The door clattered open and a whoosh of late February air wafted across the club followed by the hard fall of Luca’s footsteps. My nephew appeared, and the toothy smile he’d worn since he was a child punched me in the gut. He looked so much like Tony. It was like losing my best friend all over again.
No. Worse.
Luca was as close to a son as I might ever have, and his betrayal hurt worse than death.
“Marco.” Luca shrugged out of his coat.
“Luca.” I dug my fingers into the arm of the chair and tried to remain calm.
“You got rid of the keypad.” He unbuttoned his suitcoat and sat across from me at the poker table. He reached inside his left breast pocket and retrieved the cigar case he kept there, a habit he’d learned from me. Like father, like son. Loss shrunk the space around my heart.
“Passcodes can be leaked. Better to have a man on either side of a deadbolt. Lesson learned.”
He eased back into his chair, lit the cigar, and extended his long legs, crossing them at the ankles.
Enzo stood on a chair, scrubbing the last of the spray paint off the brick.
“Enzo.”
He looked over his shoulder, and I nodded toward the door. He tossed the brush and rubber gloves on the floor, grabbed his coat, and walked out.
“You wanted to talk?” How I managed to keep the vitriol out of my voice, I had no idea, but I needed to hear what he had to say without tipping him off. He’d called the meeting before I’d had the chance. Saved me the trouble. Either way, the conversation would have the same ending.
His expression morphed into one filled with concern. I’d known Luca his entire life, knew how easily he masked his true feelings with bullshit, and that was his bullshit face.
“I heard what happened,” he said. “Wanted to let you know, I’m ready to move on those Irish fucks. Just say the word.”
And there it was. All the confirmation I needed.
I brought my cigar to my lips and let the slow burn temper my anger. I’d known, of course, but that didn’t make the validation any easier to stomach.
A quiet calm settled over me, a kind of begrudging acceptance. I couldn’t control everything, that much was clear, and it was time to let Luca lead his own life.
My shoulders relaxed, and my voice turned cool and conversational. “Did you know in over fifty years, the Irish have never once—not once—crossed over into the North End? Charlestown, yes. But never the North End.” I flipped my cigar to stare at its burning red end. “And the Italians have never set foot in Southie.”
Luca leaned back and licked his lips, a nervous tell I’d warned him about for years. He puffed on his cigar.
“There’s a line that divides Boston. Invisible, but hard as steel. Strange how Ciarán Shaughnessy decided now would be a good time to cross it.”
Luca shifted in his seat but nodded. “They’re lawless thugs who want control of our city.”
I drew on my cigar. “That’s one explanation.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “That’s the only explanation.” His bouncing knee told me he knew otherwise.
“Or…” I canted my head. “Someone wanted me to move against the Irish badly enough to make a very poor decision.” The words came out slower and more suggestive than I’d intended, but I was barely holding on to control.
Luca scoffed and looked away, but his knee picked up speed. “You’re grasping,” he spat the bitter words. “Another excuse not to get involved. Un-fucking-believable.”
How I’d been so willfully blind to Luca’s lust for revenge was a disgrace. I’d wanted to do right by Tony, but the happy little boy I’d raised with Gina was gone, and the volatile adult who’d taken his place was no longer my responsibility.
“It was the Shaughnessys,” he snapped.
I rested my cigar on the lip of the ashtray and folded my hands in my lap. “Ciarán Shaughnessy says otherwise.”
He leaned forward as if to protest, but I cut him off.
“Anna was at Vesuvio. Did you know that? So was Siobhán.” His face paled, and his lips parted, but I kept going, done with excuses. “Anna was hit by a car when they ran out. She’s in the ICU at Mass General.” Angry heat traveled up my neck and into my eyes at the thought of Anna’s damaged body in that hospital bed. “Siobhán got lucky, but she’s a fucking mess.”
“Oh my God,” he said in a horrified whisper. His throat bobbed, working through labored swallows. “Marco, I—”
“I know about the money.”
“Wh—what…” He shook his head and blinked. “What money?”
“I thought maybe Vinnie put you up to it. Wanted you to help him force me into a deal. But after last night…” I picked up my cigar and took a deep pull trying to numb my rising anger. “You thought the money would be enough. You thought if you could put DEI at risk—put our family at risk—you could tip Vinnie off, tell him I’d be open to an arrangement. Isn’t that right?”
Luca’s jaw twitched under the strain of his clenched teeth.
“Answer the fucking question, Luca.”
“I—”
“And when that didn’t work?” I cut him off and stood, leaning forward, knuckles pressed into the poker table, unable to cage the fury in my blood. “When that didn’t fucking work?” I shouted, and Luca scrambled to his feet. “You sent a group of thugs to threaten me and force my hand.”
My eyes turned and fangs descended from the intensity of unleashing my pain on its source. I stepped around the table, and Luca’s nostrils flared with short, rapid breaths. I gripped the back of his neck and squeezed to hold him in place. I wanted to look him in his red eyes when I laid out the truth of what he’d done. “You attacked a made man. Came in fucking heavy. And now the woman I love is fighting for her life.”
Luca pushed back against my hand, his eyes glassy with awareness and regret, the color leeched from the hard lines of his conflicted face. “I was trying to protect us,” he mumbled, his unwavering bravado finally shaken. “I was trying to get you to lead our family.”
I pulled him closer. “Basta con le stronzate, Luca. You wanted revenge. This has nothing to do with family.”
“Doesn’t it?” Luca grabbed my forearm and threw my hand off his neck. He stepped back, and his face twisted into an angry sneer. “The noble DeVita family. Walking away from Cosa Nostra. Adopting the poor, parentless child of a fallen capo, determined to lead him away from his father’s despicable life and down the path of righteousness.” He pointed a finger in my face. “This has everything to do with family!”
Luca’s crimson eyes were filled with so much resentment, I knew I’d lost him.
“The DeVitas are built on as much blood as the Valenzanos and the Morettis. Or have you forgotten? The only difference is we fucking own it! And my father’s blood—the Moretti family’s blood—is a stain on the DeVitas and the Valenzanos that has never been wiped clean.” His words were bitter poison that burned for all the truth they contained. He stepped forward, hands fisted at his sides. “This is about family, Marco. And if you, mio zio, aren’t going to help me make this right, by God, I will do it alone.”
I stared at Luca—mio nipote, my son—and shook my head in disbelief. “There are more important things at stake than this vendetta, Luca, and you put them in jeopardy with this stunt. You took an oath. You should have trusted me.
“Your father and I made a promise to each other the day we met. We were brothers, and we’d protect each other like brothers. Gina and I honored that promise by raising you a DeVita.” My voice caught on our family name, my throat tightening around words that held all the love I had for my brother and his son. “And your actions—the money, the attack...” I shook my head. “They dishonor that promise. You have dishonored your father’s legacy.”
I showed him my back. The pain of his betrayal, the anger at his callous regard for the sanctity of our family and Anna’s safety was too much to face.
“You made a mistake crossing a made man, and you will pay for that mistake. You want to be a part of this world so badly? Cosa Nostra has rules, and you violated more than one.”
“You won’t hurt me.” His bravado returned, but I recognized the undercurrent of fear in his brash words.
I glanced over my shoulder. “If you were any other man, you’d already be dead.”
Weariness grabbed hold of my body, as if all ninety-four years caught up to me in that one moment. I sat down and retrieved my cigar. It had burned an inch while we’d talked, and I tapped the ash from its glowing red end before bringing it to my lips.
Luca stood between me and the exit, between understanding how deeply he’d violated our laws and the righteousness he thought justified his actions.
“You took an oath when you got made in the DeVita family, and you broke that oath. It’s well within my rights to kill you. But unlike you, I’ve never broken an oath in my life. Not to Cosa Nostra, not to the Valenzanos, and not to your father. I’m not going to start now.” I released a mouthful of smoke and met his eyes one last time. “You’re no longer part of the DeVita family. You’re Vinnie’s to deal with now, and I’ve never known Don Valenzano to suffer fools.”
Luca stiffened and sweat beaded his forehead. Vinnie was old school, like me, and his tolerance for violating Cosa Nostra law was exactly zero. For all Luca knew, he’d walk out of Vesuvio and straight into a bullet through his head. Just like his father, but without honor.
I bit the end of my cigar. “Now get out of my sight.”
Luca retrieved his coat, his motions slow and stiff. He reached the top of the spiral staircase and looked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry about Anna. I had no idea. But I’m not sorry for trying to get you involved or trying to avenge my father. The Shaughnessy’s day is coming.”
“Not before yours, Luca.”
He stared at me a heartbeat longer, then walked out the back door to where I knew Vinnie’s enforcer waited in the alley. I pulled out my phone.
Vinnie’s reply appeared immediately.
Gina had begged Vinnie to spare Luca’s life, and I’d let her. Vinnie wouldn’t kill him; he didn’t have to. Luca was a blood demon, and knowing Vinnie, Luca’d wish he was dead by the time Vinnie was through with him. Immortality wasn’t always a blessing. Some fates were far worse than death. Luca Moretti would reap what he’d sown.
I tucked the phone back in my pocket and pushed myself to standing. I rubbed the back of my neck, stretching it, and walked behind the bar. I needed to get back to the hospital, but I needed a drink first, something to numb my nerves.
The silence in Vesuvio was deafening. I turned on the satellite radio. Frank Sinatra’s voice floated through the empty interior. I poured a finger of whiskey, shot it back, and poured two more. I leaned against the bar, crossed my ankles, and closed my eyes.
For better or worse, I’d done it my way. Standing there after all those years, I recognized my truth—I’d never really gotten out. I’d admitted as much to Siobhán at the hospital. What I had done was forge my own path through Boston’s underworld, one that I could live with. But going forward, I wouldn’t live in the space between worlds. I’d embrace my truth.
A made man in Cosa Nostra. The boss—the Don—of the DeVita crime family.