Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Luca
T he parking lot of the Sleep and Stay on the outskirts of Foxborough was a spectacle of contradiction to anyone who didn’t know better. To the right behind the “Employees Only” sign, a half dozen generic beaters formed a row of rust and dents. They matched the dingy, weathered exterior of the building, the cracks in the pavement, and the overgrown bushes that blocked the view of the street. To the left of the main entrance, Vinnie’s Rolls-Royce stuck out like a sore thumb, especially with the Mercedes-Benz SUV with Rhode Island plates parked next to it. Two Beamers continued the luxury-car lineup on the other side of the Benz. No sign of Marco’s Range Rover, but my contribution wasn’t going to make the display any less conspicuous.
My Ferrari purred like a big cat, roaring up the driveway and across the lot. I parked my baby diagonally across two spaces; I didn’t need some asshole dinging the paint. I climbed out and buttoned my suit jacket just as a white Mercedes pulled into the space beside mine.
Gio Agosti emerged from the passenger seat, short, stout, and dressed like it was 1965. His driver leaned against the hood, lit a cigarette, and pulled out his phone.
“Ciao, Luca,” Gio said and held out a hand. “Come va?”
“Ciao, Gio. Bene, bene.” I grabbed his hand, and he slapped my shoulder and kissed my cheeks.
The Valenzano family consigliere was old school like Marco and Vinnie and had been around for almost as long. Big Frankie brought him over from Italy after Marco split ways with the Valenzanos and took Vito with him. If Gio had his way, I didn’t think he’d ever speak English.
“You settling in over at The Dollhouse?” He started for the entrance, and I followed. “Tieni gli occhi aperti,” he tossed over his shoulder. His driver nodded and went back to scrolling his phone.
“So far so good.”
Vinnie’d put me in charge of The Dollhouse—his largest strip club and a front for his Source racket—as soon as I was well enough to work. The Dollhouse and its seedy older sister The Playground were Vinnie’s big money makers. Profits were down across the board, and I had experience running two multi-million-dollar properties for Marco. Vinnie was too shrewd a businessman to pass up an opportunity to turn things around.
“Bene. You spent too much time holed up in Italy doing hotel management,” he said derisively. “Time for you to start earning.”
Didn’t I know it. I’d been ready to start earning since I was eighteen. Now that I was out from under Marco’s thumb, I finally had a chance. And what better way than the Source racket.
Richie Amato was the capo in charge of Vinnie’s blood demon outfit. He’d done an okay job, but the Source racket had grown too big for one person, especially when that person had the financial acumen of a toothpick. Vinnie split the work between us, a good thing considering he wanted to expand. I managed the fronts—the books, the day-to-day operations at the clubs—and Richie managed the Sources themselves—recruiting, oversight, and payments.
“You’re a Moretti,” Gio continued and leveled me with a weighted look. “It’s in your blood.”
I chuffed out a snort and pulled open the door.
The hotel lobby reeked of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener. The generic dust-covered prints on the walls and the worn stain-marked carpet were as unappealing as the smell. I understood the need for a neutral location; a sit-down of this magnitude couldn’t take place on anyone’s territory. I also understood the need for obscurity and a low-key front, but this was ridiculous.
Vinnie waited for us on a stiff pleather couch. Richie and Johnny “Lam” Lamendola—the other two Valenzano captains joining the sit-down—hovered over the complimentary coffee.
There were rules for sit-downs, especially ones this big. Each family was allowed the same number and rank—the dons of course, their consiglieri, and three capi. Five crew members. Had to keep up the appearance of equality.
“Luca. Gio.” Vinnie pushed his ample frame off the plastic couch, and it creaked.
Gio joined Richie and Johnny at the coffee. He poured a cup for himself, then ushered the two men down the hall to a set of double doors.
“You ready?” Vinnie asked.
“Yeah.” I passed a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
He patted my cheek and raised an eyebrow. “Now you’ll see what happens when you play by the rules.”
Like I needed the reminder. I gave him a tight nod.
If you asked any of the dons, there wasn’t a power imbalance among the New England families. But anyone walking into the shoddy conference room at the Sleep and Stay Foxborough would have been hard-pressed to believe that bullshit.
Roman Patrizi sat at the head of three tables organized in a U across from the entrance like a king waiting for his audience. The Don of Providence’s silver-streaked hair was slicked back like a crown, and the three-piece suit told everyone he meant business.
The men seated on either side of him eyed us as we filed into the room. Vinnie took the center seat on the right side of the U . I sat next to Gio closest to the door.
The families who ran the Boston territories had always taken a backseat to Providence. The rivalry between the Italians and Irish dated back earlier than even Big Frankie Valenzano’s arrival in the States, and the constant struggle for territory in a city a tenth the size of NYC had forced a handful of the big players south. To make matters worse, the FBI’s crackdown on Italian organized crime in the ’80s had done more damage in Boston than any other major city. They’d attacked the Valenzanos from both ends by using Irish mob—Pádraig Shaughnessy in particular—to weaken Italian control.
The Patrizis, on the other hand, had grown in strength and influence over the decades. Uncontested in their control of Providence, their reach extended south into Connecticut and bordered the Five Families of New York. Providence had a lot of clout, and Roman Patrizi knew it. But Vinnie was no slouch, and over the past twenty-five years he’d rebuilt the Italian power base in Boston, creating a crew that rivaled even Don Patrizi’s.
There was a long pause after everyone sat, long enough to let the Patrizi and Valenzano crews know they were waiting.
The double doors swung open, and the DeVitas filed in, a not-so-subtle reminder that there had always been a silent third party, a dethroned king who’d returned to take his rightful place. Never outdone, least of all by Vinnie, my foster father strode into the conference room wearing importance and indifference like a suit of armor. As if we should have expected to wait for him. As if nothing could commence without his presence. As if the DeVitas were the family in charge.
Carmine and Angelo led the way with Vito and Matteo bringing up the rear. They stood behind their chairs until Marco removed his hat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and took his seat opposite Vinnie. Only then did the rest of the crew sit.
I masked a snort with a cough and looked down so no one would see my smirk. Marco knew what he was doing. So did Vinnie and Roman Patrizi.
Cocky prick.
Marco placed his palms flat on the table. “Don Patrizi. Don Valenzano.” His smooth, commanding voice dominated the room as easily as his presence. He met their eyes, securing a nod from each, then landed his penetrating gaze on me.
He raised me to play life like a game of poker, a mantra he’d drilled into me since I was a kid. So I held his eyes without moving a muscle—no tells—until he released me from his ironclad grip. I exhaled and allowed myself to blink again before examining the rest of the playing field.
Angelo and Carmine stared me down. Their expressions revealed nothing, but the intensity of their focus spoke volumes. The only people who knew that I’d skimmed the profits of DeVita Enterprises International’s European branch and orchestrated the raid on Vesuvio occupied the inner circle of the Boston dons. Marco and Vinnie, of course. Angelo, Carmine, and Vito. Gio, Vinnie’s blood-demon enforcer, and the single soldato demone del sangue who’d helped him torture me. That was it. Marco and Vinnie were determined to keep the affair under wraps. Knowing their don had been swindled would undermine the crew’s confidence just as he ascended to his throne. Even if my punishment had been more brutal than death. Better to use the expanding Source racket to cover up my fall from Marco’s grace.
Don Patrizi cleared his throat. “We’re here to discuss Don DeVita’s formal reentry into Cosa Nostra and the New England families. To acknowledge, among our ranks, a second family in control of Boston and to reestablish the division of territory in New England.” He gave Marco a knowing smirk. “Bentornato, Marco.”
Roman Patrizi was human but in the know. In his late fifties, he’d been in the game long enough to see that Marco and Vinnie hadn’t aged. But like them, he was old school. Omertà meant something. He’d never divulge our secret. He’d take knowledge of blood demons to the grave. He also made it clear he’d never get involved in our affairs; too much risk for a people that weren’t his.
Marco tipped his head. “Roman.”
“In terms of territory, not much will change,” Vinnie said. “Don DeVita has always maintained a presence in the city, however unofficial. His fronts in the North End and the Commons remain undisputed. I also have fronts in the North End, but for different businesses, and our families have shared that territory for over fifty years without dispute. I’ll maintain control of the northern suburbs starting with Revere.”
Vinnie turned to Marco; Marco nodded his agreement.
“I recently expanded my holdings to include a property in the financial district,” Marco added. “Untouched territory within the city. I’ll be running the same businesses there that I run in the North End.”
Don Patrizi cocked an eyebrow.
“A strategic move that benefits both families. The financial district is key to maintaining a power balance with the Irish. They can’t move in without creating a turf war, and they know it.”
Marco caught Vinnie’s eye, and Vinnie held up both hands. “No contest.”
Don Patrizi looked between the two men. “It’s settled—the financial district is under DeVita control. What about points west and the suburbs?”
For the next two hours, the New England dons cycled through a litany of territories, rackets, and concessions, their consiglieri furiously taking notes. If there was ever a dispute between the DeVitas and the Valenzanos, Don Patrizi would arbitrate, and no one wanted the details of this agreement left open to interpretation.
The only thing we couldn’t talk about was the Source racket. Ironic given that the growing demand for Sources and Vinnie’s plans to expand the racket had driven Marco to finally take his rightful place. But Roman was the only member of the Patrizi contingent who knew blood demons existed, and even Johnny Lam—Vinnie’s top human capo—wasn’t in the know. Given the urgency, Vinnie and Marco along with Gio and Vito worked out the details of the arrangement before Marco left for Italy.
Marco made Matteo a captain and gave him responsibility for the portion of the Source racket that ran through Terme di Boston. He’d been a trusted soldier for years and more suited to desk work than bouncing. Now he managed long-term stays for high-end Sources at Terme, appointments and payouts, and coordinating with me and Richie on availability and taxes. We’d only run a couple trial appointments, but the preliminary profits proved just how lucrative the joint venture could be. It also took pressure off containment; the more venues for booking Sources, the less likely our secret would get exposed.
“Before we break,” Vinnie announced, “we have one more matter that needs to be settled. Luca?”
I stood, buttoned my suit jacket, and scanned the room. I made eye contact with every man there, making sure they knew I meant business. Angelo and Carmine resumed their knife-edged regard, and when I reached Marco, his lips twisted as if restraining the parental urge to tell me to sit down. Fuck that.
The DeVita family made me, but the Valenzanos appointed me captain of an active crew. Under Vinnie, I had every right to make my case. My time had arrived.
“November 12, 1988. Antonio Michael Moretti was murdered without cause by Pádraig Shaughnessy in the Charlestown shipyard. The Irish mob took my father’s life. They spilled Moretti family blood. A made man’s life was cut short, and thirty-five years later, the crime is left unanswered.” I stared at Marco in silent condemnation. “Thirty-five years later, the Shaughnessys still haven’t paid the price.”
I refused to break eye contact even as his jaw ticked in pain or frustration or anger—I didn’t care. He needed a reminder that it had been his responsibility to make the Irish pay, that as his best friend, as his brother in everything but blood, Marco had failed my father. He had failed me.
I clenched my fists and drove my knuckles into the table. “As Antonio Moretti’s son and the last member of the Moretti family, it is my right to seek vengeance for this crime. I want restitution.”
“I knew your father,” Don Patrizi said, respect thick in his words and the severity of his expression. “He was a good man, one of the best in the Northeast.” He turned his attention to Vinnie. “Why was this crime left unanswered? A made guy. A capo.” He reclined in his chair, steepled his fingers, and raised a judgmental brow. “Thirty-five years?”
“It was 1988,” Vinnie snapped as if the year was all the explanation he needed. “Maybe you don’t remember what it was like back then in Boston, but I sure as hell do. The feds were up our asses, taking down businesses left and right. The Shaughnessys were on the take, and we couldn’t afford the heat.”
I ground my teeth on his excuses; I’d heard them for decades.
Don Patrizi’s accusatory gaze shifted to Marco, and a deathly quiet descended over the sit-down. My blood ran hot with rage, but the temperature of the room seemed to drop. The chill of Marco’s icy glare slid across every man in attendance, freezing them in place.
“Antonio was my brother.” Marco’s dark declaration filled the room. His eyes locked with mine and tunneled into me as deeply and harshly as they had the night he’d disowned me. “Had I thought for one moment that seeking revenge for Tony’s death wouldn’t have put my family at risk, that seeking revenge wouldn’t have put all our families at risk”—Marco’s words were glacial, and flecks of red dotted his irises—“I would have burned the entire fucking city until every last Shaughnessy was dead.”
I swallowed, my mouth dry from the steel in his voice and the stunned silence of its aftermath.
Vinnie cleared his throat, turning his wary gaze away from Marco and back to Don Patrizi. “Any move against the Irish would have started a war,” he continued in a conversational tone. “Which was what the feds wanted. They stretched us thin, arresting our soldati and capi left and right. We took out a small crew in Charlestown. Two, three men tops, but we didn’t go after Paddy. He was baiting us, and we couldn’t afford to take the bait. But now?” Vinnie turned to me.
“It’s time,” I said. “Voglio vendetta. Blood for blood. I demand no more, and I’ll take no less.”
“As is your right, Luca Moretti,” Don Patrizi said and leveled his gaze on Vinnie and Marco. “è un suo diritto,” he finished in a tone that brokered no debate. “But,” he added, turning his attention back to me. “Even now, we can’t afford a war. Ciarán Shaughnessy is off limits.”
I nodded. Vinnie’d warned me Roman was likely to stipulate the condition, and if he didn’t, Vinnie would. With the feds poking around and the tip-off from Mayor Kelson that they’d been talking with the Irish, the last thing we needed was an all-out war. And taking out Ciarán Shaughnessy would end in an all-out war.
“An eye for an eye and this blood feud is over, Luca.” Don Patrizi raised his brow. “Capisce?”
“Capisce,” I said and took my seat.
Marco’s eyes bored into me from across the room. They tugged on my attention with all the horsepower of my Ferrari. I licked my lips, knowing the lecture I was about to get through a single look. The muscle in his jaw twitched, the only sign Marco ever gave that he was pissed off. His eyes grabbed mine and suspicion colored his expression as if I’d been too reasonable, as if he expected I already had a plan.
But I held his stare without flinching. He’d sat on my father’s death my entire life. He’d lorded over every decision I’d made. He’d disowned me. Fuck him. Me and my plan were none of his goddamned business.
Roman Patrizi stood and broke our silent standoff. “Gentlemen,” he said.
Marco and Vinnie rose and walked around the tables to meet him. The three men exchanged handshakes and kisses, a performative display for everyone else in the room. The alliance was sealed, and the sit-down between the New England families was over.
The rest of us stood, shook hands, slapped backs, caught up. Boston and Providence didn’t come together often, and we took the opportunity to remind each other that New England was bigger than either city. Putting faces to names helped everyone remember not to fuck with the wrong person.
We filed out of the conference room, ready to go back to our cities, back to our rackets, back to earning, and for me, back to my vendetta, sanctioned after all these years.
I pushed through the glass doors of the shitty hotel. The sun blazed overhead. I reached into my suit jacket for my sunglasses, and a hand clamped onto my shoulder.
“Didn’t see you at the gym this morning.” Vito’s gruff voice held as much question as admonishment.
I’d hit Vito’s gym every day since Vinnie dropped me at Gina’s. After what I’d been through, my strength wouldn’t return from just eating and feeding. And despite his allegiance to Marco, Vito didn’t treat me like a pariah.
“We all make mistakes,” he’d said. “Sometimes they’re big. I’ve done my share of fucking up. You paid your dues, kid. This is your second chance. You only get one. Don’t fuck it up.” That had been the sum total of his lecture, and after those pointed words, he didn’t bring it up again.
The days I didn’t lift, he trained me in the ring, but he wasn’t doing it for me. Gina felt better knowing he’d taken me under his wing, and he wanted to ease her worry. No doubt she held onto the hope that the connection between me and Vito might heal the rift between me and Marco. Not fucking likely.
Gio’s driver stepped in front of us, blocking our way, and jerked his head toward the street. “We got eyes.”
A gray sedan with tinted windows was parked across the street from the hotel. A man wearing sunglasses and a serious expression watched us from the driver-side window.
“Goddammit,” Vito grumbled.
I stepped around Gio and flipped the asshole off. “Vaffanculo!”
The guy lifted a long-lens camera, and I lifted my middle finger, obscuring my face. “Got that? Fucking cagacazzo!”
Vito put a hand on my shoulder. I showed the camera my back and lifted my chin at the men walking out of the hotel. “Watch it,” I warned, and me and Vito started down the path toward our cars.
The unkempt hedges blocked the fed’s line of sight after only a few strides. “Must’ve tailed us all the way from Boston,” I said.
We couldn’t stop them. The street was public property, and we didn’t own the hotel. Not to mention, they’d be hard-pressed to pin me with any RICO charges. Still, I didn’t need permanent records that could be used against me after a couple decades of not aging.
“They’re a nuisance,” Vito growled and glanced at me sideways. “More than usual.”
That said a lot coming from Vito. Agent Johnson had been snooping around Terme for a while, but if Vito was concerned…
I stopped on the driver’s side of my Ferrari. Vito pulled a soft pack of Marlboro Reds from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, tapped one out, and stuck it between his lips.
“The gym?” He raised an eyebrow over the flick and flame of a black Bic.
I shrugged. “The morning got away from me.”
“You mean Marco’s back, and you don’t want to run into him,” he said around the cigarette.
I glared at him, but he wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t stand the disappointment and judgment in Marco’s cocky face.
Vito’s eyebrows drew together behind a plume of smoke. “Marco comes in after work. Stick to the mornings. Keep that rage in check. Got it?”
“Yeah,” I said and ran a hand through my hair.
“When’s the last time you saw Gina?”
Vito knew the answer, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked.
“Not since Marco’s been back.”
“We’ve been working on your guard, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t avoid him forever. Learn to put up a guard.”
He held my eyes and burned the rest of his cigarette in one long, slow drag. “And don’t do that to Gina.” He dropped the butt on the ground, stepped on it, and closed the distance between us. He squeezed my shoulder, his expression severe and uncompromising. “She doesn’t deserve it. She loves you like a son, and she’s suffered enough loss in that department.”
“I’ll visit her Friday after the gym.”
“Bene. See you in the morning.” He pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the Range Rover.
I took off my suit jacket and climbed into my Ferrari. The engine roared to life, but neither the vibrations nor the cool touch of the steering wheel brought me back to the present. Friday waited on the horizon, a bright, shining beacon into a future free from my torment.
I revved the engine, and anticipation revved my heart as if its furious beat might accelerate my endgame. I peeled out of the parking lot, raced up the street, and punched the gas onto the freeway, speeding back to Boston. Speeding toward Friday.
It was going to be a big day. The biggest day of my life. First, the gym. Then, Gina’s. And finally, my revenge.