Chapter 43 – Alessandro
“ Y ou know the rules, Mancini. Don’t touch a hair on his fucking head,” Mier growled.
I shot the Fed a dark look. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re not. But that kid in there went after your wife.” Mier passed me the lighter.
Flicking the wheel, I lit the cigar and inhaled. The inky smoke filled my lungs. The buzz was immediate, giving my drive the edge it needed.
“Thanks for arranging this,” I muttered, not forgetting my manners.
Mier snorted. “The bastard doesn’t know it was me. I’d like to keep it that way.”
That was understandable. The Bureau didn’t need to know Mier’s source. It would risk his position in the Organized Crime Division, and it would flag me with more than the limited suspicion that was always directed at me.
Taking one last drag, I extinguished the smoke. The coffee shop was busy for this late at night, but the masses’ caffeine consumption wasn’t my problem. I marched inside, pulled out a chair, and glared at the Special Agent across from me.
He was young, but there was something familiar about his features.
That niggling feeling unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
“You wanted to speak to me, I’m here,” I growled.
The kid crooked his foot, resting it atop his opposite knee. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“Then why did you corner my wife?” Fuck, even thinking about Penelope, how I left things last night, twisted my insides in knots.
“Just another innocent caught in the web of your treacherous world, don.” The agent studied me.
“Cut the bullshit, Tribiano,” I snarled.
“Why? I have every advantage here.” As he spoke, he set a tape recorder on the table between us. “Just in case the fierce boss of one of Chicago’s notorious mobs incriminates himself.”
“We both know I’m smarter than that.”
The agent hummed and shrugged. “If I was a betting man, I’d say not.”
Where did I know this punk from? Those eyes, they were too damn familiar.
I both regretted taking the cigar and wished I had another. My blood buzzed in my veins.
“Here’s the deal: My wife is off limits.” I leaned forward, speaking into the device. “You want to take me down, fine. Bring it. But leave her out of this.”
“Nothing is off limits, as you’ve proven before. Not family, not wives.” The first hint of anger spike hot in the kid’s features.
I felt the thread and gave it a tug. “Are you married?”
“No,” he snapped.
“But you do have family.”
He glared at me. “Not anymore, Sandro.”
The puzzle piece clicked into place.
Dio mio. It all made sense.
“You grew up well, Francesco.” I plucked the recorder from the table and began dismantling the device.
“That’s destruction of government property and interference with an active investigation.” He straightened in his chair.
“It might be, but calling this witch hunt an investigation is a poor misuse of your resources.” I placed the pieces neatly in front of him. “Why don’t you admit what really brought you to Chicago?”
Those dark eyes simmered with hate. “My sister didn’t stand a chance with you.”
“She deserved better, we can both admit that.” It was my turn to take the cool, relaxed stance. Now that the cards were on the table, it was easier to navigate the waters.
Or it would have been if those waters weren’t flooded with the tragedies of the past. Elena’s face swam to view, haggard and sad. She was drowning, and I’d never been around to save her.
“I am coming for you, don,” the agent vowed. “I’m going to burn your organization to the ground and use it as a funeral pyre for your corpse.”
“What would Elena say if she heard you?” I pushed. It wasn’t a smart tactic. This kid was ready to explode.
“Don’t you dare speak her name,” he spat.
“Why not? She was my wife, after all.” Regret surged through me, a relentless tide I couldn’t hold back. It was the only thing I felt when I thought of the late Signora Mancini. We had been so young, and everything seemed like a desperate struggle to survive. Even when I took charge as the boss, I realized there was nothing more I could offer her.
“I’m going to kill you,” the agent responded.
He had every reason to want my end. Part of me understood, even accepted it. I was a wretched soul, unable to save an innocent I had vowed to protect in front of so many witnesses. Pain from the past clawed at me, threatening to break through my carefully maintained facade and overwhelm this moment.
“You can try. But before you do, know that I am truly sorry for how it ended. I should have seen her pain, should have eased her suffering. But I swear, I didn't kill your sister—"
"Lies! The moment she married you, she signed her death warrant."
The accusation hung between us, a testament to the conflict tearing at my insides.
I shook my head and pushed to my feet. Too many eyes were watching our exchange. “I wasn’t a good husband. But you were so young, practically a baby. You probably didn’t realize your sister had severe depression, even as a teen. While it’s not an excuse, I didn’t know any better. And I thought the sleeping pills she’d been prescribed would help her.”
“She killed herself because she married a monster—”
I lunged forward, getting right in the kid's face. “She never killed herself,” I said, my voice low and controlled. “Her overdose was an accident. One we could have prevented, but it was an accident.”
I could feel my hands shaking, my heart racing. The memories flooded back, raw and painful. I could still see her lying there, her body convulsing as the paramedics tried to save her. And then the emptiness that followed, the crushing guilt that I couldn’t shake off.
Turning on my heel, I left. I needed to get away from this place, from the memories and the pain. Mier watched from his position across the street, but didn't move to intercept me. Whether it was to keep his cover or because he sensed the torrent of emotions raging inside me, it was hard to say.
But I was a mess. I walked blindly down the street, not even stopping when the sidewalk ended. Somewhere, my men followed me, but they too kept their distance. What happened to my first wife was a deep scar that I would carry until death claimed me.
I came to a stop in front of a small neighborhood park. In a twist of fate, this looked eerily similar to the one where I had proposed to Elena. Even though it was an arranged marriage, the proposal had been real. The chemistry between us, though a faint fire, had been a flame—one that was easily squelched. I couldn’t help but look at a random bench, remember how her youthful face glowed with love and happiness. And then a single tear rolled down my cheek as I remembered how I never was able to save her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “But I swear to you, my sweet Elena, it won’t happen again.”
I had to do it better this time. Remembering Penelope’s distraught face made me wonder if I’d destroyed yet another relationship. I was still mad at her—mad that she didn’t trust me enough. If I was fair, her reluctance to tell me made perfect sense.
“I will fix this,” I vowed.
I needed time to cool off. I needed space to find a way to forgive Penelope’s mistake. Once the damage control in my organization was fixed, there would be time to heal what this turn of events had hurt. This time, I would fight like hell for my marriage. Unlike the infatuation of youth, what I found this time was something more. Something that wouldn’t just leave a scar. This time, if I lost Penelope, I would die.