, and I don’t need you to protect me anymore. All I’m saying is this might be a good move. For the money and the alliance. We should at least consider it.”
When Luca was three or four, Tony made me promise if anything happened to him, I’d make sure Luca had options, that he wouldn’t be forced into the life me and Tony had no choice but to lead. One of the strongest men I’d ever known, the worry and pleading in Tony’s eyes when he’d made me promise had stayed with me every day since Pádraig Shaughnessy ended his immortal life.
Only two things could kill a blood demon—blood starvation and a head shot. Tony had fallen victim to the latter. I didn’t want my adopted son to meet the same fate.
“I’m going to explain this one last time, Luca. One. Last. Time. Tying ourselves financially to the Valenzanos is off the table. Laundering money for something the feds will consider prostitution, regardless of whether or not that’s what it is, is not a good look. Do you want to starve in a federal penitentiary? Do you want to put Gina through that pain? Watch her lose everything?”
“No. Of course not.” The Luca I knew and loved broke through the anger, sincerity clear in his eyes and in the softening of his face. “I want to protect her as much as you, but we can’t let this go. We can’t let them win.”
“You think the solution is making a stand against the Irish? Starting a war?” I shook my head. “I know you hate the Shaughnessys. The Lord knows I’ve tried to help you out of your anger since you were a kid, but you need to let it go. Before it consumes you. Before you end up with a bullet through your head.”
His fury spread, glowing red streaks through the darkness of his eyes.
“Hey.” I clasped his shoulder and squeezed. “Nipote. Come on. Finish your drink. Let’s smoke these cigars and play some pool. Va bene? Take the edge off?” I patted him twice on the cheek.
He closed his eyes, ran a hand down his face, and pulled at his jaw. His lips parted, revealing the tips of his fangs.
“You’re right,” he said and opened his eyes. They’d returned to their normal near-black. “You’re right. I forgot myself for a moment. Just stressed about Roma and Sicilia.”
He gave me one of his fake smiles, the ones he used when dealing with the public or his endless stream of women. He was still pissed. At me, at his father, at the world. But he’d school his emotions and erect his walls and I’d let him, hoping he’d never unleash the inferno of his deep-seated rage.