Luca (The Boston Syndicate #2)

2. Luca

Luca

Chapter two

Two Years Later

I’m burying my father today.

Standing at the edge of his grave, I stare at the casket that holds the body of the man who held so many secrets. So many regrets. And I let myself cry. I finally let it out after months of refusing to allow myself to get to this point. During the last several months, his body weakened until he needed help with everything—and I was that help. His tired heart wouldn’t allow him the freedom to even make it from his wheelchair to his bed on his own.

It took three weeks to come back to the house after my father told me about my real parents and his role in their deaths. Three weeks of couch surfing between my friends’ houses and fielding questions from their concerned parents. Three weeks of unanswered calls and texts from my dad. He never asked me to come home. He just wanted to make sure I was safe. I don’t know. Maybe he thought I’d go off the rails and run to Boston to find my real family or something. I never answered him, though. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t deserve to have that peace of mind.

I’m not sure what kept me in California. During the day, I’d pretend everything was fine. I went to class, went to football practice, and did my homework. I’d eat dinner with whatever friend’s family I was staying with and pretended my dad was on a business trip, saying he was doing some sort of training at different plants. My excuse was wishy-washy as hell, but I didn’t have years of practice when it came to lying, unlike some people.

At night though, I’d lie awake thinking about the story he told me, the life he led and the reasons he had for saving me that night. I never told a single soul what he confided in me. Shit, at the time, I was sure no one would believe it. I hardly believed it myself. And I didn’t know how to tell anyone that the life I had was one big lie. There was also another part of me that didn’t want anyone looking at my dad differently. Regardless of how he came to be my father, it didn’t change the fact that he raised me. No matter how angry I was, there was still the part of me that remembered that. Maybe that’s why, after three weeks, I walked back through the front door after football practice instead of going to a friend’s house again.

The look of relief on my dad’s face when he saw me will forever be burned in my memory.

He hugged me and told me he was happy I was home. Though something inherent changed within me the day he’d told me about Boston, I couldn’t let him suffer and die alone. No matter what he did and how horrible it was, that wasn’t the man I knew. The man I knew did everything to give me a safe and stable life. The truth of our past would go in a box in the recesses of my mind, just like the box of photos he’d hidden in the back of his closet. I told him I was a long way from forgiving him, but I wasn’t going to punish him either.

As the months wore on, my dad’s health declined. Thankfully, he had good insurance and benefits, so when he had to stop working, his company took care of him. I got a part-time job, but he insisted I take courses at the community college after graduation. There was no way in hell I was going to a four-year university on a scholarship I could’ve gotten with football. If it were any other situation, he would have argued with me about my decision. Instead, he was grateful for the time I was willing to give a dying man.

We were never the same after he told me about our past. I knew he wanted to talk to me about it, to check how I was handling everything, but he didn’t dare bring it up out of fear I’d probably disappear again. And trust me, there were days I wanted to, days when my anger wanted to get the better of me. When I wanted to rail against him and the entire world, but I didn’t. My feelings were complicated and so damn convoluted I wasn’t sure I would ever make sense of them, but I couldn’t ignore the eighteen years of love from a man who gave up everything to protect me.

We spent our days watching old westerns and shows about a couple guys going through people’s junk and finding hidden treasures. Toward the end, Frank mostly dozed off for long periods during the day, but he insisted on sitting in our old recliner rather than wasting away in bed. He needed the company, and quite frankly, so did I.

Now he’s gone. And that box I’d kept a tight lid on for the last two years has smashed wide open.

My tears fall. Hot, angry rivulets of water splash to the damp ground at my feet. The day is overcast, the marine layer hanging on tightly and blocking the sun and its warmth from my skin.

The service was small. There were just a few friends from high school I’ve kept in contact with and some old coworkers of my dad’s who came to pay their respects. I feel the gazes of the men waiting to start filling the hole where my father’s coffin lies. I know I should let them do their job. They probably have other things to do with their day rather than stand here and watch a twenty-year-old man cry over his father’s grave. But I can’t seem to make myself move from this spot. When I do, I’ll be going home to an empty house with nothing but memories to keep me company.

When I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, I asked my dad if he was ever going to get married again, still believing he was married to my mother when she died. He laughed and shook his head, telling me he was perfectly happy living his life with the best son any father could hope for before he asked why I brought it up. He was probably concerned he wasn’t enough, worried I was missing out on not having a mother. I didn’t really care about that part, although I thought at the time it would be nice to have snuggles from a mom, but my dad was the best hugger in the world. No, I wanted a little brother. My dad laughed and laughed when I told him that, but I thought it would be cool. My best friend in second grade had one, and he always had someone to play with. Seemed reasonable to me. But when my dad said I’d have to share my cars with another kid all the time, I thought better of the idea. I liked having my own stuff that only I was allowed to play with.

The memory makes me smile, and I think about my dad and his booming laugh. He didn’t sound the same after his body began to betray him. A laugh like that would’ve probably left him wheezing for breath and made him pass out from exertion.

I wipe my damp face with the backs of my hands and stand a bit taller, taking a deep breath before turning to face the parking lot where my car sits. My gaze briefly lands on the workers, who give me a small smile before I walk to my car to drive myself back to my empty house.

Opening the door to our one-story bungalow nestled in the quiet neighborhood that butts up against acres of farmland, the finality of the day hits me. Similar to how I felt at the cemetery, but this is quieter somehow, sadder. I look to the left, and my gaze lands on the medical equipment on the kitchen table where I spent hours doing homework. I’ll have to call the hospice company again to have them pick all this stuff up. One more thing for me to take care of now that this is all…over. My dad died here three days ago. It’s not as though this is the first time I’ve been alone in the house. The old man didn’t want to go to the hospital. There was nothing they could have done for him there, he told me. He wanted a quiet passing in the home he’d created here with me. Now, I’m the only one in the home.

With the funeral over, there really isn’t anything for me to do for the first time in two years. I took this last semester off from school, with my dad’s health declining drastically over the last few months. My part-time job stocking shelves a couple nights a week at our local grocery store gave me the next week off for bereavement. There’s nothing for me to do.

I toss my keys in a bowl on the slim table we have next to the front door and head into the living room. Collapsing onto the couch, I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling. Suddenly, I feel like I can’t breathe. I rip the tie from my neck and undo the top two buttons on my black shirt. It doesn’t help. The silence is stifling, and I feel like I want to run ten miles to get rid of all this excess energy strumming through me. With no one to take care of or funerals to plan, I feel lost, adrift in a life I wasn’t prepared for.

During the weeks before my father passed, he wanted to talk about Boston. It was the first time in two years he tried to bring it up. I didn’t want to know anything about his life there or the life I could have had with my biological parents, but I also didn’t have the heart to deny a dying man. It was a fucked-up situation all around. Sure, there was a part of me that was curious, but again, when I came back to the house two years ago, I put it all in a box and was perfectly content not opening it.

But I let him speak.

He told me how my father was always quick with a joke and people loved being around him. He had a way that made people feel at ease, which was crucial in his position. The men respected him, especially Francesco, which is why my dad was shocked when he gave the order for his murder. He said the times he saw my mother from a distance, she was smiling at my father, always excited to see him. He told me the love they shared was obvious to any outside observer, which is what he was since he spent so much time spying on them.

He debated whether or not to tell Francesco there was a baby, worried that his worst fear would come true—which it did. Francesco Cataldi didn’t care that there was an innocent baby involved. He wanted Elio, along with his young family, to pay with their lives for what he perceived as the ultimate betrayal. And because my father was as loyal as they came, he agreed to do the job, not that he really had a choice. He told me you simply couldn’t say no to the boss. Though when he fled with me, that was the ultimate fuck you to Francesco.

He also told me that not a day went by where he didn’t regret not running before he went to my parents’ house. He wished, down to the very marrow of his being, that he would’ve had the guts to walk away and leave Elio and my mother alive and happy with their baby. That he should have told Elio about Francesco’s plans. His biggest regret was the reason he made damn sure I felt loved and safe from that night forward. He couldn’t take back his cowardice, but he could spend his life trying to be the caring father he took away from me.

And when I look at it subjectively, if Frank hadn’t killed my parents, someone else would have. Once Francesco got something in his head, there was no changing it, according to Frank. And if that would’ve been the case, that person wouldn’t have spared my life.

I don’t know if my father, Elio, not Frank, wanted to leave with my mother and me and get away from the criminal life. Neither did my dad—Frank, not Elio. It was confusing when I thought about the two men. Elio was my father, who I have no recollection of, and Frank was my dad who raised me but wasn’t blood. And the kicker? Turns out Frank wasn’t his real name and Luca wasn’t mine either. Frank’s real name was Constantine Barelli and mine was Elio Luciano Romano Jr.—hence Luca when Frank changed our names. He wanted me to have some piece of my past, even if it was just a name, and I never knew where it had originated from. I’m not sure if Frank would’ve told me about our shared past had he not been dying, and I didn’t want to ask, too scared of the answer. Still, his reasoning wouldn’t have mattered because I know now.

Frank went on to fill me in on what he knew of the Monaghans. They were the Irish mob in Boston. Started as bootleggers and made a name for themselves in the protection racket after prohibition ended, then started illegal gambling rings throughout Boston. They had legitimate businesses they ran their dirty money through, namely four bars in downtown Boston, at least when Frank left Boston twenty years prior. He wasn’t sure what state the organization was in, too afraid to reach out to any of his old contacts and risk having Francesco find us. When he took me away from Boston, he told me Maeve and Cormac Monaghan had one son, Finnegan. That was all he knew about the Monaghans, not that I wanted the information. I was perfectly happy living in sweet denial.

My dad wrote the numbers to the four bars on a piece of paper that has stayed in my pocket since he handed it to me two weeks ago. He said if I wanted to get to know that side of the family to reach out, but be careful. He didn’t want me going after Francesco in any way, shape, or form. And he worried that Cormac Monaghan would try to lure me in with the promises of family loyalty and all that bullshit. It was a life Frank had led, and he didn’t want me to have any part in it, especially considering what would happen if Francesco found out who I was. Frank wasn’t worried about himself, knowing he was going to be long gone before Francesco could do anything, but he was worried for me, worried that Francesco would consider me unfinished business.

Though Frank never wanted that life for me, I want revenge. The feeling started not long after I came back after my dad unloaded his past on me. Even though I did a damn good job at keeping the maelstrom of emotion regarding my true parentage at bay, there were nights I would lie awake and think of the ways I could make the Mafia boss pay for depriving me of the life I could’ve had with two loving parents. But then the guilt would come when I thought about my dad’s disappointed face. He wanted me as far from that life as he could get me and never wanted it to taint me. So, like all the other thoughts that swirled in my brain when I thought about Boston, I’d shove those feelings in a box in my mind and shut it tightly.

Now, though? They’re front and center as I sit on this couch, feeling like I’m ready to jump out of my skin and having no dying father to distract me from it all. Frank is dead. My dad is gone, and it wouldn’t matter to anyone if I decided to act out my plans for revenge that have been simmering since I was eighteen.

I stare at the beige wall across from me. My eyes find their way to the picture of me and my dad at my junior high graduation. It’s surrounded by other pictures of various birthday parties and fishing trips. I let out a long breath, my anxiety not waning one damn bit. Scrubbing my hands over my tired face, I get up from the couch and walk into the bright-yellow kitchen that my dad said was a cheery paint color when I told him it looked more like the color of a banana. Moving on autopilot, I open the refrigerator and peer inside, looking for something to eat even though I’m not hungry. There are casseroles from neighbors that sit covered, but I can’t bring myself to take them out. “Death casseroles” is what I call them. I thought it was fucking hilarious, but Mrs. Barker, an old woman who lives down the street, didn’t.

I open the cabinets, looking for what I don’t know, but finding the liquor bottle on the top shelf of the second cabinet gives me pause. That damn bottle of whiskey my dad was drinking the day he threw my life into upheaval. He stayed away from alcohol after that night, not wanting to put unnecessary strain on his body after learning he was in the end stages of congestive heart failure.

Taking the bottle from the shelf, I hold it in my hands. Part of me wants to smash it against the counter for no other reason other than I feel like destroying something that represents the worst day of my life. Another part of me wants to drink the rest until I’m so fucking numb that this day, the second worst day of my life, is a distant memory.

Fuck it. Option two it is.

Screwing off the cap, I toss it on the counter and take a gulp of the fiery liquid.

“Jesus Christ,’’ I cough out, nearly hurling the second I swallow the whiskey. My eyes water as I continue to cough, but the whiskey stays in my stomach. I was never much of a drinker aside from having the occasional beer at high school parties. Being a football player meant taking care of my body. There were a couple times I had hard alcohol, but only when it was mixed with something, never straight from a warm bottle.

“Fucking gross,” I say to no one as I stare at the amber liquid.

Instead of putting the bottle back in the cupboard, I grab a soda and ice from the fridge and pour a healthy amount of whiskey into a glass, topping it off with soda. Taking a sip, I nod to myself. Not bad considering I’m far from an expert bartender.

I return to the couch and grab the box that was in my father’s closet. I haven’t opened this since the day he showed me its contents.

Pulling out picture after picture is surreal. There are photos of his parents in there and a few more of him as an adult with various people who I don’t know. No names are written on the back, which seems reasonable. No photographic evidence or any shit like that. The only people I recognize are Frank, Elio, and Francesco.

My dad told me he took several photos off the wall before he left my parents’ house that night. He wasn’t sure why he did it at the time; he just knew he needed to. When he went back to his apartment and grabbed the cash from his safe and some clothes before meeting Rosa Cataldi at the church, he dumped them all in a box.

One thing about my dad was he always snapped photos of me growing up. He was hardly in any of them. I don’t know; maybe he was afraid of someone finding them and recognizing him or something, but I have a ton of pictures of me growing up. Grabbing the one from when I was a junior in high school from the wall, I compare it to the picture of me with Elio and my mother holding me as a baby. I have my father’s darker skin tone—kind of like a perpetual tan. Frank had the same one, but the eyes? All my mother. Dark blue with thick black lashes surrounding them. My hair is darker than hers, more like my father’s. I have the same cheekbones as my mother but my father’s jawline and nose. My smile is all my mother’s, too. That’s weird to see. Frank always told me I took after my mother, which is true, so I never questioned why I looked different from him. There were qualities Frank and I shared, sure, but when I see a picture of my biological father, it’s as though I’m seeing the other half of myself.

I take a long sip from my drink and get up to make another one, this time more alcohol and less soda.

When I sit back down, I can’t stop staring at the picture of me compared to my parents.

Fucking unreal.

My phone buzzes with a text from one of my friends I stayed in contact with from high school. I don’t answer, though. I simply don’t feel like talking to anyone.

After Frank’s diagnosis and the last year being pretty bad health-wise for him, I lost touch with a lot of people from high school. I don’t hold it against them in the least, though. This isn’t the type of town most kids stay in after graduation. Sure, some kids from my high school still live around here, opting to work and start their lives as adults, but most of my friends went to four-year universities right after graduation. That was always my plan, too, but I refused to leave my dad. I knew his road was going to be hard, and he was a proud man who would’ve had a hard time asking for help, even if he needed it. Of course, he argued, but I promised when the time was right, I’d finish my degree at a university. The right time being when he was dead, though neither of us said that. We both knew there was no way I was going to leave him to fend for himself. At least not after I came back after the three weeks I spent couch surfing.

The burn of the whiskey as I guzzle my last drink matches the burn in my chest. Who the hell does this Cataldi fuck think he is? He took my parents, and then, by some ugly twist of fate, the man who raised me is gone now, too. I have no ties. They were all stolen from me.

The phone number in my pocket feels like it’s burning a hole in my damn soul. I don’t know shit about Mafia politics. Hell, for all I know, the Cataldis and Monaghans get along just fine these days.

But what if they don’t?

What if they’re the only line I have to get back what was stolen from me? A family. Safety. A life out from under the shadows. Frank didn’t want me to chase after revenge, but fuck, getting revenge sounds pretty damn good right about now. My dad told me the Cataldis were nearly untouchable. The cops, DEA and FBI have tried to build cases against them for years, yet they’ve never been able to stick charges to the boss, Francesco. But what if the way to take them down isn’t by using the law but by some other means? Some way to get in there and destroy them from the inside. If Francesco was so worried about Elio feeding information to the Monaghans, that meant Elio knew things about the Cataldis that would destroy them. And if he knew then I can find out, too.

I pull the number from my pocket, my eyes blurry from the tears and the whiskey, and dial one of the numbers to a bar the Monaghans own.

“Clovers Tavern,” the voice on the other line answers.

Am I really fucking doing this?

“Hello?” the person who answered asks impatiently.

“Uh, hi. Cormac Monaghan, please.”

“Mr. Monaghan isn’t here.” The voice seems slightly confused. “Who’s this?”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, actually.

“My dad was a friend of his and he passed. Thought Mr. Monaghan would like to know.”

That makes no sense. Frank and Cormac weren’t friends. If she asks who it was, what the hell am I supposed to tell her?

“His son is here. Hold on, I’ll get him.” The woman’s voice is sympathetic, and I feel like shit for lying. But again, I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to say. I need to talk to someone. I need to figure out what my next move is, if I have a move at all.

“This is Finn,” a man with a deep voice answers.

I’m stunned speechless.

You called him, dumbass.

“Hi, my name is Luca Bennetti. Our fathers knew each other.” Kind of true.

“My bartender said our dads were friends. What was his name?”

“I may have embellished on that a little,” I answer.

“What the fuck is going on? Who the hell are you?”

Inhaling a deep breath, I decide to answer with the truth.

“I’m your cousin.”