Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Nicolò
I can feel her everywhere.
My palms are sizzling with recollection, as though they’re holding on tight to something they don’t want to lose. She’s all over every inch of my bare skin, seeping through my pores into my bloodstream, my bones, my marrow.
Domenico is still sleeping when I exit Bambalina’s bedroom.
I have somewhere to go and I don’t want to leave her exposed and unguarded so I nudge him with my foot.
When he doesn’t stir, I bend down and shake his shoulders.
His eyes open groggily and he blinks loose lids.
A soon as he computes the fact I’m staring at him sleeping outside my sister’s room when he should be guarding the door, he staggers to his feet.
“Fuck!” he slurs. “I was only out a few minutes, I promise.”
A sadistic smile curls my insides. “I know buddy, it’s okay. Maybe I shouldn’t have given you that beer.”
“Oh, no, no. It wasn’t that. I guess I’m just super tired from these nights—I’m not used to it.” His face contorts as the recollection of his duties floods back. “I’m so sorry. Your sister—”
“She’s fine. I’m heading out so I just checked on her.” I let disappointment line my tone. “Good thing I did.”
“I’m really sorry, Nicolò. I can’t believe I did that. It won’t happen again, I promise you. Please— please don’t tell Alessio. He’ll slaughter me.”
I place a hand on his shoulder.
“Look, no harm’s been done. I’m not going to tell Alessio, but you owe me.”
“Anything,” he says earnestly. “Anything at all. Just ask.”
I nod, smooth a hand down my tie and walk away.
Less than an hour later, I’m walking back down the concrete stairwell to Fiero’s club.
This time, I don’t allow my attention to be diverted by masked patrons getting up to no good, instead training my eyes on the room we’re approaching.
Fiero stands as I enter and we shake hands surprisingly readily.
I don’t know why I feel so comfortable with Alessio’s eldest son.
It’s like we have history or something, which isn’t true.
I do believe we want similar things, even though what I want isn’t quite so transparent.
Fiero wants Alessio to back away from his club; I want Alessio to back away from Bambalina.
After I’ve accepted the offer of a whisky, we both sit.
Fiero leans back in his chair. “Well, this has come as quite a surprise.”
I arch a brow. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what? I’m still not entirely sure what the fuck is going on.”
So, I guess communication isn’t all that key in this family.
“Alessio didn’t tell you he’s exchanged his men in New York for my sister?”
He smirks. “What men?”
My spine stiffens. “He’s assured us he has good representation across the boroughs.”
Fiero takes a sip of whiskey, watching me over the rim of his glass. “He had once. Not anymore.”
“So, he’s lying to us?”
He lifts a shoulder in a nonchalant move that should piss me off but I can’t react. I need him to give me information. If we’re about to give one of our own to him in exchange for something that doesn’t exist, I need to stop it, and fast. I assume the answer is yes.
“Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he wants you to believe you’re stronger than you are.”
“What would that achieve?”
“Maybe you’ll back off a little, allowing the Bratva to move in when your defenses are down.”
“Are you telling me Alessio has got an agreement with Morozov? Russians don’t form alliances with Italians.”
“I know that, and you know that, but my father has a God complex. He thinks he’s different. He thinks can achieve anything—even getting the damn Russians to play nice.”
My shoulder blades hit the back of the chair with a thud.
He swirls the whisky around his glass. “And we all know Russians don’t play nice.”
The amber in my glass throws soft light at the walls, and I watch it for a moment while I think. Then I lift my lids slowly.
“Why are you telling me this?”
He inhales deeply then pushes the breath out through his nostrils. “Because I’m sick and tired of being embarrassed.”
My interest is well and truly piqued. I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“The old man is deluded. He’s had a bit of success with the casinos and he’s got the Russians talking to him, but he’s got no idea how to run businesses, or how to evolve to keep this family alive. And he certainly didn’t know how to raise four sons. I’m surprised he can tell us apart.”
“He didn’t raise you?”
He laughs bitterly. “It was all our mother, and when she died, it was her sister. Alessio was never around and on the odd occasion he turned up to dinner or crossed our path at church, he barely looked at us. I’ve had to be a father figure to my brothers since the age of nine.”
His jaw ticks as he glares at his whiskey. “To be brutally honest, we’re sick of tolerating someone we hate.”
I lean in, resting my forearms on my knees. “If you hate him so much, why haven’t you shown him the business end of a bullet?”
A corner of his lip curls, then falls. “We can’t.
Everyone in our family takes a vow to never end our own don.
We must wait until he voluntarily steps down, or is killed by a hand outside this family.
Believe it or not, it’s lore. The last few capos to kill a Bellucci don drove the family into the ground.
Too much bad luck befell them. Even if it’s a load of crap, it’s a vow all my father’s men believe in.
If word got out we’d killed the Bellucci don—even if he is our father—his old school soldiers would end us. All of us. Blood be damned.”
“Really? His own sons?”
His smile is loaded with bitterness. “In their eyes, we weren’t ‘made,’ we were spawned.”
“So, why don’t you start up on your own?”
“The Bellucci name would never be ours, and we have a right to it and the business we’ve built under that name.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You need him dead, but you can’t be the ones to do it?”
He smirks. “Don’t get any ideas, Nicolò. You’re part of the family now. If you were found to have killed my father, you would meet an even uglier end than we would.”
A visual of Bambalina flashes across my lids and tugs at my heart. For her, I’d be happy to meet an ugly end. But I’d need to make sure she wouldn’t be at risk too.
Fiero cuts into my thoughts. “The worst thing about it is we could genuinely help you.”
I glance up. “What?”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolds it and lays it down in front of me. It’s a list of names—most of them familiar. New York names. Politicians, society figures, celebrities. And one, single, distinctive Russian name.
I point to the words ‘Mikhail Orlov’ and look up at Fiero. “Who is this?”
“He’s a senior brigadir in the Bratva.”
“Being entertained in an Italian mafia-run club?”
“Not just being entertained. He’s being sexually humiliated. By a man. We have it on camera.”
I arch a brow. I know the Cosa Nostra isn’t exactly progressive but I’d like to think we’re a little more openminded than the notoriously homophobic Russian mafia. “Isn’t that blackmail material?”
“Yes, it absolutely is.”
“Does Alessio know?”
“Sure he does.”
“So, he knows you have everything you need to get the Bratva to back off from New York but he’s not going to offer it up?”
“Precisely.”
“Because he wants to cozy up with them instead?” I lift my chin and level my gaze. “What would you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“If Alessio were out of the picture, and you could give us this evidence, what could we give you in return?”
He answers quickly, which suggests he’s already given this some thought. “The basement on Doyers Street, a site in Massachusetts and unhindered access to the Boston political elite.”
I nod wordlessly.
In my head, though I need to work out the specifics, the deal is fucking done. I’m getting Bambalina out of this marriage.
As get to my feet and button my jacket, Fiero’s gaze lifts. “There’s something else you need to know.”
I pause and push a hand into my pocket.
“Alessio has a meeting with one of the Russians later today.”
“About what?”
“He never shares the details with us, but I suspect he’s going to outline exactly which spots in New York are about to become a free-for-all.”
“Free-for-all?”
“The areas you think will have Bellucci boots on the ground, when in fact, those Bellucci boots don’t exist.”
My spine goes rigid. “Do you know where he’s meeting them?”
“There’s a bar in Newark, neutral territory.”
I tip my head to one side. “Newark is not exactly neutral—it’s our patch.”
“So, you know it, then?”
“I do.”
“The Flannery Tavern.”
“Fuck me. Is he trying to make nice with the Irish too?”
Fiero’s arched brow tells me the answer. Alessio is one stupidly over-optimistic son of a bitch. “There’s a room in the back. It’s used for poker games until midnight. They’ll meet after that.”
He stands and takes my hand, and we shake on an unspoken agreement. I’m going to find a way to get rid of his father, and he isn’t going to breathe a fucking word.