47. Ariana
47
ARIANA
He didn’t have to do this to me. Turn me on with those simple words, showing me a possessive side I’m begging to see more of. I’m already a knot of nerves as we exit the bedroom into the corridor. Portia is here, and who knows what news she’s bringing. The scent of freshly brewed coffee is somehow calming as it lures us all the way to the kitchen.
As we walk inside, she’s already whipping up something in a mixing bowl. A man is sitting at the island, and as they both glance up at us, it’s clear neither of them has slept the night before.
Her eyes hold mine with a pleading stare, and I whisper to her in passing, desperate for her not to get in deeper trouble. “He knows. About the journals.”
“Nicky.” She pauses her nervous whipping as soon as my words sink in. “You must be angry about yesterday, but please?—”
“It’s okay, Portia, I’m not the fucking Don.”
Those words hang in the space, and it’s as if a ghost sweeps between us.
Portia is on the verge of tears. The man, who seems to be in his late sixties with silver hair and dressed impeccably in a suit, looks as if he’s ready to skip his last rites just to get things over with. Clearly, both of them were expecting bullets in the forehead.
“Yes, you’re not,” she says on a swallow. “This is Arturo Romano. I’m not sure if you remember him? He was one of the Don’s capos way back when. He got…early retirement.”
Dominic studies the man, and their gazes lock, and then recollection clock on Dominic’s side.
“Sir,” Arturo says as he stands and holds out his hand, seeming to recall Dominic perfectly. “You’ve grown into a much-feared man.”
“Hmm, I hope that goes for all the Scalera boys.” Dominic shakes his hand, his gaze pinning the shorter man in place. “Rosalia has your eyes.”
“Yes, my little girl. I haven’t seen her in years. Maybe now…” Arturo sits again, looking bone tired. “Rumors go around that you left Il Consiglio , what with your security company, but now, I’m not so sure.”
At this, Dominic just cocks his brow as he pulls a stool away from the counter and holds it out for me.
“Have a seat, sweetheart,” he says as he shoots me a glance. “I believe you have information we’re looking for, Arturo. We can all talk over coffee like normal people.”
With normal people, I assume Dominic isn’t planning to torture information out of anybody yet.
“I’m Ariana,” I say as I get comfortable next to Arturo.
“I know. Portia has told me—” Arturo cuts himself off right there.
Enough to have him hanged if he speaks about this to anybody? I bet everybody have these words ringing in their heads, even if it’s dead silent in the kitchen.
“Are you making pancakes, Portia?” Dominic asks, a slice of amusement in his voice.
“Had to do something with my hands, Nicky. You must know when I realized yesterday that the timeframe spoke to the exact time Arturo left us, with reasons I never really bought into, I made the connection…and…and—” She breaks off, hands flitting over her cheeks as she gathers herself. “I had some right to the truth, didn’t I? To hear it first? So when I asked Ariana not to say a word, it wasn’t so much as to warn Arturo, but to get an understanding of what really happened twenty-two years ago and to tell him it’s safe to come forward with what he knows, as Don Scalera is dead. We haven’t seen each other in years. I had to drive to Providence, and?—”
“Take a breath, Portia. Calm down.” Dominic closes the gap between them and squeezes her shoulder. “You lost as much as we did, if not more. I’m going to make this right, okay?”
At this, Portia really lets go, and Dominic hugs her close, allowing her a good cry. Then she has him at arm’s length and shoots me a woebegone smile.
“Told you he’s the best,” she whispers at me, her eyes glistening with tears. She urges Dominic in the direction of a chair. “Sit, and have coffee, you poor boy. We all suffered in our own way.” She sniffs hard, and with a final swipe of her nose and a pat over her messy curls, indicates that she’s in control of herself again. “The batter needs to stand for a bit, so we have time to talk.”
Dominic sits as Portia gets busy pouring coffee from a stove-top espresso maker into cups.
“Here. Now, Arturo, tell them everything you know, exactly as you told me last night.”
There’s no mistaking Portia’s tone: don’t mess around, and don’t mess this up.
“Well, things were like this,” Arturo starts. “Mrs. Scalera, Bianca, was going to have a girl, and as one of your dad’s most trusted capos at the time, he charged me with arranging an adoption for Gabriella into a mutually approved family. Don Randazzo also added his two pennies every two minutes, that fucker. In any case, it was an Italian family, part of Randazzo’s underground team, who didn’t have any children. They were living down the street from me for the first seven years, down in Providence, and then they took Gabi to Italy, as was agreed upon. All the adoption papers, everything was legally done. Correctly, per local laws, so nobody could raise a red flag.”
“Did my mom know about this?” Dominic asks.
“Yes. She never met the couple, but they were good people, for what it’s worth, in our circles. She gave your dad power of attorney, so everything was wrapped up pretty neatly.”
Until now, where they’re unravelling at speed.
“Were you there at the birth?” Dominic asks.
“Yes. I was there every step of the way.”
“Did she suffer? My mom?”
Arturo shifts in his seat, clutching his coffee cup. “She was sedated. There were complications as the doctors predicted. Even a rushed C-section wouldn’t save her. She just…slipped away, minutes after Gabriella was born. Her body was broken. She wouldn’t have survived any type of birth.”
I glance at Dominic where he’s settled next to me around the corner of the kitchen island, his face stoic as he keeps himself together. When I slip my hand to his thigh and give him a soft squeeze, he reaches for my hand and wraps it in his. He’s trembling, and his leg jolts up and down with tension. I wish I had the right to put an arm around him, but I bet he wouldn’t like that in front of Arturo.
“Did he ever hold his daughter?” Dominic bites out, his knuckles white as he clutches the small white espresso cup with his other hand. A little bit more pressure, and he’s going to crush it to smithereens in his fist.
“No.” Arturo sighs as he pushes his own cup away. “Don Scalera didn’t hold women in much esteem. He was happy to let Gabriella go and being rid of the burden of protecting a woman in the Mafia. But he was even happier that the last terms of his agreement with Randazzo was met. Peace was finally guaranteed and given how Randazzo had become a powerful man in Italy and in Europe, it was for the best.”
“Fucker,” Dominic grunts as he leans back. “Building his army of boys to fight Randazzo if either of them ever broke the fucking truce.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “Did he even care what happened to her afterwards? Ever visit her in Providence?”
I catch Dominic’s gaze. His eyes seem bloodshot with simmering rage.
“No.” Arturo leans into the counter, making sure to get his point across. “I was there and kept an eye on her. And then, she went to Italy.”
“And what do you know about that time?” Dominic asks.
“Nothing. Don Scalera got seven years and Don Randazzo’s word that he won’t put her to work until the time is right.”
“And what the fuck do you think that means?” Dominic growls as he shoots up, his height immediately menacing. “Put to work ? In that fucking psycho’s world? Randazzo was running the biggest fucking sex trafficking ring in Europe! Where everything fucking goes!” He leans over me, into Arturo’s space, and grips the man’s shoulder. “Why the fuck didn’t you talk?”
It takes me a second to register that Arturo has tears running down his cheeks. Quiet tears, exactly like mine, trained to keep emotion in check until he couldn’t anymore.
“Don Scalera had my wife and my own darling daughter in his hold, right here in this very house,” he says as he stands, shrugging Dominic off. “If you ever become a man to be in that exact position, you’d understand you’d rather let him slice you into pieces, bit by bit, than speak a word of what was going on in Don Scalera’s inner circle. I kept quiet to keep Portia and Rosalia safe, because just like you, Dominic, sir, I know exactly what Don Scalera was capable of.”
Arturo’s gaze drops to Dominic’s hand, where it’s now pressing on the countertop, his fingertips white with restraint, but his pinkie, his rogue little pinkie, obstinate and out of place with the rest of his perfect manicured fingers as it points, quivering, to the side.
Oh. My. God. Holy Mother of Jesus . Don Scalera. He cut Dominic’s finger off. And had it stitched back. Oh my God . Why? I’m not even sure why I’m wondering, given what I’ve seen of what he’s done to his son. But this?—
“Fucking long game.” Dominic sinks back into his chair, driving his hands into his hair. “He always played such a fucking long game.”
For a long while, it’s quiet around the kitchen island as I get to grapple with what I’d just deduced and everybody else just digesting what had happened decades ago. When I finally come to my senses, I lean closer to Dominic.
“He might have played a long game, but it doesn’t mean he gets to win,” I murmur, still struggling to keep my own anguish and anger in check. “There’s still a chance she’s safe, Dominic.”
I was safe with Franco’s uncle until Franco acted on his own agenda. What Franco did to me was outside of Randazzo’s plans. I’m not sure what Randazzo’s plans for me were, but I was never trafficked as a girl, not from Randazzo’s side. And then, I cut myself off from his world and made my own destiny the day I stole ten thousand euros and fled to Milan.
“Randazzo is dead. This means everybody is in danger, especially those connected to him,” Dominic says. “People are going to kill for that network of his, for his money, and wherever Gabriella is, she isn’t safe. We don’t know who knows what in the bigger scheme of things.” He leans back in his seat. “There’s only one thing to do. Go to Italy and figure it out from there.”
My stomach turns as my pulse beats in my temple. “How soon?”
Dominic stands and takes his phone from his jacket’s inner pocket.
“Today still.” He gives my arm a squeeze. “Our men cleaned out Franco’s truck, and Matteo has the passport Franco used to get you into the country. You’ll get out with it, too.”
So easy. Everything I wanted most since landing in this mess on this side of the world is right on my doorstep.
“But what about the DNA tests?” I’m not sure why I want to stall us, even if for just a few more days.
“I’ll get those via email. We have WiFi on the jet.”
“Jet?”
“We have a private jet,” he says, already busy on his phone.
“Of course you do,” I mumble, more to myself than to anybody else.
My heart sinks as I watch Dominic swipe away, searching for a contact on his phone.
“Get those pancakes started, Portia,” he says. “We’re going to need energy for this day.”
I watch him, his profile as he turns, his firm stride as he walks out into the corridor and away from us to make his call in private.
It hits me then, a sharp punch to the gut that winds me: once in Italy, I have to separate myself from this man. The easiest way would be to alert the police on arrival at the airport. The long-winded way would be to take Dominic to Franco’s uncle’s farmhouse, help him interrogate everybody in that house, find Gabriella, and then somehow try to escape.
Either way, we’re over. Any way you cut it, we’re done, and I’ll never see him again. And suddenly, I don’t know if I can do it. Or if I even want to.
Somehow, it feels as if we haven’t even started yet.