Chapter 11
Vivi
Five Years Later
“FORGIVE ME, FATHER, for I have sinned.” I finished the sign of the cross as the staccato burst of gunfire echoed against the church walls.
A sigh penetrated the covered partition of the confessional that was full of dark history. I understood the priest’s frustration. Secrets were shared here, my own included. But not on that day, when it seemed the neighborhood had something more important to say.
We stepped from separate doors at the same time, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.
He was tall, black, and sinfully handsome, yet he’d given himself to a higher purpose and the collective people who raised him.
West Tremont was a war zone. Raphael Musa was a peacekeeper and the best kind of human.
He was also the person I sought weekly for absolution.
I was, in fact, a sinner of the worst variety.
“Lay it on me, Padre,” I teased, before he’d walk onto the street to calm whatever faction drew weapons in broad daylight. Or, in this case, under the layer of heavy clouds threatening a spring deluge.
“Vivi.” He chuckled. “I have not heard your confession. Therefore, there can be no penance.” After twenty-some years in the States, his accent was soft and made even the toughest words easy to hear. Rafi may have been born in Nigeria, but he was a gift from God to New York.
I waved away his concern. “It’s identical to last week and the one before. Murder. Corruption. Human trafficking. The list is long and wicked, my friend.”
His grin vanished in the span of a heartbeat. “Vigo Cabello’s work—”
“My family’s,” I corrected.
“—Cannot be your burden.”
“But it is.” An argument I’d given him since we’d met as teens working at the mission on Belmont Street.
He’d tried even before seminary school to relieve my guilt.
Forgiveness would never come. “Everyone born has the urge to do bad things,” I reminded him.
“I just happen to have the genetic makeup to execute the devilish deeds.”
As if heaven agreed, thunder cracked and shook the roof above. We both looked up and out the stained-glass windows, painting the interior in a soft glow. I noted a crack in the corner and rainwater as it seeped in—a reminder to add more money to the coffer this Sunday for repairs.
“Two Hail Marys…” The list was not long enough, and I promised to tack on more when I counted the rosary before bed.
Another gunshot matched the initial smattering. “Go save the world. And be careful doing it.” I leaned up to kiss his cheek, and he caught me by the shoulders. Dark eyes connected with mine.
“You will do the same?” Fear spread across his pupils. It was not for himself. Raphael lived amid chaos, but I existed with the devil himself, and my home was hell.
I made no promises, finding a comforting grin that spoke of a future that wasn’t guaranteed. “See you Sunday, Father.”
?
I FOUND IT impossible to look away from the news anchor’s solemn features. The television hung on a wall in the mission, a gift from the Cabello family—as were many of the material items at the nonprofit shelter that cared for the community’s disadvantaged.
“It’s on every station.” Sam picked up the remote, flipping to Fox, MSN, local ABC, and every other network.
“Bruno Angelini: Dead.” She read the headline, knowing I’d have a hard time doing so.
We stared as the commentator repeated the storyline with a visual of the body being dragged from the Hudson River. “Was it your dad?”
“Who called for the hit?” I didn’t need the clarification, but I stalled my response. We both knew it was him. I just couldn’t admit to this dirty deed or any of the others.
“Yeah, I mean—” She licked her lips, then turned the volume down so I’d hear her whisper. “—the competition around here is dwindling. Your father is the biggest mafia king on the East Coast, maybe in America. Will the other dons try to knock him from his throne?”
The answer to her question was lost when the back door opened.
Jake glanced at me as he entered. He had kind eyes, a contradiction to the probationary obligation that brought him to the mission.
Scrubbing rain from his hair, he said something about the probable leak in his apartment, but I couldn’t comment with my mind so focused on the news.
Half of the Italian mob wanted Vigo Cabello dead.
The other half gunned for high-ranking positions within the inner circle of his operation.
A shiver ghosted through me, and I turned to resume measuring heaps of oregano.
Retaliation was inevitable, and only God knew whose body would line the next casket. I shook the thought from my head.
“I have no clue what’s going on. You know that. I stay away from the business—”
“And give your life to others,” she said.
“It’s better than giving it to the capo dei capi.”
The fear I’d felt a moment ago trembled through my fingers, and I stopped working. The boss of all bosses was said to have no heart—a statement I could attest to. As did the scars on my flesh and those I’d kept hidden deep inside.
Sam moved next to me. Her arm rounded my waist as her head fell to my shoulder. We looked at the banquet tables, which would fill to capacity in a couple of hours. A resident and her toddler watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on the large-screen TV in the lounge.
Finally, I angled to blow Sam’s curls from my nose. She straightened while fluffing her hair. “Sorry, it’s completely unruly today.”
“Your blonde ’fro is one of my favorite things on the planet.”
She laughed, but I was serious. Sam was a beautiful human inside and out, especially her piercing turquoise eyes, which studied me for a moment.
“Let’s run away somewhere,” she insisted. “The Caymans, Grand Turk. No one will look for us on the beach.”
A sad smile turned my lips as I returned to the food prep. “He would find me. Vigo will always find me. Besides, I have Mama and you and Rafi.”
“And that’s enough?”
“It has to be for now. Though one day I’ll make it to Naples.”
“Italy?” She plucked a carrot from a pile ready for roasting and snapped off a bite.
“Florida. Mama’s family lives there, I think. She says things that make me believe they own a restaurant. Maybe I could waitress and go to night school.”
A thrill seeped into my veins, as it did every time I let myself dream of a future outside of the Cosa Nostra.
“Waitress—yes. Cook—no. Girl, I can’t believe you’re Italian.
The culinary arts are supposed to run in your bloodline like drizzling olive oil from your fingertips.
” Shaking with laughter, she picked up the recipe I followed—scribbled lines in handwriting that only I could understand. “How can you read this?”
“Easily.” I snatched the card from her hand as the entrance at the front of the building opened.
I was a princess—albeit of the mafia variety. If you believed that, then Simone Cabello was a queen. The nature of our titles didn’t offend the residents. Nor were they afraid of the towering men surrounding my mother during her surprise visits.
A handful of people greeted her at the door. One was the little girl who danced with Minnie Mouse.
“Miss Cabie. Miss Cabie,” she squealed, clapping her hands in front of her chunky cheeks.
Mama kneeled down, her white trench coat floating around her like a ball gown. “What a beautiful dress, Angela,” she praised, indulging her with a tiara she pulled from an oversized purse. She always had something special stashed in that bag of hers for the kids.
I stirred the pot of ingredients once, then rushed to help with the boxes her bodyguards delivered. I stopped short for a hug.
“Don’t get too close.” I held my torso and the dirty apron covering it away from her as we embraced. “I’m wearing more sauce than the noodles.”
She giggled and whispered in my ear, “Are you sure it’s edible?”
“Maybe.” I laughed along with her. I wasn’t exactly Antonio Carluccio, but no one would keel over from my marinara. At least, I hoped not. “It’s Nonna’s recipe. I followed it to a tee.”
“God rest her soul.” We both paused for the sign of the cross in honor of her mother-in-law’s not-so-distant passing. “She’d be pleased you made it.”
“Are you kidding?” I took her bag so she could slip from the rain-soaked trench and only admired her chic Chanel pantsuit for a second. “She’d curse up a storm and swat my ass with a wet dish towel because I used canned tomatoes instead of fresh.”
“Speaking of fresh.” She took a bundle of tulips from Rocco, her security lead. “The garden is bountiful this year, Vivienne. Do you know what that means?”
“You’re going to fill the house with so much pollen that Dad will have to move out or stroke out?”
Her eyebrow curled, as did a smirk. “Now that you mention his allergies….”
Although we laughed again, it wasn’t very freeing.
I never understood how he won the affection of Simone Balducci.
Mama rarely spoke of the past, and if she did, it was a wisp of knowledge.
“I had no choice…” and the scariest of all: “Death is a blessing.” Without her, my soul would be as black as the man who’d given his seed for my creation.
“I’m afraid we’re stuck with Vigo. But, Viv, this is a sign,” she insisted. “It’s my best crop, which means the brightest moments are in front of us.”
My heart sank to the bottom of the Hudson with Bruno. Mama just didn’t get it. This was real-world shit we were living through. Trouble that couldn’t be swept under the rug by omens and mystical magic.
“Enough with your signs.” I huffed and walked past Sam, who headed to the office, and into the kitchen by the sink. A shelf over it held vases—also a gift from the Cabellos. Mama followed me in as I filled a few with water and then arranged the red bulbs.
“You don’t believe.”
I sighed and turned to her face filled with hope.
She always looked for signs, and more often than not, the so-called omens had to do with nature. In the summer months, she told me every week that years ago she thought she was as barren as the fields she’d tended, but then a rosebud sprouted. Hours later, she learned she was pregnant with me.
“It’s not that I don’t.” I clipped a stem that was an inch too long, then slid it next to a dozen others. “But it’s hard to find faith in simple things when it feels like we’re abandoned.”
She rushed forward, tipping my chin until my eyes met hers.
We were almost one and the same—all five feet, three inches.
Except she was the swan, and I was the ugly duckling who had yet to transform.
Our hair was both thick and straight, hanging well past our shoulders, but hers was as white as snow, while mine edged on the side of gray. The same color as our matching irises.
“Don’t say that. Never say that. We have more than most.”
“Blood money,” I hissed, trying to pull from her hold.
She was stronger and fiercer in her response. “And because of that, we have a responsibility. We care and give to our community and to our people.”
“To absolve his sins.”
“To absolve our own.”
We were quiet for a moment. Her arms wrapped around my waist, tugging me to her chest—marinara and all. When she spoke, her tone was low and directed in my ear. “One day you’ll be free from the pain he inflicts. I promise, just trust me per favore.”
Trust. I wanted to laugh and then cry. What Cabello had trust? Our world was full of cheaters and informants. My inner circle was small because of that, and I counted my friends on one hand. But Mama….
“Of course, I trust you.”
She squeezed me harder. “I have plans, Vivi. I’ll tell you about them soon.”
I tucked my nose into her neck, breathing in the fresh scent of roses. “Okay.”
“Remember that you are life, Vivienne, and I will give mine to see yours fulfilled.”
I knew it was true. So did God, as thunder boomed overhead. A loud clack resonated through the mission, followed by a bright burst of lightning. The fluorescent lights flickered, then died.
A series of shots—eerily similar to those that scattered outside the church—cracked. Pop, pop. The cacophony erupted from the back door as it flew open, the wind howling and gusting into the room. Rain pelted in a horizontal spray, but it wasn’t just water.
Hooded men rushed inside, guns drawn. Five sets of eyes immediately swung our way.
Mama’s hold tightened around me.
Rocco screamed, “Intrusi,” as the first bullet hit.
A nudge. A push. I waited for the pain. Nothing came but a sharp gasp from my mother. The second blast burned my upper arm as it scraped by. The third was a direct hit—red splattered on the white wall.
Mama slipped from my grip, and with a silent scream, I followed her to the floor.
There was no final word. No parting message. There was no declaration of love. Death was a blessing. I stared into her unseeing gaze, praying she would take me with her.
“You promised,” I cried, kneeling beside her and pleading for a painless end—one as fast as Jesus had taken her home. I waited. Security lit the room with the retaliatory magazine spray of their firearms, and still I begged God.
My prayer went unanswered.
Jake stood frozen in the pantry, hands up.
Pop, pop. He crumbled in a heap.
My heart thundered, but I died with everyone around me.
Squeals of pain from the injured tore through the room.
Rocco shot his way into the kitchen, his eyes dropping to the crimson pool on the floor. Then he bellowed his agony with a spray of bullets and rage.
Chaos ensued.
Gunfire blistered my ears.
Bodies fell.
Sobs fed my fury.
Blood from the innocent was on my hands.
I threw my head back and wailed to the sky—a demand for justice and a vow to see it done.
“Forgive me, Father, for I plan to sin.”