Chapter Twenty-Six
GIANNI
Staten Island, New York
Three days Later
T hey say what goes around comes around. While I’m not sure I buy into that, I find satisfaction that my father’s downfall is ending at the same place it began—Staten Island.
I’m sitting in the same room of the same shitty apartment building, staring across the table at the same four empty stares.
Anton is beside me in his most expensive Italian suit, his knees bouncing like a kid waiting outside a principal’s office.
I suppose, in a sense, he is. We both are.
This isn’t a social call. It’s a do-or-die wrap up to a four-week trial-by-fire.
No pun intended.
I can’t fault him for being on edge. I’m the one who fast-tracked this meeting. A decision that has tension rolling off everyone like cheap cologne.
Everyone but me, that is.
I’m soaking it all in like a lion tamer with a whip in one hand and a loaded Glock in the other .
Being here prevents me from dwelling on nearly losing Becca.
I could’ve waited out Toscano’s full eighty-two-hour deadline, but news of the Elizabeth Marine Terminal fire was already spreading.
Plus, waiting would require me to continue letting Toscano command control of this shit show.
Not my style, and certainly not a decision that’d earn me any ounce of respect.
I’m accustomed to my hands being on the wheel, not tied up in the fucking trunk.
Okay, bad example.
In the grand scheme of things, the three days since Becca and I walked out of Elizabeth Marine Terminal is an insignificant amount of time. Much like the four weeks since I backed her into a corner and forced a ring on her finger.
Or the four months since I walked into her office…
But somehow, it all seems like a lifetime ago—a different world … a different me .
The man sitting in this room isn’t the same one who walked in it all those weeks ago.
He was a reckless man fighting to steer a sinking ship.
Now, he stands confident at the helm, ready to fire at anything blocking his path.
Having Becca in my life changed something in me, but dropping that queen of hearts changed something in her .
Instead of running from shadows, she’s embraced them.
There have been no more nightmares, and no more sins shoved behind glass frames.
The fire that brought us together now burns inside both of us.
Toscano leans forward, his hands clasped nearly as tight as his jaw.
“This is something I wouldn’t normally entertain.
You’re a boss, Gianni, but I’m the capo dei capi .
I call the meetings; you show up and do what I say.
However, considering the news coming out of Port Elizabeth, I’m making an exception. Don’t make me regret it.”
“ You won’t be the one regretting anything,” I offer with a thin smile.
Anton stiffens beside me, his hard exhale letting me know he still isn’t on board with any of this.
Tough shit. We weighed the pros and cons of an internal implosion all the way to Staten Island, with the con column coming out the clear winner.
But I’m a gut instinct kind of operator, and watching Carmine Damiano’s forehead bead with sweat as I walked in the door was incentive enough to pull the trigger.
I glance at the asshole in question. The Connecticut boss is pale—like clutching-his-heart, two-ticks-away-from-kicking-the-bucket kind of pale. Poor guy looks like he’s seeing all the ghosts of his dead relatives, and they’re not wearing white.
This is going to be more fun than I thought.
“Then let’s get this over with,” Toscano instructs, his eyes boring into me. “Start with explaining the Elizabeth Marine Terminal fire.”
“It warms my heart you immediately think of me when you hear of a fire.” Ignoring Anton’s muttered curses, I drape my arm over the back of my chair and smirk.
“Are you saying it wasn’t?”
“No. I just get all emotional when my artwork is appreciated.”
He unclasps his hands and curls them into fists. “Gianni Marchesi doesn’t have emotions. Now stop being a smartass and answer the fucking question.”
No, Torch doesn’t have emotions. Gianni Marchesi is plagued with them.
A sobering reminder that extreme actions can yield disastrous consequences.
“Since you asked so nicely,” I say, my smile dropping, “yes, I’m responsible for the fire, and you’ll be pleased to hear the only casualty had a price on his head.”
Altering the hand that held the match doesn’t change the story. It simply lessens the ammunition the other bosses have against Becca. Besides, that moment is ours, and I’m not allowing anyone inside it, even Anton.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Depends. If what you think I’m saying is that our elusive Irish phantom is now nothing more than an unfortunate pile of ash, then, yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
There’s a flicker of life in Carmine’s blank stare. “We’re going to need more than that,” he says, his weak attempt at reverse psychology falling way off the mark. “Given the circumstances, you can’t expect us to take your word that the situation has been handled.”
Toscano cuts him a sharp glare. “I’m running this meeting, not you.”
“Come on, Benito,” he argues, reaching for the near empty bottle between them.
“It’s a little convenient, don’t you think?
Gianni knew his ass was on the line and time was running out.
Hell, he said it himself, the man is a pile of ash.
How can we be sure this asshole is really dead?
” His aim is shit. Bourbon splashes around the rim, landing on the table, his hand, pretty much everywhere but in his glass.
“That could’ve been anyone in that fire. ”
The New York boss’s icy gaze shifts back to me, narrowing as Carmine’s accusation takes root. “He has a point.”
Yes, he most certainly does. One that’s about to bite him in the ass. I almost feel bad. I didn’t even have to hand him the rope. The idiot picked it up himself and dropped it over his head. That’s arrogance for you. It’s always overriding common sense.
“Well, for starters, ‘this asshole’s’ name is Declan Flynn.”
The glass pauses halfway to Carmine’s mouth, his hand shaking.
I’ll take “Names That Cause a Mafia Boss to Shit His Pants,” for eight hundred, Alex.
“When we spoke on the phone, you told me you didn’t have that information,” Toscano presses.
“I found out the day of the fire.” Not exactly the truth, but I’m trying to tighten the rope around Carmine’s neck, not get one dropped around mine. “Anton’s contact finally decrypted those last two accounts.”
Another lie, one that has the Connecticut boss holding onto his glass for dear life.
The truth is Flynn’s account is still tangled up in a wad of external string code. Barring a divine act of God, the window to that sidecar will never open. But they don’t know that, and if I can control the narrative, they never will.
The real answers offer little reward and a shit ton of risk I’m not willing to take.
I don’t trust Valentin Carrera as far as I can throw him, which preferably would be off a fucking cliff.
However, I gave him my word I’d keep his name out of this.
Conversely, I refuse to out Owen’s talent for sweet talking nuns into committing fraud.
His connections are much too valuable to risk tarnishing that shiny badge.
However, my main reason for evasion involves an ambush by two highly driven yet short-sighted FBI agents.
The fallout from the Authority finding out Becca was in an interrogation room with them would be catastrophic.
It wouldn’t matter that she handled their onslaught better than any made man.
Once they realized Lattimore and Gibbs connected Declan Flynn and my father to a trafficking ring, it’d be game over.
They’d see her as a liability, and me as the only existing link to the bloodline that landed them on a federal radar.
It’s a battle I’d rather not fight.
Toscano’s stare digs deeper. He’s unnerving yet unreadable, like a wax figure possessed by a demon. “So how did Declan Flynn end up charcoaled at a New Jersey port warehouse?”
Here’s where Anton and I nearly ended up throwing punches.
My paranoid underboss was adamant that involving Becca in the story would open up a wormhole that’d lead back to the two FBI-shaped thorns in my ass.
While plausible, I argued it was a short-sighted concern and his ability for mosaic truth needed a serious overhaul.
Toscano knew Flynn was the one who attacked Becca.
Any grand finale not involving her would raise a lot more eyebrows.
“Because that’s where he took my wife after abducting her.”
“And you knew that … why?”
“I keep a close watch on what's valuable to me, Benny. Oh, and because I found out what my father was shipping through Providence. Hint, it wasn’t drugs.” I shift my attention back to the man with everything to lose. “Care to take a guess what that might be, Carmine?”
His glass hits the table. “Why the hell would I know?”
“I figured since you have such a vested interest in my love life, you’d have some insight to offer. After all, we were almost family.”
“Gianni…” Anton warns under his breath. I glance to the side to find his features pulled tight, his gaze lowered to where my new “ultimate fuck you” sits tucked inside my jacket. “Remember what I said about the key to longevity?”
How could I forget? It was that first day at Cucciola’s after he revealed he’d aligned with Sartorre to bring down my father.
“The key to longevity is using situations and people to your advantage,” he’d said.
It’s a subtle reminder, but an important one. I’m so thirsty for Carmine’s blood that I’m swinging my sword too wildly. One wrong nick and we go down with him.
So, I press the blade to Carmine’s throat and start backing him into a corner.
Toscano’s nostrils flare. “Are you telling me Marcello was operating a flesh trade?”