Chapter Eight
Conor crept into the house, careful with door closures and steps on creaking floorboards, so as not to wake his parents. A brief check found Hugh sleeping peacefully with Mona at his side. She sat stretched across two chairs facing each other, holding her husband’s hand. Conor said a prayer in his head for their well-being and went up to his old room, where he stripped to his briefs and fell into bed.
When sleep claimed him, Conor’s subconscious self gasped as the images surrounding him forced reenactments of moments from his waking life. Everywhere he turned in his dreams, Gio waited with his arms open for an embrace. In the pub, in Gio’s apartment, even in his bedroom, his dream self succumbed to the mobster’s fevered kisses and caresses. God help him, Conor groaned when his body reacted to a full, aching bladder about an hour before he normally woke. He hated leaving his erotic dreams, and more than that he hated that he longed to slip through the veil again.
Sitting upright in bed, rubbing his face, he detected the fading scents of garlic and sex. He pressed his fingertips to his lower lip and pulled, darting out his tongue to taste what remained of Gio. In any alternate universe, Conor might have smiled at the memory of Gio coming apart underneath him, and counted the seconds until their next tryst. Much as Vic’s actions and words angered him, Conor had to credit the man for giving into his prejudices and interrupting them. How much longer could Gio have strung him along otherwise?
He showered, scrubbing a rough-surfaced bar of soap over every reachable inch of skin. Its light mint and leafy scent replaced last night’s dinner and sex but couldn’t erase all evidence of Gio. Conor closed his eyes as he faced the warm spray, still aware of how Gio felt under and around him. Not once in his dating life had somebody made such an indelible impression in a short time. A weekend, he thought. Not even. Holy hell. Conor forced Gio out of his mind, for now. Other issues took precedent.
At breakfast, he sat with his parents and summarized his day at Lonnegan’s, passing along well wishes of regulars and omitting Gio’s three-hour shift. “We pulled in a fair amount of money. Business was steady from open to close,” he said as the family shared juice and speculoos gingerbread cookies in the hospice room. “I made a bank deposit at closing, but I have to be honest with you both.”
Hugh and Mona looked at him and Conor read their faces. They knew what he had to say, but he had to give the words life.
“This whole situation with the San Gaetano syndicate will get us one way or the other,” he said. “Da, if yesterday taught me anything, it’s that I’m barely capable of manning the pub by myself. We can’t afford to hire on, and it doesn’t help Mam if both of us are driven underground from exhaustion and stress.”
Mona choked out a sob and covered her face. Hugh nodded at Conor, melancholy creasing his face. “Con, we had a great run. Lonnegan himself would have been proud,” Hugh told him. “We understand why you opened the pub yesterday, but you mean more to us. It’s not for you to pay for our sins.”
“You haven’t sinned, Da.” Conor squeezed his father’s other hand. Blame the mob for taking what wasn’t rightfully theirs in the first place. The thought that he might have contributed to the Malloys’ protection payments, had his parents confided in him, passed without comment. No sense twisting that knife when distancing themselves from Lonnegan’s altogether provided an opportunity for Hugh’s health to improve.
“You were probably set to heed Patrick’s advice before I arrived, so I’ll support your decision,” he added, then faced his mother. “I don’t want Da dealing directly with those people and worsening his condition. Do you trust me to act on your behalf?”
Mona wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Of course, Con.”
Conor asked her to call his cousin to the house. Whatever it took to get his parents out of trouble, so be it. It wouldn’t surprise him if the San Gaetanos lowered their offer further out of spite. When he met with the family, though, he wanted one concession. Conor hoped the don listened to reason and granted the request without pulling him deeper into the mafia’s debt.
Hugh waited for Mona to leave the room before speaking. “It’s a shame Lonnegan’s has to end with me, but it’s for the best. You have a life in Dublin, and we never expected to live vicariously through you.”
“Da—”
“If the San Gaetanos keep the pub as it is, if they tear down the building and put up condos, I don’t care,” he cut in. “If I die this week, all I want is assurance that your mother is safe.”
The words pained him, but Conor gave a sharp, short nod as his promise to fulfill that wish regardless of Hugh’s fate.
“Here’s hoping they forgive our negligence, and we can worry about what’s next.” A shadow fell on Hugh’s features. “Your mother showed you where we keep all the important papers, right?” he asked. The end of life plans, the numbers for the funeral home and church. The list of first calls after the last breath.
“Yes.”
“I get it, Con. We’ll talk about something else until Patrick gets here.” Hugh’s eyes then brightened as they locked gazes. The notion of freeing themselves of their obligation to the mob seemed to work healing magic on the man. Conor relayed what local gossip he’d overheard while at the pub, and Hugh filled in gaps about people Conor hadn’t seen in ages. “What about that Sicilian fella you met the other night?” his father asked. “Did he stop by?”
Conor’s mouth ran dry. He shook his head and said, “I never told him about the pub or my connection to it.” Not a complete lie. “Like I told you earlier, I can’t say anything will come out of that.”
“I see.” Hugh pouted. “Shame.”
Conor heard the doorbell ring. He leaned over to kiss Hugh’s forehead and stood. “Yes,” he said. “Damn shame.
* * * *
Before leaving his apartment, dressed neatly in a charcoal suit with matching tie, his shoes shined and hair neatly combed, Gio did something he’d neglected for several years. He prayed.
It’s me, Giuseppe , he spoke in his head, mimicking a childhood book of old. Members of the San Gaetano family attended the same parish, the one attached to Gio’s old high school, though only the older women seemed to find comfort in the rituals and sacramentals. Gio showed for holidays and other holy days of obligation, as well as various life events. It amused him to see Monsignor keep a straight face while administering the Eucharist to some of the nation’s most prolific and unrepentant criminals.
As Gio panned his gaze around his apartment, pausing at the bleached spot on his bedroom carpet where he’d scrubbed out Vic’s bloodstain, he wondered how the old priest would handle his eulogy. He was due at the San Gaetano house in thirty minutes. Two o’clock, as directed by the don’s consigliere , and no further details. Gio had a good idea of the topic of discussion, but was keen to guess how Don Salvatore wished to resolve the family’s internal conflict.
He could grant Gio a second chance at full initiation provided he married a woman, perhaps one of his choosing, and produced a child as proof of Gio’s conversion to ‘normality.’
He could turn a blind eye to Gio’s sexuality but keep him a low-level associate forever, then maybe promote Vic above him just to fuck with his head.
He could authorize a hit on Gio, and send a powerful message to the rest of the organization.
Gio hoped his near spotless record of service to the San Gaetanos tipped him in favor of options one or two, though he wasn’t certain which one he’d prefer. Infidelity among mafia husbands came with the territory, but damned if Mrs. Giuseppe Spatafora would tolerate her husband stepping out on her with another man. Easy way to hopscotch to option three.
Of course, if the don arranged a marriage, his future wife could rest easy. Conor Malloy had spoiled Gio for men, sex and companionship. An outsider might think it odd Gio felt that way after a weekend’s acquaintance, but no other man had stayed in Gio’s mind like Conor. He hadn’t wanted Conor to leave last night, and the reason had nothing to do with Conor witnessing a near-lethal scuffle. Gio had needed comfort after Don Salvatore’s goons carried off Vic, but begging Conor to stay would have put him at risk.
He could love a man like Conor Malloy, which meant letting him go.
Gio rang Don Salvatore’s doorbell at one fifty-nine. A round-faced, unsmiling woman in a gray housekeeper’s dress escorted him down a dark-paneled hallway into a den lined with bookshelves. Salvatore San Gaetano sat behind a large oak executive desk surrounded by framed photographs and stacks of paperwork—no computers or gadgets, quite an old school scene. Two leather sofas positioned in the middle of the room faced each other atop an ornate rug. The don’s consigliere and Aldo Bertinelli, also in suits, sat at the end of the one looking out toward the door.
Gio spied a familiar head of ginger hair opposite them.
Conor looked handsome, calm, if not a touch out of place in dark jeans with his white oxford shirt. He acknowledged Gio with a curt nod and stayed silent as Salvatore stood and rounded his desk. “Giuseppe, thank you for joining us,” said the crime boss. “You are already familiar with Mr. Malloy, we heard, so we can dispense with the formal introductions.”
Salvatore shot an arched brow in Gio’s direction, as though daring him to react to the mild barb. Gio spoke his quiet thanks and sat next to Conor as invited, almost hugging the far end of the sofa. Conor’s presence confirmed one item of business for today, the transfer of the pub’s ownership, leading Gio to think option one awaited him.
Responsibility of the pub, as the don had suggested on Friday, after Gio’s quickie wedding to some wiseguy’s mousy sister or niece. Gio’s gut roiled to think the don might lay out plans for the blessed event in front of Conor.
“Friday evening, Aldo and I discussed with Giuseppe the prospect of the acquisition of Lonnegan’s Pub to The SSG Group’s growing business portfolio,” the don continued. “Gio has proven himself a capable associate, going above and beyond in his work to ensure various deadlines are met.” Salvatore quirked up one side of his mouth and gestured to him. “Aldo says he’s a real people person.”
Gio bowed his head, embarrassed by the praise. Last week, he’d have raised his chin and puffed out his chest. Hearing this with Conor in the room put a different spin on his accomplishments. He’d spent his prime years aiding and abetting rich men in petty extortions, and stood to see all that work dismissed because of his attraction to men. Conor, by comparison, had made something of his life independent of a legacy he was about to give away.
What bullshit.
Salvatore shifted against his desk to face Conor. “Mr. Malloy, please accept my condolences on your father’s ailing health. I’ve had the pleasure of many nights spent at his establishment. It’s an asset to the community, as is your family.”
“Thank you, Mr. San Gaetano.”
“But this is business, you understand,” said Salvatore, his smile gone.
“Perfectly.” Conor nodded to the consigliere and unlatched the plastic presentation envelope in his lap. “My family’s attorney presented us with the necessary paperwork,” he said, but presented a paper different from the San Gaetanos’ contract. “I was recently granted power of attorney over both of my parents, so only my signature is needed for this transfer to take effect.”
Salvatore and the consigliere exchanged glances, expressing mild surprise. Perhaps they expected angry resistance, or pleas for mercy? It appeared Conor was about to fold. Gio fought his instinct to interrupt the transaction. He’d seen how Conor engaged with Lonnegan’s regulars and radiated pure joy while behind the bar, despite moments of frenzied activity. He might not want to follow his father’s dream, but Lonnegan’s belonged to the Malloys. There had to be a workable compromise.
Who am I kidding? he thought. That word didn’t exist in a mafia dictionary.
“I am prepared to sign these today,” Conor said, taking out his copy of the contract, “on one condition.”
Faces hardened all around, staring down at the Irishman. Conor maintained his firm seated posture.
“I acknowledge this is a generous offer, given my family’s current situation. I’m not asking for more money than what is written here.” Conor set aside the paperwork. “All I want is The SSG Group’s word, on paper, that no harm will come to Mr. Spatafora, nor will he be subject to any discriminatory practices on the basis of his sexual identity, for as long as he is a member of your organization.”
Conor congratulated himself for his steady voice and hands through his short speech. His insides thumped and fluttered like a rock festival audience, and he tasted bile when he swallowed. He might have laughed at the collective shock of the three wise guys staring at him, were he not scared of a bullet between the eyes.
He chanced a side-eye at Gio, who dropped his jaw and faked a yawn to cover his obvious surprise. Gio, Conor guessed, assumed his summons involved punishment of some sort. Perhaps so, and while Conor was still angered by the man’s deception, he understood that Gio didn’t deserve harm or death because he was gay. If neither of them made it out of this room alive, Conor could at least rest easy knowing he tried to get these people to see reason.
“Mr. Malloy,” the consigliere began, and Conor held his gaze. “Why would you think Mr. Spatafora is in any danger?”
I saw it myself . Gio had spoken to this man about Vic over the phone, and revealed his sexuality, but how much the don and Gio’s capo knew about their relationship remained a mystery to him. Conor played it safe for Gio’s sake. “My family are not connected, but I’m familiar enough with the Irish syndicates to know what behaviors they find unbecoming of their members,” he said. “I’m also quite observant. Major corporations will adopt rainbow colors as part of their branding through the entire month of June, then spend the other eleven months pretending LBGTQ people don’t exist. It’s all talk, isn’t it? Your organization can come forward and say you aren’t discriminatory, but will you turn a blind eye if one of your associates harms another because they’re gay or bisexual?”
Throats cleared, and bodies shifted. That’s what I thought. Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t care. “I’m not here to tell you people how to run your business, but I will say this,” he added. “I don’t see myself as less of a man because I am not sexually attracted to women. Neither should anybody else.”
His words earned him winces and stony expressions. He’d just come out to a hostile room, but it wasn’t the first time. Salvatore, whom Conor judged as the oldest of the trio, shook his head.
“You are rather eloquent, Mr. Malloy. Nonetheless, who you are, who he is”—he pointed at Gio—“goes against nature.” The man’s voice turned harsh. “After God created man, he created woman from a part of his body, as his mate. Two halves to make a whole, be fruitful and multiply. That is the law He set forth.”
Conor expected a biblical argument. “God also set forth a number of commandments which speak against killing, adultery and theft,” he said. “Also, if you’re familiar with Romans, you’ll know the passage where Paul advises man to acknowledge the laws of civil authorities—”
“Mr. Malloy,” the don cut in, his face reddening, “we are here to discuss the sale of your family’s pub. My organization’s concerns with Mr. Spatafora are not yours.”
Fuck . He’d made it worse. Conor sent Gio a silent apology, his heart breaking at how Gio slumped in his seat.
“He’s right, you know.”
Conor’s throat closed, and he let out a weak gasp at the new voice entering the fray. A young woman with long brown hair, wearing faded hip-hugging jeans and a white peasant blouse, strode into the room like she owned it. Behind her, the housekeeper tottered and waved while scolding her in Italian.
The man called Aldo jumped from his seat, addressing the girl at the same time Salvatore waved away the older woman. Conor took from the cues of the melee before him that the girl, whom the men called Aggie, was the capo’s daughter.
“I overheard you talking to Ma this morning,” she was saying as she dug into her front jeans pocket. Aldo backed away, his chagrin palpable. Conor concluded a major breach of confidence had occurred if Aldo talked freely of family business in his own home. Aggie then glared at the don, defiant and brave. “I hear a lot of things,” she added, her voice like acid.
Don Salvatore, not a small man, straightened and towered over Aggie. “Young lady, you do not belong here.”
“Right. The men are talking.” Aggie rolled her eyes, and Conor bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing. The girl owned an impressive pair of brass balls, to sass an infamous crime boss to his face. Her presence took some heat off Conor, but he worried about how this interruption would affect him.
Aldo, as though recovering from his embarrassment, grasped at Aggie’s shoulders but she jerked away. “Not until I have my say,” she said, and raked her long, swaying hair behind her ears. She faced the don again. “Uncle Gus, if you want the family to survive you have to make concessions for inclusivity. Society is moving forward, and the longer you keep the San Gaetanos in the nineteenth-century, other families will walk all over us.”
The don chuckled, folding his arms. He glanced at Conor as though to ask, Can you believe this ? Conor looked away, amazed by her words. She wasn’t advocating for the end of the mafia, but its evolution. Wild.
“What, dear? Are you saying we need one of those tweet pages to stay relevant?” Salvatore glared at his men, silently demanding their amused reaction to support him. Conor checked on Gio, who just stared.
“I am saying embrace diversity, Uncle Gus. Gio isn’t a unicorn. There are more queer people in the family than you realize,” Aggie said. “Women, too. We’re capable of more than increasing the population and making sandwiches.”
Salvatore warned off Aldo with a short wave when the man came forward again. “When have I ever called women inferior and incapable?”
“Friday night at dinner, for starters? Not in so many words, but your antiquated attitude speaks volumes.” Aggie then turned toward Gio as though seeking his corroboration. Receiving a blank look, she sighed and held up a stubby thumb drive. “Speaking of tweet pages , this contains video evidence of many conversations held in my house. Stuff you wouldn’t want going viral.”
That got the consigliere on his feet, shouting along with Aldo as they grabbed for the device. Aggie spoke over them, claiming to have several copies of said footage scattered throughout the coast. She issued a harsh threat. “Something happens to me or any of the Bertinellis, all your secrets are spilled,” she said. She swung her arm in an arc from Conor to Gio. “Them, too, and the Malloys. All it takes to make this go away is to open your mind, Uncle Gus. Being an old cishet male shouldn’t be the only requirement to hold a position of importance among your ranks.”
The room fell silent, save for collective heavy breathing. Conor counted the seconds, stretching in his mind, before Uncle Gus’s blustering settled into deep-voiced laughter. Chucking Aggie under the chin, a patronizing gesture the girl did not seem to appreciate, he said, “You are a crafty one. Must get it from your old man.”
“Maybe I get it from my mother.” Aggie raised her brow. She dropped the thumb drive in Don Salvatore’s curved palm. “You can have this one. Destroying it won’t erase the others, by the way.”
“I’m old, Agatha, not stupid.” He nodded for Conor and Gio to stand. “Mr. Malloy, we will revise our offer to accommodate your request. My consigliere will reach out to your attorney before the end of the day.”
Conor breathed without the weight of worry on his chest. “Thank you.” He shook hands with the don and bowed at the man’s second.
“Gio.” Salvatore brushed past Aggie and came up to Gio, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. “Despite your predilections, you have an exemplary service record.”
Gio bowed his head. Conor sensed the disappointment. The don’s words sounded like a prelude to rejection.
“It’s something I will take into consideration as we further discuss your future,” Salvatore said, and turned to his underlings. “We’ll be in touch.”
Gio murmured something in Italian, presumably his thanks, and took the cue for his dismissal. Conor wanted to ask about Vic, and his future with the San Gaetanos. An unwise move, he decided. Gio was walking out of here unscathed. Conor, too, and that was enough for now.
Conor held his breath as he followed Gio toward the door, pausing with him when Aggie spoke.
“Uncle Gus? I have more ideas I’d like to share with you if you have a moment.”
The girl’s father appeared to force a smile. Conor figured it must have humbled the man to see his daughter take charge of the room. If anything, Conor thought, Aldo Bertinelli ought to take pride in the confident girl he raised. Don Salvatore allowing her to stay surely marked a turning point for the family.
No sooner than he and Gio left the room, the door closed behind them. Just like in the movies, life imitating art. He hoped in his case, a happy ending loomed.
Gio walked side by side with Conor up the hallway, following the housekeeper who escorted them to the door. Outside, he released his breath with a shuddering laugh and looked out at the busy street. People across the way walked their dogs, others sat out on their stoops. Cars whizzed past in either direction—a typical day, and Gio felt as though he’d walked out of prison.
“Are you okay?” Conor asked him, sounding concerned.
Gio nodded. “I suppose I’m free, in a sense,” he said. “I no longer have to hide who I am, but I’m sure my bosses will impose new rules upon me.” Shoving his hands in his pants pockets, he ambled down the steps with Conor. “The San Gaetanos won’t be sponsoring a float in the next Pride parade with me waving to the crowds, I’m sure. I might not get made because of this, but so long as the family homophobes leave me to my work, I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not alone, Gio.”
Gio’s heart lifted at that, but Conor’s next words applied a pressure that kept him grounded.
“Aggie said it, you’re not the only queer person in the organization,” Conor said. He raised his hand as though to touch Gio, but to Gio’s disappointment lowered it after a second. “How big is the family?”
Gio shrugged. “About a hundred or so associates alone, answering to the capos. If you ask me, though, she was probably referring to herself.” Gio got that vibe from Aggie. Either way, he appreciated having an ally able to bend Don Salvatore’s ear.
“It’s been said that ten percent of the population is gay.” Conor’s line of vision tracked a car covered in stickers, one showing a rainbow flag, rolling past. “A hundred or so associates…it makes sense there are at least nine others.”
For certain, Gio knew he could eliminate Vic from a list of guesses. He rounded on Conor and stepped closer. “How are you ?” he asked, longing for the warmth in Conor’s gaze and the opportunity to offer comfort. “That couldn’t have been easy for you back there.”
“At the end of the day, it’s just a building.” Conor turned up his lips, but the smile didn’t reach the rest of his face. “My family will always hold Lonnegan’s dear, but we still have each other for a little while longer. That matters more.”
Conor took out his phone and called up his rideshare app, politely declining Gio’s offer of a ride. The nearest car, about two minutes away, began its approach on the map screen. Enough time to face the inevitable.
“So this is it, huh?” Gio asked. “Eventually you go back to Ireland, and scout churches and warehouses for the movies, and I never see you again.”
“I’m not leaving tomorrow.” Conor pocketed his phone. Gio relaxed, being spared the countdown until their separation. “As for us, Gio, I don’t know. The near-assault by your mob buddy aside, there’s a lot to unpack.”
“I know,” Gio said, crestfallen. “You think I’m a bad person. Unworthy.”
This time when Conor lifted his hand, he curled it at the join of Gio’s neck and shoulder. He brushed his thumb at the corner of Gio’s mouth, and Gio chased it for a quick kiss. On a sidewalk, out in the open. Two days ago, the notion would never have crossed his mind.
“Gio, if I believed that I wouldn’t be talking to you now. I don’t approve of how your bosses operate, but after the time we’ve spent together I like to think you are good at heart. Maybe you and Aggie can change how things work,” Conor told him. “I’m no angel myself. Granted, I’m not connected, and I won’t ask for details on what you’ve done in your time with these people.” He glanced back at Salvatore’s brownstone. “My parents taught me to give people the benefit of the doubt. I don’t think you’re unworthy of love.”
Conor let his hand fall to his side. “I can’t say that I’m the one to give it to you. At least not right now.”
Gio understood. Despite their chemistry, they came from very different backgrounds, and their timing sucked. Case in point, a sedan with a neon logo on the dashboard turned onto the street and slowed before them, preventing a deeper discussion.
“For what it’s worth,” Gio said as Conor stepped toward the curb, “I wouldn’t have harmed your parents. I’d have learned some Irish to relate to him.” Throughout his career as a bagman, he’d never resorted to violence. “I’ll pray for him, in fact.”
Conor turned, and Gio expected a smile as the bare minimum. It surprised him when Conor came back and pecked him on the lips. “If you’re open to talk in the future, I’ll know where to find you,” he whispered.
“Please.” Gio then watched Conor slip into the front passenger seat, and waited until the car turned a corner before walking away. Conor still had his number, he hoped, but the more thought about it, he wondered exactly what Conor meant.