Chapter 40 Nicolò
Nicolò
I don’t hover when I return Lina to her room.
All eyes are watching her, her door, and me, so no good will come of me hanging around this evening.
Besides, I have somewhere to be. I’m going to finish this thing.
After tonight, no one’s going to give a flying shit what stains are on Lina’s bedsheets.
After tonight, she’s going to be the least of their concerns.
I know Flannery’s well. We have a loosely respectful relationship with the Irish in Newark so I’ve visited the place a few times. When I pull over down the street, I see Alessio’s car in the darkness, lights out, engine idling, but I don’t exit the car right away.
I’ve run the math a hundred different ways and every road leads back here.
Every time I close my eyes and picture Manhattan, it glistens bright with the triumph of having owned its streets for decades. It’s the same city Bellucci claims he’s helping us protect. The one he’s already handing over block by block to Morozov. The one he thinks no one sees him carving up.
I run through the options again in my head. Number one: Talk to him.
Cristiano and I tried that—sitting across from him in his son’s club, trying not to choke on the glee in his voice when he realized he was the one holding all the cards—or so he thought. He smiled like a man being asked to give up a throne he’d already bolted to the floor.
Number two: Expose him. Show his men who he really is.
But would they care? Perhaps they’re in on the plan to cozy up with the Russians.
Maybe they’re as dumb as he is and genuinely believe it’ll work in their favor.
But Bellucci would see it as an overt attack, putting everyone loyal to us in the firing line—including Lina.
God, Lina.
I lean back in my seat and scrub my hands over my face. She shouldn’t factor into this at all. But she does. She doesn’t know what he is. She thinks she’s marrying our savior. When he’s really the threat.
Number three: Walk away. What if I let him ruin everything and everyone, allow him to march into that marriage and into power, have him open the door to the Bratva so wide the city never recovers.
But walking away would mean losing her. Leaving her with a man who’s stupid enough to believe he can tame the devil.
But more than that, I would die. Lina is mine, and I will die to keep her safe. And the only way to ensure her safety is to remove Bellucci.
There is one fourth and final option: Have someone else take him out.
Lina is already queasy about the idea of me killing anyone.
Having someone else get Bellucci’s blood on their hands would solve that issue, but I can’t risk anyone else becoming a target.
I can’t trust anyone else to get it right.
It has to be done clean and quiet. By my own hand.
I didn’t choose this. Alessio did, when he aligned himself with the Bratva.
I step out of the car, letting the door close softly. My heartbeat is steady, sated by the rationale that I have no choice. This isn’t about getting revenge, or jealousy. It is simply the only option left.
I keep to the shadows as I find my way around the outside of the building. Front of house looks as straight-laced and busy as ever, patrons coming and going, stinking of Guinness and whiskey.
To the side of the entrance is a security guy, Shamus.
I faintly recognize him as one of the men Benito occasionally meets with.
He’s Irish mafia and he’s on full alert.
Behind him is a security box and to his right an alleyway that I know from prior experience leads to the back room where Alessio is meeting the Russians.
I switch direction and head round the other side of the building, past the trash cans and rats, to a small break in the alleyway.
Stepping up to the wall I listen carefully.
There are definite voices—one I recognize as Alessio’s—but I can’t make out the words being spoken.
I don’t need the words anyway. I just need blood.
Forty minutes pass as I pace silently up and down outside the alleyway.
I need to keep my fingers warm so they don’t seize up on the trigger.
When the door finally opens I duck into a corner and watch as two fair-haired Russians walk past me discussing matters in their mother tongue.
I hold my breath and wait. Another five minutes pass and I hear the sound of an engine starting up and a car driving down the street.
Then the door opens again. Alessio’s droll timber echoes in the alleyway. He’s speaking with one of his men about a shop in Atlantic City, not the topic that should be front and center of his tiny little mind: the Di Santo alliance.
They step back in surprise when I walk out in front of them.
“Nicolò. What—”
Alessio stops talking when I lift two guns and point the barrels at each of their heads.
I watch the expressions on their faces fall as they remember leaving their weapons with Shamus at the door. They’re unarmed. Unlike me.
Alessio forces flatness into his tone. “Does Cristiano know you’re here?”
I grin. “Nope.”
“So, why are you here, Nicolò?”
“I’m not going to tell you right away,” I tease. “That would spoil all the fun.”
He tries a different approach. “You know who you just missed?”
Yes, of course I fucking do, you imbecile. “Enlighten me.”
“Your Bratva friends.” I’m sensing an expectation he wants me to give him a round of applause.
“Why?”
“To negotiate what I can give them to back off from New York.”
I laugh softly. “You’re such a shit liar, Alessio.”
He bristles, as does the man beside him. It’s Alessio’s underboss, whose name I didn’t bother registering when introductions were made three days ago.
“You’re pretending like you have some sort of presence in New York, but you don’t have any, do you? You’re meeting with the Russians because you want to be friends, right?”
He swallows so hard, the sound fills the alleyway.
I annunciate each word clearly, like he’s a small child, because I want this to be the last thing he understands when he hits the ground. “New York is never going to be yours, Bellucci. The Russians don’t want to be friends with you. And your sons want you gone.”
His head tilts back as though none of this has come as much of a surprise.
“And you? You want me gone too, I presume?”
I lift a shoulder.
He narrows his eyes. “Why? Why do you want me gone?”
“I don’t want you marrying my stepsister.”
“Why? Surely it’s advantageous for you. Regardless of the status of our relationship with the Russians, being part of a bigger family can only be a good thing, no?”
I shake my head, slowly. “Her happiness is too important to me.”
Realization settles on him. “It was you, wasn’t it? Who fucked her. The stain on the bedsheet? That’s why Domenico kept looking over at you. You got him out of the way, right? So you could…” he grimaces, “fuck your own stepsister?”
I wink and click my tongue. “You surprise me, Alessio. I didn’t think you were so bright, to be honest. But yes, I did get him out of the way. And yes, I did fuck my stepsister—your fiancée, on your guest bed, in your house. Because she isn’t yours. She’s mine.”
Alessio’s jaw drops at my brazen honesty.
I jerk the two guns. “Now turn around.”
The underboss glances at Alessio, eyes wide, disbelieving. Alessio nods once and they both turn their backs to me. They’ve done this enough times to other men. They know the drill.
The kills are professional, cold and surgical. A clean double tap to the back of both heads using Makarov pistols and Russian bullets. As planned, the murders of Alessio Bellucci and his unfortunately unnamed underboss have Bratva written all over them.
Once they’ve dropped to the floor, leaking blood across the paving stones, I shove both guns into my waistband and walk back out of the alley, past the trash and the rats.
I drive to the nearest port and throw the guns in the Bay, then I head on back to the Highlands, knowing for certain at least two people won’t be returning.
When I’m safely back in my room and changed into sweats, I pull a burner from my discarded jacket. Typing from an unknown number, I give one of Alessio’s lackeys a heads-up his boss is dead, then I sit and wait.
It’s footsteps I hear first, people moving with urgency on the floor above. Then tense murmurs, quietly barked orders, car doors slamming, engines firing. After about twenty minutes, I head on up to the kitchens, ready to claim I can’t sleep.
A high-pitched wail rises up the stairs from the servants’ rooms and people gather, tears falling, on the ground floor.
Capos are running like hares, then a phone rings and everyone stops. All eyes turn to a figure sitting at the head of the dining table—Alessio’s usual spot—with his back turned. A phone is answered. No one speaks. Then the chair spins slowly around and Fiero looks out across his father’s men.
His gaze flickers briefly to mine, blank and businesslike, then he speaks with clarity and conviction, in the voice of a leader.
“Alessio is dead.”
Silence reigns for a second, then questions are fired at Fiero from every angle. He holds up a hand commanding quiet.
“All I know is, he was shot outside an Irish bar in Newark. It’s a clear Bratva tell. The Russians are sending a message. Let this be a lesson,” he warns. “Contrary to everything my father would’ve had you believe, the Russians are not our friends.”
“What now?” I ask.
He cocks a brow, so faintly most men would miss it. “Plan B.”
I nod and turn to head straight to Lina’s room to tell her the good news, but Fiero calls me back.
I remain just inside the room while Alessio’s men scatter in various states of devastation.
Fiero stands and walks around the chair toward me.
It doesn’t look like he’s going to stop and chat, but as he passes my shoulder he leans into my ear.
“Makarov. Nice touch. Now go and get your girl.”
I twist around to face him.
He looks beyond me to the door—the entrance to what is now his palace. “I see a lot more than people give me credit for,” he says, quietly. “I guess it’s one benefit of being forced to grow up in the shadows.”
He takes another step away from me but turns his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder. “I’ll gather the evidence and set the wheels in motion. You, Nicolò, get me the club.”
A smile pulls at my mouth as he walks away and I mutter under my breath. “It’s already yours.”
It takes me less than sixty seconds to race up to Lina’s room and almost knock down her door. She’s still half asleep when she opens it, rubbing her eyes as I walk her backward and kick the door closed with a foot.
“What’s going on? What time is it?”
“You’re not getting married, baby,” I rush out, scattering kisses over her forehead. “It’s over.”
Her eyes ping wide as she pulls back and stares at me, suddenly very much awake. “What are you talking about?”
“Alessio’s dead,” I tell her. “You’re a free woman.”
“What? How?” Her small hands start to shake. “What happened?”
It’s too soon to tell her the truth but I don’t want to lie either, so I sift through the facts. “He met with the Russians last night after dinner. He was shot right after he left—Bratva style.”
Her lips tremble. “The Bratva killed him?”
“That’s what it looks like,” I reply, gripping her shoulders. “I’m getting you out of here, right now.”
“But…” she shakes her head and stares at the floor as if the carpet holds all the answers. “The alliance! What now? Are the Russians going to ruin us? Will the Bellucci’s still help us fight?”
“That’s a lot of questions Lina, and I don’t have time to answer them all right now. I just want to get you out of here. All you need to know is everything’s going to be alright now. You’re going home, for good.”
“O-okay, um, my things…”
“No time, baby. We’ve got to go.”
I pull her hand but she yanks it free. “I have to get dressed!“
My gaze falls over her scant pajama set and I swallow.
“Fine, but hurry.”
Ten minutes later, I’m driving like a bat out of hell along the Turnpike, sweat pumping out of my skin.
Neither of us speaks but her hand curls around mine when I rest it on her thigh.
We both know what this means. She’s free of Alessio but not free of the shackles of our family’s religious beliefs and expectations.
We’ll still need to keep our love for each other out of sight. But, one step at a time.
I pull over just down the street from her home and kiss her on the lips.
She’s hesitant at first, the events of the last few hours having shaken us both.
But only a beat in and she sinks into me with an elated moan.
I have to fight the urge to pull her onto my lap because Cristiano likely knows by now that Alessio is dead, and he’s going to want answers in a timely manner.
“Fuck, I needed that.” I pull back and thumb my lips to memorize the taste of her.
Then I drive the car to the gates and watch as she greets the security guys and heads on up to the house.
I watch until the front door closes behind her and I know she’s safe, then I start up the car again. It’s time to face my cousin.