Chapter 2
Ringo
In my career, I’ve met hundreds of unlucky guys. But none quite as fucked as Signore Gesualdo Conti. “Don” Conti if you gave two fucks about hierarchy.
His office looked a hell of a lot different than the last time I was here. A freshly gouged chunk of wood was torn out of the heavy door. The hospital bed was new, too.
The carpet was gone, exposing wooden planks that were definitely not new. At least the blood stains were scrubbed away.
A heart monitor, oxygen monitor, and a bazillion other devices kept him alive. I almost felt sorry for the guy. Paralyzed from the shoulders down, he probably thought this was Hell. My only consolation was that he’d see the real place soon enough.
Underneath the changes was an ever-present taint of excrement. Weirder? Sulfur.
Like someone had lit a fresh match. But that wouldn’t happen. The big warning label on the oxygen tank made even me think twice about that foolishness.
I sat where directed by the secretary and stared at the man propped up in his death bed. His nurse was a suited, looming, meathead with hands like hams. I doubted his role entailed bedpans.
“They took all my weapons at the gate,” I complained.
Don Conti wheezed a laugh. “Next time you visit, don’t walk in the front door.”
“Will there be a next time?” I asked. It was on everyone’s mind.
From the Italian officials who’d locked up his daughter on attempted murder, to my adopted family, the Mancas…
or as they liked to call themselves, “The Left Hand.” And no, that wasn’t a play on words.
They took that shit seriously. Apparently, it was a thing that went back at least eight thousand years.
From cradle to early grave, they mastered the art of death, and sundry other more lucrative professions from kidnapping to piracy, but their main calling was assassination.
As one of theirs, and the Devil’s own, I was the rare outsider who’d taken up the blade.
Don Conti pondered my question. “I think my solicitor will kill me first.”
I glanced at the lawyer in the corner. The stacks of paperwork in his purview were on the verge of toppling over.
The Conti family was in arrears due to bank fines.
Their assets were being liquidated, and only the American holdings were left out of the vulture pit because they’d been signed over to Adelmo Conti’s trust as son and heir to the Conti name.
Unluckily, he’d died just a short time ago, without a will.
Therefore, the entire block of assets were in limbo as they reverted to Don Conti.
And once he died, the next closest heir was in jail, waiting for her attempted murder charges to be upgraded to murder. Because she fired the magical bullet that lodged in her father’s spine which was slowly killing him.
Having a lawyer present was highly unusual. This reeked of a setup. I faked a relaxed air. “Why did you need me then?” Dianora would suffer more alive. But if Don Conti was exacting revenge for a certain duplicity I’d committed, then a lawyer would be the perfect assassin for the assassin.
Don Conti nodded toward the solicitor. That triggered a rush to uncover a binder, and an even more concerning rush toward me.
If I had a dagger, he’d be dead.
Instead, I took the hefty package he offered. I flipped it open, knowing no one was going to voice a hit contract out loud in front of witnesses, but having it documented was a step outside my comfort zone.
The first page didn’t look like any workup I’d ever seen. The second didn’t either. I flipped through the detailed summary of assets, double-checked addresses mentioned, and got highly confused.
To be thorough, I fanned through the stack to the final pages. Just spreadsheets and ledgers, no details about a mark, no special requests to bring back proof. It was as if I stepped through the twilight zone door into a world run by…businessmen.
I set the binder down. “Mario or his father would be better suited for this.” As I prepared to stand, Don Conti grew agitated. He flapped his shoulder to attract the lawyer’s attention. Once he had it, he ordered, “Leave us for a moment all of you.”
The solicitor followed orders, as did everyone else.
A month ago, that guard tried to kill me.
Of course, I was actively trying to kill him at the time, so I guess the animosity was warranted.
Once they were gone, I spoke freely. “What the fuck?”
Don Conti grimaced. “I have secrets.”
That wasn’t a surprise. “Don’t we all?”
He changed tactics. “Have you ever wondered who your father is?”
A cold thread slithered up and around my neck.
The whole reason I’d ended up with the Left Hand was because my mother didn’t bother keeping track of who she partied with, or fell into bed with.
And when I came along, she lied her ass off about my parentage.
No one believed her. But naming me after an aging, and married, rock musician got attention—and settlements.
With enough money, she dumped me at a boarding school in the Alps and never looked back.
Had I wondered who my father was? Sure. Until I got that fantasy beaten out of me by punk-ass kids.
Then Mario stepped in. My life changed.
I had a home. A family. A profession I was well-suited for.
I didn’t need a father or a mother when I had uncles, grandfathers, brothers, cousins, and the hoards of women they attached to, or attracted, who fluctuated between the ones wanting to feed me and the ones who wanted to fuck me.
I steered clear of both unless I was hungry.
So, did I wonder? “Frankly? No.”
Don Conti frowned. “Go to the table, there is a yellow folder.” His voice was weak. If he died while I was in here, I’d be locked up, assuming his guards didn’t try to kill me first.
I glanced at the door, hoping it didn’t come down to that.
The yellow folder was really thin. One photo was in it.
This asshole and his photos. I hadn’t even looked at the image before shutting the folder.
“That’s your mother when she was twenty-four.”
As if it explained things?
Warily, I reopened the folder to take a good look at the scene. Sure as shit, there was Mom in all her half-dressed glory, sandwiched between two equally disheveled men. One of them was famous. Not name-sake famous, but richer than God famous. He was on the left.
Don Conti leaned in on her right.
I tossed the folder onto the bed, disgusted. “Fuck.”
Don Conti started to speak, and I warned him, “Don’t. Don’t say it.”
He laughed, then coughed. When he caught his breath, he spoke quickly.
“When the solicitor comes back in, sign the papers for the Chicago holdings. They go to my son. Don Manca will be pleased with you, bringing that fatted cow home.
“But before you open that door, I ask one thing.”
Here it went. “I’m not calling you, Dad.”
“Kill the man in Chicago. The one who murdered Adelmo. I want you to do it. I know you can.”
Hell, I was slated to kill Johnny Porciello, anyway. Don Manca, his grandson Mario, and I discussed it at length. Mario wanted to wait for the dust to settle first. His grandfather wanted it done yesterday so his new granddaughter, Mario’s wife, would sleep easier, and me?
I wanted that son of a bitch dead. It didn’t matter when or where, but it was going to be me. Gesualdo wasn’t asking for much at all.
“Are you sure?” Rumor had it that Dianora Conti might be pregnant. And that child was likely a little Porciello.
“More certain of that than I am of your parentage.”
“There were two of you that night, huh?”
“At least one of us had a broken condom.”
Damn. I called that one.
“Although, when I’m angry, I used to clench my fist. Just like you are. I can’t do that anymore.”
His gaze was on my left hand. The one I’d clamped down hard. “I’m not Italian, I’m Irish.”
“You tell yourself that, but have you ever wondered why Don Manca agreed to take you in? Perhaps he recognized the snake he fostered.”
The evil chuckle turned into another coughing fit.
I opened the door so everyone could see he was still alive.
When the ruckus calmed down, the solicitor led me to the door with the binder of American holdings, that fucking yellow folder, and a copy of the transfer with my signature on it. He retained the originals of the latter two items when he bid me a good afternoon.
There was nothing good about it. At least for me.
Eight hours later, I was in the heart of Sardinia getting patted down, again.
“Don Manca is waiting.” Loppa, one of the uncles, opened the door for me. Unlike Don Conti’s domain, Don Manca sat in his kitchen surrounded by comfortable things that reminded me of life, not death.
A casserole pan sat on some hot mats. The zuppa gallurese had been decimated by whoever beat me to it. Rough brown bowls sat in a short stack next to the pan. I helped myself. I skipped the leafy greens and added the fried zucchini and leeks to my plate.
Mario’s grandfather sipped on an after-dinner drink. Probably mirto.
I dove into the layers of cheese and bread. Imagine the best stack of toasted cheese sandwiches soaked in rich beef stew broth and then oven-baked like a savory lasagna. It was the very first thing I ever fell in love with.
I was eight. I’ve never gotten over that crush. The first bite I met with a groan of pleasure. The second and third went down so fast I barely breathed let alone vocalized.
“Long trip?”
At least he waited until I set my fork down. I shoved the binder at him. “The Conti’s Chicago holdings and the totality of the late Adelmo Conti’s trust. Mario will want to look at that. Check out the top page.”
He flipped the binder open.
“This is your signature.”
I lifted my fork and gave him a quick nod to acknowledge that yes, I’d signed my name to something other than someone’s dying breath.
Don Conti stared at the top page for a long time, waiting for me to elaborate. Unlike most, he didn’t bluster or threaten. If he was angry with you, you died. Plain as that.
I swallowed a sip of beer. “Did you know that Don Conti might be my biological father?”
The gaze he had on the page snapped to read my face.
I relaxed. He didn’t know. The relief was almost instant. I’d been stuffing my face like a dying man. I could finally breathe. I wasn’t going to lose my family.
“He showed me a photo of my mom. You can guess the scenario, right?”
Don Conti frowned, but didn’t shove his disgust at me.
“Yeah, well, with Adelmo dead and Dianora locked up, I guess he needed a new heir.”
That goaded the family patriarch to review the documents under my signed albatross.
“There was a solicitor there, it’s legit.”
He closed the binder. “This is his way of apologizing to the family, yes?”
Perhaps. “He also wants me to kill Johnny Pornstach.”
“We have men for that.”
“You know I want to.”
He grunted in that way he did when he didn’t precisely agree but was being diplomatic enough not to outright say so.
He finally spoke. “Mario thinks it is prudent to wait.”
“Mario doesn’t run the family.” Yet. Hopefully, that would be at least a dozen years, or maybe even a few decades before he was tapped. Because I hated to lose my best friend to more paperwork and headaches.
“Neither do you.”
Aw, fuck. “Touché.”
Don Manca chuckled. “You are emotionally close to this one.”
Bullshit.
His finger rose into the air, shaking as if I’d said the word out loud. “Don’t lie to me.”
“Even emotionally compromised, I’m still the best you got. And this was a…” dying wish? A vow to a parent I never knew?
Don Manca leaned in and spoke softly. “A set-up. Wrapped in a very expensive package.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. As Adelmo’s replacement, I’d be the first person on the short list of suspects if his killer turned up dead.
“What do we do?”
He smiled. It wasn’t the one he saved for grandchildren or the nieces who brought him sweets.
No, it was the one he got when he was especially pleased with a diabolical plot.
“You need to go to Chicago and watch over Mario’s lovely bride’s twin sister.
Perhaps begin the transition of the Conti assets to ours, and should ends fall loose, tie them up. Very discreetly, of course.”
He set his thumb on his middle finger between the first and second joint.
Eliminate complications.
I was better at making them, yet I was looking forward to eliminating at least one.