11. Chapter 6
Lorenzo
Earlier that Day
The church smells of incense and candle wax and cold stone. I don’t cry during the three-hour funeral Mass, during which Father Alessandro says the old, sacred words in Latin, English, and Italian. Mother kneels through it all, her fingers clutched white around her rosary.
I’ve always had a complex relationship with my family’s faith.
We’re Catholics, and for many of the Diamantes, that doesn’t mean much more than a label.
But for my mother and father, their religion mattered.
It wasn’t just ritual, but something that guided their thoughts and actions and deeds.
Often, I wondered how someone so objectively not good as my father could be so devout when it came to his faith.
Massimo Diamante did some terrible things during his life, but he always had his reasons. He was an enigma, right until the end.
If there is a Heaven, I wonder if he’s in it. Or maybe, after losing his life to flames, he’s spending his eternity in the fires of Hell.
If you’re in Hell, Father, save me a seat, I think.
At the cemetery, they lower him into the precious earth, and Father Alessandro prays over his body and soul. Somewhere behind me, I hear someone crying softly. I put a handful of dirt on the casket, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing would be enough.
And with that, Massimo Diamante is gone.
Giovanni’s house sits above the fog line in Sea Cliff, all glass and polished concrete and sharp angles, a house that photographs beautifully but feels like a mausoleum or a high-end hospital waiting room.
He bought it five years ago, gutted whatever warmth the previous owners gave it, replacing everything to fit his particular cold, expensive tastes.
We gather there for a Family meal after the burial.
Pepe finds me standing in one of Giovanni’s galleries, staring at a bizarre piece of modern art. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“It feels wrong being here, instead of at my father’s house.”
Pepe just nods, because we both know that no one is going back to my father’s house anytime soon. Though the fire didn’t fully destroy the Diamante ancestral home, it wrecked enough of the place that it’ll have to be completely gutted and rebuilt.
“Come on,” Pepe says. “It’s time to eat.”
He takes my elbow and steers me toward the dining room, where the others are already gathered.
Carlo, Pepe’s father, stands near a large window with a glass of wine he isn’t drinking.
He served as Father’s consigliere for almost thirty years, and now that Giovanni is the Don, Carlo has kept his position.
Father Alessandro has taken his seat at a far end of the table, his head bowed and his hands folded, the ultimate picture of patience.
Giovanni enters the large dining room last, which doesn’t surprise me. My brother always operated on his own schedule, and that hasn’t changed now that he’s the Don. He’s swapped his black funeral suit for something charcoal—not exactly black if you look closely enough.
The color choice irritates me.
“Take your seats,” he says warmly, like this is any other family dinner. “How was your drive from the cemetery?” he asks Carlo as we all find our seats—I’m seated at Giovanni’s right hand, the seat reserved for the Underboss. “I heard they closed Geary for the motorcade.”
“It was fine, Don Diamante.”
It’s strange, hearing the title lobbed at my brother. My entire life, Father was “Don Diamante.” And now, suddenly, Father is gone and my brother is running things.
“Good,” Giovanni says as his staff begins to serve the first course. “I want the Presidio distribution numbers on my desk by the end of the week, and I need the Alvarez situation resolved by the weekend.”
“Giovanni!” My voice is sharper than I intended. “We just buried Father. We shouldn’t be talking about business right now.”
There’s no anger or defensiveness in Giovanni’s face when he looks at me. Just mild, curious patience, like he’s watching a child throw a tantrum. “The business doesn’t stop just because we’re grieving, Lorenzo. You know that.”
“I know. But we can still show our father some respect.”
“I’m showing respect by carrying on his legacy.”
“You scorn his legacy!”
“Lorenzo!” Mother’s voice is a quiet, sharp warning.
I turn to her. “I was there, Mother.” I hear my own voice climbing toward something like rage. “I was there. I heard him die on the other side of the door, and I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t—”
My throat closes around the rest of my confession. I reach for my wine. “I was there when he died,” I whisper. “And you want to talk about the Presidio distribution numbers.”
Silence settles over the table. Carlo looks into his wine for answers. Pepe stares at me with wide eyes, and even Father Alessandro is at a loss for words.
Giovanni sets his wine glass down sharply. “I might not have been there, brother, but I still feel his loss. Just because I don’t show grief as colorfully as you doesn’t mean that I—”
“Enough,” Mother says, her hands flat on the table. “Both of you. Now is not the time for this conversation.”
Normally, when Mother gives an order, I’ll listen to her even more quickly than I listened to Father. But today I can’t stop myself.
“I want a name. I want to know who did it. I want to look them in the eye and know that they’re guilty, right before I end them.”
“My son,” Father Alessandro says gently. “Vengeance belongs to the Lord, not to you.”
“With respect, Father, the Lord wasn’t in that house when it burned.”
Pepe gives a strangled cough, like he’s trying to hide a laugh.
“You want to know who did it?” Giovanni says. “You want your vengeance? It was an accident, Lorenzo. Faulty wiring. You’ll have to take your quest out on the contractors, if you’re that dead-set on killing someone.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I insist.
“The fire marshal’s preliminary report said—”
“I read the report,” I snap. “And it’s wrong.”
“Since when were you a fire investigator?”
“I’m not, but I was there. I know the difference between an accident and an assassination, and I know that that door was locked from the outside.”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken those words out loud. The first time I’ve even let myself think about their implication.
My statement lands with chilling precision around the table. Mother flinches, Carlo’s knuckles go white around the stem of his wine glass, Pepe shoots me a quick glance, and Giovanni says nothing.
“Lorenzo,” Mother says. “Are you certain?”
“I am.” I turn to my brother. “It was the Volkovs. I think they wanted him gone—and me with him. He’d summoned me for a meeting, but I was late.”
The Volkovs have been our family’s enemies for generations.
We’re two of the most powerful criminal syndicates on the West Coast, and have always warred for resources in our territories.
Last year, the Feds finally got a charge to stick against Yuri Volkov, and his son, Nikolai, has been running the show ever since.
Nikolai is the youngest crime boss in the country, and he’s ruthless. Just the sort of person who would try to kill our father.
Giovanni’s face pales. “Father had asked me to be there, too. The night he…died.”
“Where were you?” Carlo interjects, speaking for the first time. “You weren’t there during the fire, or after.”
“I was here,” Giovanni says. “I told him I couldn’t make it. I had business to take care of.”
I frown at my brother. “Don’t you understand? This was targeted. Someone—the Volkovs, I’m convinced—wanted us all gone. Dead. And I almost was.” I find myself laughing bitterly. “The only reason I’m not dead is because…”
My voice falters.
Because of Dashiell Novak.
Even thinking his name sends something warm and unwelcome curling in my gut. Even here, even now, grief and desire tangle together so tight that I can’t find the seam between them.
Dashiell Novak.
Small and furious and utterly indifferent to who I am, hauling me from the house like I’m just another stubborn civilian instead of a man who could destroy his entire life with a single phone call.
I think about him more than I should. More than any man who’s just buried his father should think about anyone or anything.
I think about those large hazel eyes, wide and defiant and strong even through the smoke.
I think about how badly I want to protect him, how badly I want to ruin him, how those two urges feel like the same ravenous animal inside of me, just wearing different faces.
“Lorenzo.” Mother’s gentle voice pulls me back.
Her normally olive complexion has gone pale.
“If you go after the Volkovs with nothing more than a suspicion, you will start a war. Do you understand that? Men will die. Our men. It will not stop with whoever it was that lit that match—if there even was a match. It won’t stop until half of this city is a graveyard. ”
“I know what it will cost.”
“And do you accept that cost? I don’t. I’ve buried my husband. I will not bury a son.”
I turn to the consigliere. “Carlo, what do you think?”
Carlo Belmonte looks from me to my brother. “I think it’s up to the Don,” he says carefully.
Those are measured words. No doubt Carlo is still figuring out just what sort of leader Giovanni wants to be.
My brother is watching me carefully. “Look into it,” he says quietly.
Everyone at the table turns to him, even Father Alessandro looking up unexpectedly.
“Giovanni—” Mother starts.