Chapter 29 Valentino
Life settles around us in the weeks after. Naomi has been slowly finding her bearings in the house, a firm favorite with Ina and Carlito, and my siblings have warmed up to her. Franco calls regularly to chat with her, and Francesca has brunch with her every week. Victor is still on his retreat—we did get a text congratulating us, though.
Her biggest fan, though, is Luka. It sounds like ‘Zia Na-mey’ whenever he calls her, unable to pronounce her name properly. I came home from Brighton Beach the day after our wedding to find the two of them in a big armchair, Luka asleep in her lap.
It did something to me, seeing her with a little child cuddled to her. A vision of our own son or daughter in her arms…
I shake the thought away. We’ve only just gotten married; let’s at least find our footing in that endeavor first before thinking of kids and the future.
And speaking of the future, right now, it’s taken the form of Joel Smith.
Naomi woke up on our first night here after hearing the commotion outside. She’d gone to bed all tense and worried, the shadow of the house next door looming over her. I knew what was going to happen that night, but I didn’t say anything, waiting to see how it’d all play out.
My men didn’t disappoint me. At five minutes to midnight, a spark ignited from a power surge in the study. Papers caught fire, then the whole house did, seeing as there was no one there to put a stop to the flames once they started roaring.
Our bedroom window lit up with an orange glow as the house across our yard burned to the ground, firemen making a valiant effort to save it, then figuring out the best thing to do was to contain the blaze so nearby houses wouldn’t be affected.
Naomi got up, stepped to me in front of the window, and I wrapped an arm around her as we watched the house, she grew up in burn down.
“Is he in there?” she asked at one point.
“No.”
I’m not that reckless, plus I want to see the man go down. In flames, yes, but not literally.
My wife stayed silent for a long moment, then she said something I had a hard time understanding at first.
“Burn it all down,” she said.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Anya Brennan is still on Joel Smith’s staff. No one suspects she had a hand in getting Naomi out, or that she’s working for Declan Reeves. So, the best bet for all of us involved in this move to take down Smith was to leave her there to work her brand of destruction from the inside.
Rumors started to fly a week ago as to how Naomi Smith is not really enjoying a spring break in Paris as her father has led the world to believe. Anya didn’t need to say more. The best rumor hints at something, and those who grab onto it will do the rest. Wild assumptions to full conspiracy theories burgeoned online and trended on hashtags.
Today, news of Pineridge’s closing is hitting the news…and Joel Smith’s name has been linked to it. Someone online unearthed how he’s a good friend of one of the mental institution’s biggest donors. Anything to spin a piece of news into the current spotlight, and what best than politics to stir the pot and create a splash? I sometimes think politicians are worse off than pop stars in this country, the way their every move is scrutinized.
I’m all for fighting my enemy in the field, getting my hands dirty so to speak, but Reeves is showing me a whole other level of the game, and I have to say I’m finding it rather enjoyable to toy with my enemy just by pulling some strings.
Social media is fighting this battle for us, it appears. I’m waiting for it to blow up entirely, biding my time to throw oil on the fire and revive the flames that will scorch Joel Smith and burn his career down to a crisp.
We got Naomi’s permission for the next move, and she even gave us her blessing. I’m waiting with bated breath for when Anya, posing as a troll on an incendiary social media platform, will drop the tidbit suggesting Joel Smith had his own daughter committed against her will at Pineridge.
Teagarden_01: Proof he isn’t just the friend of a major donor startled emoji angry emoji #pineridge #joelsmith
Attached is a snapshot of Naomi’s admission papers, clearly showing who her next of kin is and thus the person committing her to a seventy-two-hour psych hold.
There! The internet erupts.
I barely have time to watch what happens as there’s a knock on the door of my study.
“Yes?”
Carlito pops in and closes the door behind him. “Someone to see you, boss.”
I frown. I’m not expecting any visitors.
“Who is it?”
When he tells me, I can feel my eyes grow wide. I bypass him and step out, heading to the foyer where my visitor is waiting.
A once-tall man is standing there, Fedora hat in his hands, his bulky body stooped almost in two. Behind him are three younger men of various sizes, all dressed in black, hats still on.
A lick of fear runs up my spine, but I quell it. If these men wanted me dead, I’d already be riddled with bullets. Still, it’s a good thing Naomi’s not here—Luciano took her to have lunch with Francesca in New York. I have no clue what’s happening, and not having to worry about her right now is a good thing.
I slow my steps and bow solemnly before the old man.
“Don Vitale,” I say, voice low and reverent.
What is the head of one of the most prominent families of Upstate New York doing in my house?
He waves the hat at me. “None of that. Call me Giorgio.”
It can’t be terrible, then.
I nod. “Don Giorgio. Welcome to my home.”
“Can we talk?”
I want to frown, but school my features. “Sure. My study, okay? Your men want some coffee?”
He turns to them, waves the hat. “Vai, vai.”
“Carlito? Show these gentlemen to the kitchen, please?”
My dutiful soldier falls in line and takes care of the old man’s entourage. I guide Don Giorgio to my study, wave at the sitting area. He’s a revered Don—I won’t put a desk between us.
He stops by the piano, runs a hand lovingly over it.
“Do you play, Don Giorgio?”
He laughs. “Not with these old hands.”
“Please, sit.”
I wait for him to settle down before taking a seat at a ninety-degree angle from him. There’s a knock, then Ina comes in with a tray of coffee.
“Don Vitale,” she says. “I hear you like biscotti.”
I smother a chuckle. This woman’s brass balls will never stop amazing me. Any Italian man worth his salt won’t say no to biscotti with an espresso—she just used that information to win over one of the most fearsome Borgata leaders on the Northeastern coast.
The old man laughs. “You know the way to a man’s heart.”
She’s gone with a flourish after serving us, the air lighter thanks to her sassy manner.
“Ah,” he says. “A woman who won’t hesitate to smack you with a wooden spoon if you invade her kitchen. Good household help is hard to find, these days.”
I acquiesce with a nod. “It is. I’m very lucky to have her.”
Don Giorgio takes a moment to savor his espresso and biscotti, then he lifts his still-sharp grey eyes onto me.
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
I smile. Is this a social call or more?
“Thank you. Our wedding was last month.”
“A very quiet affair, I hear, too.” He lets silence settle between us for a moment—I wonder what he’s getting at. “Because of your father-in-law…”
My nostrils flare. So that’s what it’s about.
“Don Giorgio, I don’t mean to be rude, so accept my apologies in advance, but that bastardo is not anything to me. Or to my wife.”
He watches me with his shrewd eyes for long seconds, then nods. “Va bene. It’s always a tragedy when family falls apart, but it’s not all sangre that deserves honor and reverence.”
“Grazie.”
His lined face hardens. “After what that cazzo did to his own figlia… One of my men was just appraising me as we stepped out of the car. This is unforgiveable.”
“I agree with you.”
“I also hear your wife’s uncle is behind the closing of that asylum.”
I cringe when he says the word, but that’s essentially what Pineridge was, no matter how they labelled it.
“Naomi’s only just reunited with her uncle,” I say, neither confirming nor denying anything.
“Naomi.” He sighs. “Beautiful name. Is she home? I would like to pay my respects to the young Signora Andretti.”
“Unfortunately, she is not here at the moment.”
“Ah. Some other time. I hope it can be then?”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and hands me a heavy, cream-colored envelope.
I open it. It’s an invitation to the wedding of his grandson, Matteo.
“It’s an honor, Don Giorgio. We’ll be there. Thank you.”
He smiles, and it lights up his craggy face.
“Va bene,” he says, then gets up.
I shoot to my feet, too.
We’ve reached the door when he stops and turns to me.
“I had my doubts when your father was taken from us so suddenly, but you’re showing you’ve got coraggioso, ardore.” He places a hand on my shoulder and presses softly. “We all know what you’re doing for us, figliolo. Grazie.”
So, the highest echelons of the organization on the Northeastern coast are behind me taking down Joel Smith. This only fuels my fervor, the zeal—ardore as Don Giorgio just said—to bring this quest to fruition. Smith will fall, and he won’t be able to get back up again.
***
A week later, when Joel Smith’s poll numbers are still free-falling from the shitstorm the Internet has brewed over our leaked revelations, I move my final piece.
In front of the Benedict Hospital, I hold a press conference announcing my acquisition of the hospital as majority shareholder…and also to reveal the shady dealings of the Board of Directors.
Questions surge when I’m done talking, but I’m not hearing the one I’m expecting in order to drop my next bombshell.
Until a plucky woman at the back with a cell phone shouts out.
“Joel Smith vowed at the start of his campaign to go against unscrupulous construction companies, and you are in construction, no? He sits on the board of the Benedict Hospital. Do you have a personal vendetta against the gubernatorial candidate, Mr. Andretti?”
This is what will seal the nail in his coffin.
“Allow me to show you something,” I tell the woman, then look at all the reporters assembled in front of me.
I turn toward the curb, where a car is parked. Carlito opens the back door, and out steps a young woman in a knee-length, deep blue coat dress, her long golden blonde hair loose around her frail-looking shoulders. She walks up to me, we exchange a smile—hers tremulous, mine to bolster her courage—and she slips her right arm in the crook of my elbow, left hand on the sleeve of my suit jacket.
The contrast of her pale skin against the navy-blue fabric is startling, the diamonds on her wedding band shimmering away and utterly unmistakable.
“Ladies and gentlemen, meet my wife, Naomi Smith-Andretti.”
The crowd bursts into an uproar. Questions are flying from everywhere, but our media person who Anya recommended is fielding them as we’re being escorted by hired bodyguards to the car.
Neither confirm nor deny—the rule of manipulation and persuasion. I expressly didn’t say any more. The people will grab onto what I presented and spin their own conclusions, which will probably be worse and more twisted than anything I could ever conjure.
The ride back to our house takes place in silence, Naomi burrowed into my side.
The first report comes right as we’re getting through the front door. It’s Carson Felix. The shit has hit the fan at the party’s headquarters in DC. Anya’s next. Everyone on the campaign trail is stunned. Then a live video pops up—someone cornered Smith and asked about his daughter’s wedding. Cazzo had the balls to state we had his blessings, and he knew all along, keeping it hush-hush because it was his daughter’s wish.
Overnight, more reports come in. Poll numbers showing Smith taking a deep dive in the public’s opinion. His name trending on major social media platforms. Naomi is a close second there, her being committed against her will and subsequent marriage being touted as a modern-day fairy-tale.
Declan Reeves calls late in the night with the most important news.
Smith’s party are dropping him. There’s just enough time for them to slip in a new candidate before the elections get too close. Whoever they have lined up won’t have a hard-on to bring on another RICO—that was Smith’s personal agenda against my late father, against me.
“It’s over?” Naomi asks.
I turn to her and press a kiss to her temple. “It is.”
We’re on our way upstairs to bed when my phone rings. It’s Don Giorgio.
“Valentino,” he says, laughing. “Well done, figliolo mio. Now you have to come to Matteo’s wedding.” He pauses, and suddenly, it feels momentous. “Many want to meet you, Don Andretti.”