Thick maroon drapes fell from the ceiling to the floor behind Vesuvio’s tinted windows. Through the narrow gap between panels, the soft glow of chandeliers cast silhouettes onto the club’s glass façade. Slick, black veneer outlined the windows and door, and lava-red Roman lettering announced the club’s name, the second V an eruption that spewed forth from an outline of the notorious mountain.
If the name and aesthetic didn’t make it obvious Vesuvio was Mr. DeVita’s club, the bouncer standing outside the entrance was a dead giveaway—big muscles, a stern mouth, and sunglasses.
Siobhán waited for me looking like she’d stepped off the set of a Great Gatsby movie, beret tilted over pin-curled hair and a trench coat cinched tight around her waist. She held out both hands, and I took them, greeting her with air kisses.
“I love your style,” I said. “I wish I could pull off something more daring.”
“Pfft.” She waved a hand and turned for the door. The bouncer opened it without a word. “Girl, with those curves, you could pull off anything.”
We walked out of the cold and into a refuge of heat, moths to the flames crackling in the glass firepit opposite the bar. Soft jazz filled the mostly empty space, the atmosphere more subdued and sophisticated than I’d expected. Men in suits and women in business attire stood around high tops sipping at martinis and globes of wine. The soft light from the chandeliers and fire glinted off the delicate crystalware. Most of the lush leather booths on either side of the fireplace were empty, only one of the spaces occupied by a couple engaged in intimate conversation.
“Come on,” Siobhán said, interrupting my survey. “There’s a Super Tuscan I want you to meet.” She stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and led me to the few empty barstools still waiting for customers. We hung our coats on the backs of the stools and settled in.
The bartender placed his hands flat on the bar top and gave Siobhán a knowing smile. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Hey, yourself,” she purred. “Can I get two glasses of that fabulous Tuscano I tried last week?” She turned to me. “Is red okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“For you and your beautiful friend?” He spared me a glance. “Anything.” He winked and sauntered off to get our drinks.
Siobhán laughed, the sound as infectious as her presence. “What a flirt.”
“You come here often, I take it?”
“I wouldn’t say often, but regularly enough they know I manage Terme di Boston for Marco. I look at it as a perk of working for DEI.” The lines bracketing the corners of her red lips deepened with her mischievous smile.
“Nice perk.”
The bartender returned with wine poured into two crystal goblets. I swirled mine under my nose, and my eyes widened with its powerful bouquet.
“Right?” She held up her glass. “Cheers.”
We drank, and the robust red hit my tongue with a burst of flavor even bolder than its intoxicating aroma.
I could get used to this.
“Let’s get to business,” Siobhán said, switching into general-manager mode. “Do you have any questions about what needs to be done?”
We spent the next hour talking charity gala logistics. She assigned me a list of odds and ends—confirm the florist, coordinate day-of installation, pick up the engraved guest nameplates. Siobhán was no-nonsense when it came to her job.
“I can’t believe I haven’t asked this yet, but what does the DeVita Foundation do?”
“Marco and his sister started it about ten years ago. They fund employment and language services for immigrants living in Boston. English as a Second Language, skills development, job placement. I think they wanted to provide the types of services their family didn’t have when they moved to this country.”
Warmth spread across my chest. I wanted so badly to believe in Mr. DeVita’s virtue, and this act of charity was a huge point in his favor. “That’s incredible. And he holds this event every year?”
She nodded. “Last year, they raised over a million dollars. The DeVitas are dedicated to helping immigrants. Marco told me once they think of all immigrants as part of their community.”
I sipped my wine, hoping the alcohol would steady me since I was practically swooning. Benevolence on top of what I’d seen in the spa? It was too much!
Siobhán’s eyes widened, and her lips turned up in a playful smile. “Oh my God. You have a thing for Marco.”
“I do not!” I yelped. Mr. DeVita’s naked body appeared in my mind, and my cheeks flared to match my drink. “Absolutely not!”
I hid my face behind my wine glass and bit the inside of my cheek to prevent the guilty smile attempting to break free. Once composed, I set the wine back on the bar and turned to face my accuser.
“You totally have a thing for Marco,” she said with a knowing smirk. “I don’t blame you. He’s a good-looking man. He’s generous and protective. Rich. Powerful. But…” She sighed, and her mouth bent into something just short of a frown.
“But…”
“Look, I love Marco like an uncle, but I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—he’s the type of man you want on your side, but not the type of man you want to date. The machismo in and of itself is…” She fake-shuddered.
I chuckled even though Mr. DeVita’s unbridled masculinity was one of the things that turned me on about him. Much to my own mortification.
“Not to mention, those men don’t understand the concept of fidelity.” Her tone took a bitter turn. “They have their goomars”—she rolled her eyes through the Italian-American slang—“and don’t give cheating a second thought.”
She paused to drink her wine, and a new source of misgiving wedged itself between all the warm feelings I was developing for Mr. DeVita.
“Sorry,” she said with a wave of her hand. She placed it atop mine, and her face softened, concern touching her pale blue eyes. “Just be careful, okay? In the years I’ve worked at Terme, I’ve never known Marco to date. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
I sipped my wine and considered that surprising tidbit. “Well,” I said with finality, “you absolutely do not need to worry about that. Absolutely nothing is going to happen between me and my boss. Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely,” she teased, eyes sparkling with delight. “Got it.”
I scowled, and she laughed.
“Speaking of good-looking, you weren’t kidding about Luca Moretti. Jesus.” I fanned myself. “Talk about intense.”
Siobhán’s eyebrows shot to her hairline, but she quickly reined in her reaction and shifted her focus to where her fingertip traced the rim of her wine glass. “Luca’s in town?” There was more than passing interest in her question; it leaked through the nonchalance I wasn’t buying.
“For the financial quarterly. He stopped by to see Mr. DeVita on Tuesday.”
She lifted her eyes as if waiting for me to say more, but I was distracted by the front door. It swung open behind her and let in a gust of cold air that whipped through the warm space like an icy fanfare heralding the man who followed behind it—Luca Moretti.
He glanced around the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his long wool coat, cashmere scarf hanging loosely in front of his unbuttoned suit jacket. His searching eyes landed on me, and after a beat, recognition snapped into place, and he donned his flashy smile.
“Speak of the devil,” I mumbled.
Siobhán frowned and followed my gaze over her shoulder. Luca strode toward us with the effortless superiority of a model. His eyes shifted to Siobhán, who was fixated on his approach, and his dark stare turned predatory, his wide, inviting smile hungry and menacing.
She spun back to face me, swallowed a huge gulp of wine, and carefully curated her posture and face into a mask of casual indifference despite giving off an energy like she was preparing for battle.
Luca stopped behind Siobhán and rested a hand on the back of her chair. “Anna, right?” he asked over her shoulder. “Marco’s new assistant?”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti, that’s right. Nice to see you again.”
“It’s Luca. And same. Although, I do wonder about the company you’re keeping.”
Siobhán’s head snapped up with a scowl.
He met the fierceness in her eyes with an intensity all his own, his pouty lips bending into a smile meant for pure seduction. Siobhán’s steely glare and cool comportment melted in its aftermath. He leaned closer and with his free hand trailed a gloved finger from the top of her shoulder down the length of her arm. “Did you miss me?” he asked just above a whisper.
Siobhán shivered, and her eyes fluttered closed. I grabbed my necklace, uncomfortable and wanting to excuse myself, but they didn’t seem to even notice I was still sitting there.
“Hm?” he prompted and leaned closer. “I missed you.” He brushed an errant curl of her hair away with the tip of his nose. “Lucky for me you’re still taking advantage of Marco’s generosity, huh, Shamrock?” The words slowly took on a mocking edge, and when he said Shamrock, it had a derisive bite.
Siobhán’s eyes snapped open. She pushed him away with her shoulder and flayed him with an angry glare. “I told you not to call me that,” she said through gritted teeth.
“But that’s what you are, right? Irish and Lucky?” He leaned in until their faces were an inch apart. “No matter how hard you try and change that accent.”
“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath and turned away, picking up her wine.
I shifted uncomfortably on my stool.
He chuckled and stepped back. “Have a nice night, ladies,” he said and continued past us.
I followed his retreating form over my shoulder. “What just happened?”
Luca whispered something to one of Marco’s sunglassed security guards. The man unclasped the red velvet rope hanging in front of the entrance to the narrow, spiral staircase at the far end of the club.
“And where is he going?” I turned back to Siobhán, and she was seething.
“And that”—she pointed to where Luca climbed the spiral staircase—“is why you don’t get involved with those types of men! That man lives to vex me. Vex!” She downed the rest of her wine with a wince, and I decided it was not the time for any more questions about her and Luca. “And he’s heading up to…” Her forehead wrinkled. “The other half of Vesuvio.”
I craned my neck. “The other half of Vesuvio?”
“You signed one of Marco’s NDAs, right?”
“Yes.”
“The members only portion of the club.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know Vesuvio had a private club.”
“No one does. Well, except the members. And Marco’s crew. It’s not exactly advertised. Most people assume it’s offices, which I suppose it kinda is during the day.”
“Oh,” I replied, completely lost. I sipped my wine hoping to cover up my naïveté.
Siobhán sighed and touched my hand. She filled her voice with a message I was supposed to understand by the slow articulation of her words. “The members like to play cards. Watch sports and horse racing. Enjoy half-naked waitresses who sometimes dance.”
“Ohhh.” My pulse quickened, the conflict of worry and excitement resurfacing in a rush. “I see.”
An illegal gambling club right over my head. Another piece of evidence Marco DeVita was a closet mafioso. How was Siobhán so blasé about the whole thing? None of this seemed to faze her.
“Last call, ladies.” The bartender’s smooth voice interrupted my racing thoughts.
“We’re good. Thanks, Eric,” Siobhán said.
He nodded and walked out from behind the bar to the main floor.
“You okay?”
I forced a smile, not wanting her to think I was going to freak out and run to the cops or something. “I’m fine. Just surprised, that’s all.”
“I get it. I imagine it’s jarring if you’ve never been exposed to this world.”
And she had?
“Like I said, be careful with Marco. I know this is all new to you, and I don’t want to see you get in over your head.”
The front door opened, and Mr. Balistreri strode into the club followed by two men wearing telltale shades, one of whom I recognized as Mr. DeVita’s driver. Mr. DeVita himself appeared next, his familiar, dominating swagger causing a rush of adrenaline that threatened to knock me off my stool. Two expensive suits filed in next. The first, shorter than Mr. DeVita and stout, his face shadowed by a fedora. The second, taller with features like a hawk. A final sunglassed security guard brought up the rear, and the seven men stood in the doorway like a scene out of the Godfather.
“I think that’s our cue,” I whispered.
She laughed, and the musical lilt drew Mr. DeVita’s attention, but his eyes landed squarely on me.
He said something I couldn’t make out, and the group strode through the club to the spiral staircase at the back while he and his driver made their way to where Siobhán and I sat at the bar.
“Ladies,” Mr. DeVita crooned, peeling off his gloves one finger at a time. “Did you enjoy your night?” His eyes never left mine, and I sat frozen, unable to speak, held captive by the conflict of danger and desire.
“The new Super Tuscan is fabulous, Marco. Excellent buy,” Siobhán said and stood from her barstool. “I could have done without seeing Luca, but an otherwise lovely night. Thank you.”
His eyes darted to Siobhán. “You two need to act your age around each other,” he grumbled.
She snorted. “Tell him that.” She took her coat off the chairback. “Anyway, we were just leaving.”
His dark, sensuous eyes returned to me, and the air between us hung heavy with anticipation.
“Anna.” Mr. DeVita held out his hand, never breaking eye contact. A spark zinged through me when our fingers touched and made my body rabid for more.
“Thank you,” I said in an awe-filled whisper.
“Paulie. Take the girls home.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Oh, that’s really not necessary.”
“I insist,” he commanded in his executive voice.
Siobhán’s focus drifted to where my hand still rested in his. “Come on, Paulie.” She shoved her arm into the crook of his elbow and pulled him toward the door.
Mr. DeVita released my hand and fetched my coat. He held it open, and I threaded my arms into the sleeves. He settled it across my shoulders, stepping closer as he wrapped it around my body. His powerful frame was a furnace pressed against my back, and his breath tickled my ear, sending a frisson of heat straight to the apex of my legs. I tilted my head to bring my face closer to his lips.
He hummed, a satisfied sound. “I changed my mind.” He ran his hands up and down my arms. “Wear something low-cut to the office. Something tight that shows off your ass and those gorgeous tits. You’re having dinner with me tomorrow night, and I want to engage in some sexual harassment.”
A strange sound escaped me, something between a groan and a yelp, and my cheeks flared at the ridiculous noise. His chest rumbled with laughter, deep and sinful, and he squeezed my arms before releasing me and took quick strides to the winding staircase.
I walked out of Vesuvio in a daze, unable to process what had happened or the torrent of sensation attacking my body. Mr. DeVita’s driver opened the backdoor of the Range Rover, and I slid into the seat. The door slammed shut.
“Girl.” Siobhán gawped at me, her eyebrows approaching her hairline. “You are in so much trouble.”
* * *
I threw off the covers and picked my phone up off the side table. 3:00 a.m. “Ugh.”
I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and slid them into my slippers. Sophie lifted her head and glared at me with the profuse judgment only achievable by cats. I didn’t blame her. I’d go back to sleep if I could, but images of Jeff’s bruised and swollen face and topless women serving drinks at poker tables plagued my dreams. I needed answers.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater, threw my hair into a ponytail, and threaded it through the back of my Red Sox cap. Boots, coat, gloves? Check. I locked my front door and started the long walk to MIT.
Even if Marco DeVita wasn’t currently a member of the Mafia—doubtful given the illegal club and the shakedown at city hall—I’d be hard-pressed to believe he hadn’t been at some point. He wouldn’t have been able to negotiate with Pádraig Shaughnessy otherwise.
My breath came in short puffs of steam against the cold black night. Heightened awareness kept my mind busy and my eyes searching, nervous I was being followed. Whether by one of Mr. DeVita’s men or someone keeping tabs on Mr. DeVita, I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. It freaked me out all the same. I picked up my pace until I was safe within the walls of MIT’s main library.
One of the benefits of working at a university? Twenty-four seven access to archives and primary source material not available to the outside world. A few students sat at wide wooden tables, hovering over open notebooks. Some were goofing off, playing board games. Others used their textbooks as pillows, having lost the battle against nature’s inconvenient requirement that humans sleep.
Being in my forties, I remembered how information searches worked before the internet. Back then, looking up newspaper articles meant searching through a stack of index cards organized by keywords to find the correct roll of microfiche, then loading it into the viewer to access the article.
I removed my gloves and coat and placed them on the desk next to the index computer. I searched for Valenzano, DeVita, Moretti, and Shaughnessy. Most of the hits came from the Boston Globe, a few dating back as early as the 1940s. I printed the indexes from each decade predating the internet, retrieved the rolls, and settled myself in front of a viewer.
The articles themselves, especially the early ones, didn’t tell me much more than I already knew about the history of the Boston Mafia or the key players like Big Frankie Valenzano and Antonio Moretti. Those two were local legends, especially among Italian-Americans in Massachusetts. But the pictures were fascinating.
The Valenzanos shared a strong family resemblance. Anyone with eyes could see Vinnie was related to Big Frankie. And the pictures of Vincenzo—Vinnie senior—looked nearly identical to the man who’d walked into Marco’s office two weeks ago. Aside from the mustache, I couldn’t tell them apart.
An article from 1962…
Italian Mafia Suspected in Cuban Cigar Heist
Famed mafiosos Antonio “Tony” Moretti and Marco L. DeVita are primary suspects in a missing truck shipment that contained over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Cuban cigars.
That was a lot of money in 1962. And what was with these men naming their children and grandchildren after themselves? I shook my head and scrolled to the bottom of the page where two black-and-white pictures, one of Big Frankie and one of Tony, stared back at me.
Law enforcement believes Tony Moretti and Marco DeVita are capi under the current Don of Boston, Francesco “Big Frankie” Valenzano. At the time of printing, neither law enforcement nor the Boston Globe had a picture of Marco DeVita.
My stomach dropped reading Mr. DeVita’s name in the newspaper even if it was referring to his… father? Grandfather? The DeVitas had been involved, that much was clear, and his legacy and fortune were tainted with blood. I shifted in my seat, but pushed my unease aside and continued my research.
By five in the morning, the only thing keeping me awake was anxious curiosity and my insatiable hunger for answers. Luckily, I’d reached the final index—an article from 1988.
Funeral of Antonio Moretti Draws Who’s Who of New England Organized Crime
Italian businessman Antonio Moretti, Jr., son of Antonio “Tony” Moretti, Sr., famed mafioso and known associate of the Valenzano crime family, was shot in the head and killed last Saturday, sending shockwaves through the Italian-American community. Police found Antonio Jr. in the driver’s seat of his Cadillac outside the Charlestown shipyard. Authorities suspect the assassination was executed by the Shaughnessy crime family in retaliation for recent infractions involving gambling territories.
The article went on and on, detailing the Moretti family’s involvement in organized crime since the 1950s as well as a laundry list of gangsters who’d attended the funeral. I skimmed to the bottom.
Antonio Jr. leaves behind son, Luca Davide Moretti. Luca’s mother, Lucia, passed away in 1982 from complications during childbirth.
Below the article was a grainy, black-and-white photo from the funeral, taken at a distance, no doubt by law enforcement or the paparazzi. I couldn’t imagine the family or the Valenzanos allowing journalists at such a private event. The casket was closed, which I knew was an added insult. A young boy stared down at its black veneer.
Luca. My heart broke for the little boy in the picture.
He held hands with a man and a woman who stood on either side of him. A fat ring on the man’s pinky finger caught my eye and turned my stomach.
I knew that ring. I’d seen that ring almost every day for the past two weeks. I swallowed and looked to the face of its owner. Marco DeVita’s dark, passionate eyes were fixed on the casket.
I blinked rapidly. Exhaustion had my mind playing tricks, and in my rush to leave the house, I’d forgotten my reading glasses. I squinted and tried to refocus, but I knew those eyes. They’d held me captive for weeks. The man in the picture was identical to the man I’d left only hours before, but that was impossible.
I sat back in my chair and chewed the side of my finger. What the hell was a fifty-year-old Marco DeVita doing in a picture from 1988?