Chapter 26
26
SAMANTHA
L iam produces the pistol I’ve always known he keeps in a shoulder holster under his jacket. He’s aiming it now, arms rigid with his two-handed grip. His attention shifts from Russo to the stranger inside the gallery and back again, but then he settles all his concentration on the Mafia boss.
“Get out of here, Samantha,” he says, not bothering to look at me.
“That would be a mistake, Giovanna,” Russo says, like we’re doing nothing more important than swapping recipes. He’s still pointing his weapon at Liam.
Without shifting his own aim, Liam juts his chin toward the unknown man. “Put it down and back away from the table.”
The man does nothing.
Continuing to aim at Russo, Liam orders the stranger: “Put it down, shitehawk!”
The man remains frozen until Russo says, “Put down the gun, Paolo.”
The stranger—Paolo—places his weapon on the table before he backs away. He takes three large steps with his hands over his head.
“You do not understand,” Russo says to Liam.
“I understand you wanted Herself in here. Without me. Alone with you and that dry shite.”
Russo glances at me. “Pat your dog on the head, Giovanna. Give him a bone and send him away.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” My voice is steadier than I expect after a lifetime of dreading Russo.
“Because I will not explain a thing while a gun is pointed at me. Because you want to know what I have to say.”
“Who is that man?” I ask, nodding toward Paolo. “What were you going to do to me?”
“Nothing you do not allow,” Russo says.
“Bollocks,” Liam says, which makes Russo frown, as if he smells sewer gas.
My cousin Eliza didn’t consent to Russo shoving a gun between her legs. “What permission can you possibly think I’ll give?”
“Permission to bear the segno . Like your father did before you.”
Holy shit .
That’s not a pistol Paolo set on the table. It’s a tattoo gun.
No wonder Liam has kept his own weapon focused on Russo.
I shake my head, dimly aware that I’m not thinking clearly. Maybe my brain is flooded with adrenaline. Maybe I have a lifetime of conditioning regarding Antonio Russo and the East Falls Crew. Maybe I remember the mark of the Crew on my father’s back.
I only saw it a few times—at family gatherings in the summer, swimming at Zio Matteo’s cabin in the Poconos. The tattoo was as long as my hand. It sat at the base of my father’s spine, just above the elastic band of his Speedo bathing suit. It was a line drawing, black against his swarthy skin: the head of a Medusa, snakes and all, framed by three bent legs.
The trinacria. Ancient symbol of Sicily. Emblem of Russo’s Mafia family.
“Why give me the segno ?” I ask him now. “I’m not part of your Crew.”
“You are not,” Russo agrees. “But I will not show those papers to anyone who has not sworn an oath of blood.”
I have a crazy image of Eliza and me, huddled beneath the quilt on her childhood bed. She stole her brother’s Swiss Army Knife, and we held the small blade over a match, sterilizing it before we pricked our thumbs. We said we’d be true to each other forever.
Eliza. The woman Russo murdered.
“Enough with guns,” Russo says. He holds his finger from the trigger of his own weapon as he lowers it to the floor. “Giovanna?” he asks, after he stands.
“Liam,” I say. From the set of his shoulders, my protector loathes giving in. But he does it because I ask him to. Because he’s loyal to me. He puts his gun on the floor by his foot.
“Excellent,” Russo says. “Now, Giovanna, you will accept the segno , and then we will discuss these documents. Or I will leave and tell the world your freeport is a sham. That you offer services you fail to provide. That your auctions are frauds, with winning buyers chosen in advance.”
So that’s what has brought us to this. He’s getting revenge for Connor Boyle outbidding him for the Book of Skreen. Russo was embarrassed in public, and now he needs to rebuild his ego.
I have no doubt he can do everything he threatens. He’s built an empire through blackmail and extortion. He can devastate Diamond Freeport and Trap Prince before the end of this fiscal year.
“You ask too much,” I say.
“Your father took the oath. Your cousin, too, before she betrayed me. Once you are part of my family, I will share the documents with you. All you must do is take the oath.”
Take the oath . Let a stranger tattoo me with the symbol of Sicily, of the Mafia’s ancient home.
“Liam stays here,” I say.
Russo’s flat gaze gives away nothing. “If you wish.”
Liam says to me, “The boss won’t?—”
I cut him off. “The boss isn’t here.”
“I’ll call him,” Liam says.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”
Russo says, “Giovanna? We have wasted enough time this morning.”
Liam stares at me, pleading. It isn’t fair, putting him between Braiden and me like this. But Russo is losing interest. He’s turning toward Paolo. He’s glancing at the gallery door.
I say to Liam, “I take full responsibility.”
“You know the boss?—”
“Then leave!” I cut him off. “Go on! Get back to Ardmore.”
He shifts his weight. He looks from Russo to Paolo to the tattoo gun. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he swears, half under his breath. But then he moves toward the table. “Go on, then,” he says to Paolo. “What does she do to get ready?”
I strip to my underwear. It hurts to take my clothes off, a physical pain, like I’m peeling away flesh instead of fabric. But I have to do this. I have to meet Russo’s demands. This is the only way he’ll trust me, the only way I’ll get the evidence I need to lock him away forever.
Fighting panic, I lie on the table, flat, on my stomach. I pull my hair to one side. I try to relax the iron muscles of my back.
Looking over my right shoulder, I see Russo. He’s staring at me like I’m a side of beef and he’s the butcher. His eyes measure my bra straps. He studies the elastic band of my panties with clinical expertise.
I turn my head to the left and start to shiver like I’m stranded on an ice floe.
“Get her a blanket,” Liam orders.
“You think you are at the Ritz?” Russo asks.
Liam swears, in Irish this time, and he strips off his jacket. I can feel the warmth of his body as he settles it, cross-wise, over my shoulder blades.
Paolo sets one palm in the middle of my back and lowers the tattoo gun to my spine, a hands-breadth above my hips. “This will hurt,” he says, just before he switches on the device.
He lies.
Hurt is too small a word for the agony I feel. The first punch of the needle echoes all the way to my brain. I scream, but Paolo only shifts the palm he’s using to brace himself, and then he settles down to serious business.
It’s agony.
Torture.
Fire fans out from my spine to my flanks, an impossible flame that freezes everything it touches. My stomach lurches, and I’m grateful my breakfast was nothing more than coffee and toast. I regret I had that much.
I want to sob. I want to beg. I want to plead with him to stop, to set me free, to let me get off the table.
But if I do that, if I give in, I’ll never capture Russo. So I set my jaw. I hold my breath as long as I can. I close my eyes. And I endure.
After a century or two, Liam says, “She needs a break.”
“No break,” Paolo says.
Part of me wants to argue. But I know that if he stops, I’ll never find the courage to let him start again, and then all of this will be for nothing. I’ll never get Russo.
I close my eyes. I count to one hundred. Again. Again. Again.
And finally, when I’ve lost track of who I am, of where I am, of why I ever agreed to do this, the needle stops. The room falls silent, except for a harsh, tearing sound, which I finally figure out is my own breathing.
Paolo moves toward my head, and I realize he’s holding a mirror. Clenching my teeth, I angle my chin for a better view.
The black ink stands out against the smooth flesh of my lower back. It’s faintly rimmed with red, where my skin protests the abuse. But however brutal Paolo was, he had a steady hand.
The line drawing looks like it belongs in a history book about Sicily, or maybe a textbook on witches. The snakes of Medusa’s hair twist around the three bent legs. The bizarre design is perfectly legible.
I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak. Paolo looks across to Russo and grunts something in Italian, in a dialect I no longer understand. Steeling myself, I turn to face the Mafia don.
“ Si, ” he says to Paolo. And then to me, “My sign looks good on you, Giovanna.” He waves a dismissive hand to Paolo. “Cover it up,” he says.
Paolo rips open a paper packet and settles a clear dressing over the tattoo. “You keep for twenty-four hours,” he says. “Then wash. Careful.” He thinks for a moment, then chooses another word. “Gentle.”
“Tw— Twenty-four hours.” My voice is sandy with exhaustion.
Liam is the one who helps me sit up. He retrieves my clothes like a trained nurse, and he helps me to dress. By mutual agreement, we don’t tuck in my smooth silk top. I hand him back his jacket once I’m fully clothed.
And then I turn to Russo. “All right,” I say. “I got your tattoo. Now I can advise you on those tax documents.”
I hold out my hand, but he shakes his head. “I do not think so, Giovanna. You are tired, and?—”
“I’m fine.”
He goes on as if I haven’t interrupted him. “These papers are not urgent. They can wait until you are recovered.”
“I don’t need any recovery,” I say.
He clicks his tongue, like a parent correcting an overtired child. “It would be cruel of me to expect you to work, after such an experience. Next week,” he says. “When you have rested.”
I want to protest. I want to tell him he’s mistaken, that I’m fine, I’m fresh, I’m ready to provide legal advice on any document in his possession.
But I can’t afford to make him suspicious. So I incline my head and feed his ego. “You are too kind, Don Antonio.”
His crocodile smile says he knows I think otherwise.
I have no other option—I let Liam help me from the room. He takes me directly to the Bentley but when he opens the back door, I say, “Please. I’ll sit up front.”
He clearly considers protesting, but in the end he opens the front door. He turns on the heater before we reach the highway, even though it’s July. That’s the only thing that makes me realize I’m shivering. The sun sets as he drives me home, and neither of us says a single word for the entire ride.
The paparazzi are gone when we arrive at the Ardmore house. The porch lights are on, but every window is dark. “Want me to come in with you?” Liam asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say, the same lie I used with Russo.
“It’s no problem.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, my exhaustion sounding like annoyance.
I open my own car door. I take the steps carefully, as if they’re slippery with ice. My key catches in the front door, and for just a moment, I think Braiden changed the lock, but then I find the right angle. I take a deep breath and head inside.
Braiden sits in the foyer. He’s dragged an armchair out of the dining room, placing it at the foot of the stairs. His legs are spread, like he’s anchoring the world. His hair is mussed, and I wonder how many times he’s run his fingers through it. My collar is draped over the fingers of his left hand, the emerald shining like a beacon in the light from the porch. Braiden holds a tumbler in his right hand, and the smell of whiskey slaps me like a wake-up call.
I close the door, shutting out the bright lights on the porch. Now we’re illuminated only by the soft glow that sneaks inside the windows.
“Wh—” I hate that my voice shakes. “Where is everyone?”
“I sent Aiofe and Fairfax to the Rittenhouse. So we could have some privacy.”
“And the paps?”
“I had Best send out a dozen of his best men. Told them to patrol with machine guns for a couple of hours. I guess there are easier stories to land.”
I want to laugh, but I’m too exhausted. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Why—”
“ Piscín. ” The word is rough on his lips. He holds out my collar, and the gem glints in the dim lights. It’s an invitation.
I take it. I cross the foyer and sit on his lap.
His arms fold around me, pulling me close to his chest. My spine unzips, releasing a weight I didn’t know I carried. All the tension, all the fear, all the pain of today boils up inside me, breaking free in a trembling sigh.
“ Mo chailín maith, ” he whispers against my hair. He brings the glass of whiskey to my lips. As he tilts it gently, I take a sip and the warmth thaws the still-frozen places inside me.
“I was wrong this morning,” he says. “I was worried.” I hear his heartbeat beneath his crisp white shirt. “Angry,” he says. “Jealous.”
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard Braiden admit he was wrong. His fingers shift on my hip, as if he thinks I’ll try to break away, but I don’t ever want to leave this place. I never want to lose this feeling of shelter, of absolute safety. My collar hums between his palm and my flesh.
I tilt my head and raise my chin, finding his mouth.
It’s a sweet kiss at first. Chaste. A solemn pledge never to repeat the morning’s fight.
But the energy between us has never been innocent. From the moment we looked at each other in that elevator door at the Delaware Division of Revenue, I’ve been falling, tumbling, spinning out of control. Now I open my lips first, and he’s there, waiting to swipe his tongue deep. I moan because this is what I’ve always wanted—this power, this heat, this searing, overwhelming need.
The glass of whiskey clatters to the floor. Braiden tangles one hand in my hair, pulling my head back, arching my neck as if he’s a vampire ready to drink. His other hand presses my collar against my thigh.
His erection feels like a tree trunk beneath my leg. I shift my weight so I can stroke him through his pants. Before I can slip, he grabs me, clamping my collar against the small of my back.
I cry out as fire ignites my spine.
“What—” he asks, but his fingers are already moving beneath my silk top.
“I can ex—” I start.
“What the hell?” He’s found the bandage, the slick plastic Paolo used to cover my tattoo.
I tug my top down, but I’m not strong enough to defeat his grasp. He yanks up my shirt and twists my body like I’m a ratty scarecrow.
“Samantha?” he asks, the three syllables an entire treatise on disbelief. My collar clatters to the floor, freed from his loose fingers.
“Russo—” I start to answer, but he cuts me off by standing so quickly I have to scramble to keep from sprawling beside the tangle of platinum and emerald.
He grips my arm like he’s going to tear it off my body. “What did you let him do?”