In prison, Dominic Chiarello had slept like a baby. He was protected behind the impersonal walls of concrete. His life was regimented—he knew his schedule, his routine. People he trusted surrounded him at mealtimes and in the yard. The first two men who moved against him had died quick but messy deaths. Word spread, and he was left alone.
Chiarello had enjoyed several perks: a plush job in the prison’s law library, conjugal visits from his wife on a regular basis, his own TV, access to telephones and computers for emails, chats, and video conferences, and plenty of smokes and extra food. He had almost come to like it. Almost. But the constant reminder had remained that any fleeting sense of freedom he might feel was only an illusion. Deep down, he’d known that in spite of the perks, he was not free.
Because every night he’d gone to bed in a cage. He was safe, but so were the animals in a zoo, once the visitors were sent away and the gates locked.
Still, there was something to be said for certainty. Now he was out, and it had been twenty-five years and change, and the outside world, at least so far as he understood it, was anything but certain these days.
His nephew Massimo was waiting in a big black Escalade when Chiarello walked through the gates of the Ohio State Penitentiary in Youngstown one last time. Massimo had been a toddler when Chiarello went away; he had missed the boy’s childhood, his high school graduation and everything else an uncle should be present for. Chiarello had sent gifts, and Massimo had visited him from time to time after he’d turned twelve. They knew each other. Not well—he had never once hugged the boy. But he knew his nephew, knew his accomplishments on behalf of the Family and he trusted the young man he had grown into. So when he saw him behind the wheel of the big SUV, he broke into a grin.
By the time he reached the vehicle, Massimo and another young man had emerged, and they opened both the front and rear passenger doors. Massimo came forward and enveloped his uncle in a burly hug. He had grown into a huge young man, well muscled, with dark curly hair and a broad face and lips that could entice women but then just as easily, Chiarello expected, turn cruel and dismissive. He smelled like cologne. Chiarello had once had a good nose for such things, but tastes had changed, new scents came along. Chiarello thought Massimo’s was a little flowery, but maybe the women liked it.
“Welcome back, Uncle Dom,” Massimo said as he held his uncle in a bear hug. “Glad to see you on the outside.”
“Glad to be here,” Chiarello replied. In most ways, he meant it. He tilted his head toward the other young man. “Him, I don’t know.”
“That’s Brendan,” Massimo said. “He’s a good guy. You’ll like him.”
“Brendan?” Chiarello echoed. “He’s not Sicilian.”
“No. Irish, I think.”
“Since when do we work with them?”
“Things are different since you went away, Uncle Dom.”
“I don’t like it.”
“It’s just how things are. It’s about business relationships, about creating win-win scenarios. Not just about Family. Not anymore.”
“So I’ve heard. I think it’s bullshit.”
“Times have changed, that’s all. We still take care of each other. Trust me, Brendan has always had my back.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Massimo gave Brendan a nod, and the man joined them. He was skinnier than Chiarello’s nephew, with a shock of reddish-brown hair that came to several peaks on top, like meringue on a pie. As he approached, Chiarello saw that he had a sprinkling of honest-to-God freckles across his upturned nose. Freckles! Chiarello glanced over his shoulder at the prison, wondering if they would take him back.
But only briefly. Outside the cage was still better than inside. Supposedly. Brendan came over and stuck out a hand, and Chiarello took it and squeezed. Brendan squeezed back. He was skinny, but strong. Chiarello gave a chuckle and released.
“It’s good to meet you, sir,” Brendan said. “You’re like a, like a...”
“Yeah?”
“A legend, I was gonna say. Growin’ up, we always heard stories about you.”
“You make it sound like I’m already dead.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Chiarello, that surely isn’t what I meant at all. No sir. Not at all.”
Spoken like a southern Ohio idiot. A hillbilly. Chiarello caught his nephew’s eye, but the young man just offered a wan smile.
“We’ve got a long drive ahead of us,” Massimo said. “We should hit the road. Uncle Dom, you want the front or the back? You pick.”
“I’ll take the back,” Chiarello said. At least he could ride like a gentleman.
“I got shotgun,” Brendan said. As if there was any other choice left to him, Chiarello thought.
Idiot.
* * *
ON THE RIDE, he dozed. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to show any signs of weakness, of age or infirmity. On the inside, he had worked out sometimes. Not hard-core bodybuilding, like some of the younger cons, but enough to keep toned. For sixty-seven, he was in damn good shape. But when he woke up, as they were passing Cuyahoga Heights and crossing into Cleveland, he found a thin trail of spittle down his chin. The boys had been arguing about sports and women and cars, the way kids did, and he didn’t know if either one of them had spared him so much as a sidelong glance since they’d left Youngstown.
The sun was almost down. He could see enough to tell that the skyline, while still recognizable, had changed enough in those years to be disorienting. “What the hell is that?” he asked.
“What?” Massimo asked him.
Chiarello pointed. “That monstrosity, there. That giant building.”
“It’s the Key Tower,” Brendan said. “Tallest building in Ohio.”
“It’s bigger than the damn Terminal Tower. I love the Terminal Tower.”
“That one in between them, that’s the BP Building,” Massimo said. “I guess they’re new since you went away.”
“I guess there’s a lot of stuff new,” Chiarello said. “I don’t like it.”
“The world changes, Uncle Dom.”
“How’s your father? He changed?”
Massimo chuckled. “He’s the same old bastard.”
“Well, that’s one thing.” Chiarello settled back into the leather seat. He was awake now, and he wasn’t going to drift off again. Anyway, they were almost there.
When Massimo turned onto the Inner Belt Freeway instead of getting off the highway and taking Superior west, Dominic was confused, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know where the kid was taking him. Not to Vesuvius, the restaurant his brother Nuncio had owned for decades, where they used to gather in the front for Family occasions, and in the private room in back for business meetings. Instead, the SUV pulled into a garage beneath a modern, six-story office building on Rockwell. The structure was bland, with gray walls and very few windows. It looked more like a prison than the Ohio State Pen had. A gate rolled away as the vehicle approached, and as soon as they were inside it wheeled shut with a clang.
“Where the hell are we?” Chiarello finally asked.
“Headquarters,” Massimo said.
“Here?”
“That’s right. What’d you think, that Dad’s pizza joint was still the nerve center?”
“Vesuvius is a fine restaurant. Upscale.”
“Maybe once upon a time.”
Chiarello was suddenly anxious in a way that he hadn’t been since his first six months in prison. “You got anything for me?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“A piece! Something I can carry.”
“You don’t need anything in here,” Massimo said. “We have state-of-the-art security. We’re swept for bugs twice a day. Nobody gets through our defenses who doesn’t belong.”
“Still, I’d feel better.”
“You can take mine,” Brendan said. He drew a pistol from under his arm. Beretta, Chiarello noted. Probably Beretta U.S.A., but at least something around here was still of Italian descent besides him and his nephew. Chiarello felt its heft—a little light, but not too bad. He ejected the magazine, checked it and rammed it home again with a satisfying click. “It’s .380 auto,” Brendan said. “First round is double-action, and the rest are single-action. Eight-round magazine.”
“Thanks,” Chiarello said. “I’ll give it back when I get my own.”
“I got others,” Brendan said. “So whenever is cool.”
Chiarello was wearing a new suit, something Nuncio had bought for him and sent over. It was charcoal-gray with faint white-and-red pinstripes. He put the Beretta in his right jacket pocket, and its weight there comforted him.
The SUV stopped in a well-lit parking garage. Other high-end vehicles were scattered in the spaces. Massimo got out and opened Chiarello’s door. “This way, Uncle Dom,” he said. He led Chiarello to an elevator. Chiarello felt as if he was on his way to a dental appointment, or a meeting with a lawyer.
The elevator was clean, its brass polished, its lights bright. Massimo pressed the L button and the car rocketed skyward, smooth and silent. A moment later the doors whooshed open and Chiarello stepped out into a space that looked like a bank lobby with its teller cages ripped out. Across an expanse of marble floor was a curving reception counter with a brass sign on it that read NDC Consolidated Industries.
NDC. So Nuncio had put his own name first, even though Dominic was the older brother.
Chiarello patted his pocket, glad for the soothing weight at his side.
Things were going to change around here, he thought. He’d been away, but he was back, and by God things were going to change.