Chapter 8 #2
Ice needled through my veins. My stomach churned. I pushed down the nausea, recognizing Aris’s words not as a threat, but as a promise—one he would keep if I disappointed him.
Even with all my fear, I stared him down, silently daring him to do it now, to get it over with.
Marco appeared in the doorway.
“Aris. Father needs us downstairs.”
Aris glared daggers at me, knife at the ready.
“I’ll be down in a second.”
“Now,” Marco barked.
“We’re not finished with this,” Aris hissed as he pointed his blade at me. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room after Marco.
After they vanished, another figure appeared in my doorway. Santo stared blankly at me with a thin cardboard box in his hand. He opened the lid to reveal a deep-dish pizza.
“Hungry?”
“No,” I lied.
Sweet mother of Christ, it smelled divine.
My mouth watered, but I didn’t know if I could trust him. Then my stomach growled loud enough for him to hear.
Santo smiled, and that made the decision for me.
A fleeting image returned to me in a flash. I saw in that smile the little boy he used to be, but it vanished just as quickly.
My now-grown brother’s smile also disappeared, taking the light from his eyes with it. The moment was over, his true self reverting once again to the mask of cold boredom.
“Shove over.”
He nudged me out of the way so he could sit on the bed.
Once situated, he ripped the lid off the pizza box and tore it in half to make two makeshift plates.
Marco used to do it just like that when we were young. He’d take us to the park with a pizza, so we could spoil our dinner without anyone finding out. Every Sunday after church, while Saul met with various men at the house for business, Marco led the three of us out to the park.
It seemed like the perfect escape back then, especially from all those strange men who’d always made me uncomfortable in a way I hadn’t been able to explain until I was older. I never knew who those men were, but I knew enough to stay away.
My memories soured, and I shook my head to clear them away. They made me soft anyway. Weak.
I didn’t know who Santo was anymore. I didn’t know what to expect, and that scared me, so my best option was to keep my guard up, no matter how many memories rushed back to me now that I’d come home.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
He handed me one makeshift cardboard plate with a giant slice of pizza staining the center and oozing with melted cheese and copious amounts of grease. Then he reached into a bag on the floor and pulled out a plastic fork. He stared at me for a second before handing it to me.
“Because you gotta eat, and New York pizza sucks. I don’t know what the plan is yet, but if we’re gonna deliver you to the Russians, I’m pretty sure they don’t want you starved to death.”
I considered that for a second, then shrugged.
No, I couldn’t let myself trust him, but he did have a point about New York’s inferior pizza crusts.
“From what I’ve heard,” I said, “I don’t think the Russians will care either way.”
Santo stopped chewing for a second.
“You know it hurt her, right? When you left?”
“Who?”
He looked at me like I’d somehow betrayed her by leaving.
“Nonna.”
There was no point explaining what had happened, her involvement, so I just gave him a gentle smile.
“I think she would have understood.”
He sighed. “Look, you know they know I’m in here. You know they want information, and if you wanna eat your pizza in peace, I need to be able to tell them something. Just give me enough to get the old man off my ass.”
Had they planned this? Aris played the bad cop to scare me, then Santo came in acting like the beloved little brother? Like he was the reasonable one?
“What do you want to know?”
“What made you think you could get away with it?”
I looked at my cardboard plate and stared at the vaguely triangular-shaped slice splattered with red sauce and cheese.
“I did get away with it.”
With those words, I finally gave in and took the first huge, melty, steaming bite of Chicago deep-dish pizza.
The instant explosion of flavor elicited a primal groan of enjoyment from my throat as I chewed. The hearty combination of Italian meats and cheeses, the incredible sauce heavily spiced with herbs, and the doughy crust dusted with flour—it was what heaven tasted like.
Santo gestured at the walls of my bedroom.
“And you call this getting away with it?”
“I was gone for ten years,” I said. “I had a life. I called the shots. I had a job and a child, and if it wasn’t for Stefano forcing his way back into my life and making a stupid engagement announcement, you never would’ve known I was still alive.”
“Maybe. But he did, and we found you… living with a rival family in enemy territory. With his son.”
He raised a brow and took another bite.
“Yes, Santo. With my son.”
None of this was new information for him or Saul, so I didn’t think stating the obvious really mattered.
Santo shifted on my bed. One corner of his mouth twitched into a grimace before he let out another sigh. He’d been shot just hours beforehand, and it had to still hurt like a bitch.
I would know.
“Here’s the thing, sister. I can’t go back out there empty-handed. At the very least, Father wants to know who helped you. You couldn’t have done all that by yourself.”
“You know what? I’ve come to realize I’m very resourceful when I need to be. It’s amazing what a woman can do on her own, when she isn’t existing under the constant control of a man who sees her as a shiny object meant for brokering deals. But yeah, Santo, I did have help faking my death.”
“Who did it?”
I shrugged. “It was Nonna.”
Then I took another greasy bite.
I hated betraying her, but she’d been dead for years. Saul couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Santo’s immediate wince was even more noticeable than his grimace of pain, though it too disappeared in a flash. Just like every other expression he displayed.
“What really happened to you?” I asked. “To the bright little boy who was always smiling and laughing?”
He shrugged, and resentment filled his eyes.
“Isn’t it obvious? You left. Nonna died. Marco took on more responsibility. You all left me here with Father and Aris. Alone. That’s what happened to me.”
I took several tries before I finally swallowed my mouthful of pizza. To my surprise, though, my voice held steady.
“I’m so sorry, Santo.”
Then the sad truth fully hit me.
What I did from then on didn’t even matter. Not really. Even if I hadn’t faked my death, the Russians would have hauled me away, and still, I never would have seen Santo again. Nonna still would have died. No one could have protected him from the reality of our family.
He shook his head. “Don’t be. I do just fine. If you should feel sorry for anyone, it’s your son.”
I froze. A piece of crust fell from my fork.
“Marco said you’d leave him alone. I’m here. I’m not running. I’ll do as I’m told. Leave him out of this.”
Santo laughed, and not the joyful, genuine laughter of his youth, but something dark, twisted, and cruel.
I set the pizza down and looked him in the eye.
“Let me make this perfectly clear, little brother. If you or anyone else goes near my son, I don’t care where I am or what it takes, I will find a way to kill every one of you.”
He arched his brows at me.
“We don’t have to do anything to your kid. He’s being raised by a savage New York boss. What kind of life do you think the boy will have?”
The greasy food in my stomach churned.
I had wondered the same thing countless times.
To deepen my fear, Santo echoed the deeper question I had agonized over since the day Enzo was born.
“I mean, come on, what kind of man do you think Stefano Vignali will make out of his son?”
I didn’t have an answer, but Santo did.
“Take a good look at me, sister… I’m your son in ten years.”