Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Luca
“H ave a seat, Mr. Moretti.”
The cop’s sharp tone startled me, and my attention snapped to the counter in the waiting room of the Framingham jail. I’d been pacing the length of the small space for what felt like hours. I glanced at the clock. It had been twenty minutes.
The electrical buzz of the soundless TV reverberated through the silence. The relic was perched high in the corner of the shitty waiting room surrounded by water-stained ceiling tiles. The news was on, but no one was watching, the orange-plastic bucket chairs lining the perimeter empty.
“I’m good,” I snapped and resumed pacing. It was the only way to stem the tide of my rising anxiety, fueled by images and sound bites from the hijacking, the aftermath at The Dollhouse, and the nightmares that drove Siobhán into my bed and into my arms. They flashed in and out of my mind, feeding off my lack of sleep.
The door swung open, and Gina walked in. Her dark hair was arranged in soft waves around her face, not a strand out of place, and her white blouse and navy skirt were pressed with military precision, not a wrinkle in sight despite driving all the way from the North End. Her heels clicked against the scuffed linoleum, and her perfume wafted ahead of her as she approached. The familiar scent calmed my nerves.
“Che cosa è successo?” She glanced around the waiting room. “Dov’è Vito?”
The cop eyed us.
I tipped my head to the door beyond the front desk. “In with Mikey. Got here about twenty minutes before I did.” I answered her other question in Italian. “He got tackled on the job.” I doubted the idiot cop understood, but I kept my voice low regardless.
Gina’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line, but the judgment in her penetrating stare was edged with worry. Always a backdrop of worry.
The inner door buzzed, then opened, and Vito walked through. You wouldn’t know by the way he dressed or his deadpan features that he performed small surgery only a few hours ago in the dressing room of a strip club. Then again, Marco’s consigliere was anything but your run-of-the-mill lawyer.
Outside the gym, his classic three-piece suit screamed cutthroat attorney. He’d tamed his unruly curls, combing them back, and eliminated the usual stubble that usually covered his square jaw with a clean shave. But his stocky build, crooked nose, and an undercurrent of menace guarded him like a pit bull and told you not to cross Vito Balistreri outside the courtroom.
He spotted Gina and held out a hand. “Gina. Bene.” She took it, and he kissed her on both cheeks.
“Sta bene?” she asked.
“Andiamo fuori.” He turned to the cop at the front desk. “Mr. Barbieri’s second guest has arrived. Gina DeVita from the DeVita Foundation. We’re going to step outside to discuss my client’s case, then she’ll be back for her visit.” He didn’t wait for an answer, gesturing toward the door.
We exited the waiting room into the damp morning. Shallow pools of rainwater dotted the parking lot, the expanse of pavement covered in a sheen of wet. The sky had cleared to a calm, pristine blue, and the crisp air was fresh and clean, as if the events of the previous night had been washed away. Except they hadn’t. The evidence sat in a prison cell inside.
I had a meeting with Vinnie at one. I called him on my way over to assure him that the situation was under control and the half-million dollars’ worth of electronics safe in his Revere warehouse. It took the edge off his foul mood, but he wasn’t exactly pleased.
“Armed robbery, grand theft, and resisting arrest,” Vito said. “The bail hearing is Wednesday, but given the charges, it won’t be anything the DeVita Foundation can’t afford.”
Immigrants were drawn to areas where they knew someone or at least spoke the same language. But blood demons had another reason to stick to the Northeast—the DeVita Foundation. It provided not just community but representation, and no one wanted to travel too far from legal protection.
Blood demons as far south as Connecticut had the DeVita Foundation number either memorized or somewhere on their person. The average citizen rarely needed it, but in our line of business, that number was as important to survival as feeding. Marco’s team of lawyers, led by Vito, and immigrant services, led by Gina, kept our secret safe from law enforcement. They took responsibility for all blood demon affairs except the Source racket. Jail time was a death sentence for a blood demon without a means to feed. Our people were committed to protecting our secret and to consent, but when you’re starving, instinct threatens even the noblest convictions. The DeVita Foundation made sure no one had to face that situation.
“Any injuries?” Gina asked.
“No,” Vito said. “They roughed him up good, but not enough to cause questions.”
“When’s the last time he fed?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He looked healthy. Should be fine till you post bail.”
She nodded. “I’ll talk to him, make sure he doesn’t need a Source.” She moved for the door and grabbed Vito’s arm. He stiffened, and his eyes fixed on where Gina’s fingers wrapped around his elbow. “I’ll stay with him until you come back,” she said.
He gave her a terse nod.
She squeezed his arm and walked inside.
In less than a heartbeat, a lit cigarette materialized between Vito’s lips. He sucked it down in long drags, and I doubted it was only because of Mikey. Vito cared for Gina. They’d known each other for… longer than I’d been alive. He’d been as much a part of the DeVitas’ lives as my father. But the reverence with which he regarded Gina always made me wonder if his sentiments went beyond brotherly love.
“Kid, you are one unlucky son of a bitch,” Vito growled between puffs.
I snorted. “You don’t need to tell me that.”
“Talked to the cops before I talked to Mikey. One of the second-shift security guards at the warehouse forgot his fucking cell phone. Must’ve been inside when you started the lift. Saw the action when he came out and called the cops.”
“Dannazione.”
“Be glad that’s all it was and not an FBI tail.” He raised an eyebrow and placed the cigarette between his lips. “Or a setup.”
I shoved a hand into my hair and stared at my shoes. I’d been careful, followed all the rules—scoped the route, exchanged cars, used multiple locations—but you couldn’t account for shit like someone forgetting their goddamn cell phone.
He blew out a plume of smoke. “Doesn’t mean they’re not involved.”
My head shot up.
“Mikey said a stiff in a suit showed up last night. Asked a lot of questions. Said one of the cops called him ‘Agent.’”
“Cazzo,” I said and paced away. “Did Mikey talk?”
“Not a word. Begs the question, how’d the feds find out so quick?”
“They’re becoming a real pain in the ass.”
“They’ve always been a pain in the ass and trust me when I say they can be a helluva lot worse.” His words were dry through the smoke but no less of a serious warning. He tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and put it out with his toe.
“You think they have an alert out to local precincts? Cops saw Mikey and called it in?”
“Likely. Mikey and the size of the lift.”
“Prejudiced fucks.” I pointed my finger at the front door like Agent Johnson was inside. “That stronzo is out to make a name for himself, and he’s creating a goddamn witch hunt to do it.”
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.” He pulled out another smoke and lit it. “Any witnesses can ID Mikey?”
“I doubt that security guard could ID any of us. He may have realized what was happening, but with the rain and the lights…” I shook my head. “There’s no way he saw our faces. Not from that far away. And the truck driver only saw me.”
Vito nodded and dragged on his cigarette.
“I’m sitting down with Vinnie and Gio this afternoon. We need to tell the capi—everyone needs to be on their best fucking behavior.”
Vito nodded. “I’ll tell Marco.”
“Make sure he knows I didn’t fuck up,” I snapped. “That was bad luck. Nothing more.”
“Easy, kid. No one’s blaming you. Coulda happened to any of us.”
I tugged on my hair. “Tell that to Vinnie.”
He took a long drag. “What was Siobhán Connelly doing at The Dollhouse last night?”
I frowned. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”
His eyes narrowed through a trail of smoke. “I changed my mind.”
I licked my lips. “Nothing. Waiting for me to get back.”
“Marco considers her part of his crew. Like a niece.”
“My relationship with Siobhán is none of Marco’s business.”
“It is when it affects his business.”
“It doesn’t,” I snapped.
He glanced at his watch. “Relationship, huh?”
“No—I meant… You know what I meant.”
“I do. I also know who her family is and how you don’t always see straight when it comes to them. You want to salvage your relationship with Marco, best not dig that hole any deeper.”
I scoffed. “Who said I wanted to salvage it?”
“Keep playing the tough guy, Luca, but I know this hurts you as much as it hurts him. You’re both just too goddamn proud and stubborn to admit it.”
“Tell him that.”
“You think I haven’t?” He dropped the cigarette and ground out the butt. “Not to mention what your feud is doing to Gina.” He pursed his lips as if restraining a verbal assault to match the fury in his eyes.
I clenched my teeth, biting back my own retort. I hadn’t gone there for a lecture.
“It’s time you thought long and hard about what this vendetta is costing you. Ask yourself if it’s worth it.” He cocked an eyebrow, turned on his heel, and took quick strides back into the building, buttoning his suit coat as he went.
I took the keys out of my pocket, spun them on my finger, and walked across the visitor lot to my car. Time to check on Dominic, grab some food, and head to Revere for a meeting with Vinnie.
As for Vito’s question…
I unlocked the door, buckled in, and started the engine. It roared to life, an angry growl, loud and persistent.
What was the cost of avenging my father? I couldn’t imagine a price I wouldn’t pay to hurt the Shaughnessys the way they’d hurt the Morettis. To take something from them they could never take back. To free myself from the anger and pain that haunted me. To free myself from my nightmares.
I revved the engine, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the space.
A new ante had entered the pot. One I hadn’t considered—Siobhán.
She was supposed to be my instrument of revenge, but was I okay with her being its victim as well? I told her she was safe. “No more nightmares,” I said. But hurting her family would hurt her too. It would open old wounds, create new bad dreams.
I stomped on the clutch, threw the engine into gear, and slammed on the accelerator, lifting my foot off the clutch. The Ferrari’s tires squealed as I peeled out of the parking lot.
Revenge was worth any cost. No exceptions. Especially if the Shaughnessys finally got the message that crossing the DeVitas, Valenzanos, or Morettis meant consequences. Consequences so dire, they’d never make that fatal mistake again.