34. Salvatore
34
SALVATORE
In the end, they all come to pay their respects. I mark each face in the crowd as the priest drones on.
Aldo Luporini was a loving father.
A devoted family man.
A man who didn’t shy away from the difficult choices.
In peace may he come to rest, amen.
Caruso walks up the stone steps and bows low to kiss the ring on my finger.
“To a long reign,” he says.
We embrace roughly, and he turns to Marisol. Not nearly enough time’s passed for her to wear those tall, black heels, but she said she didn’t want anyone looking down on her today. And I won’t deny her what she wants.
Caruso turns to Dom and Barbara, my new underboss and consigliere, and offers them his respects.
They didn’t have to be here today. During the cell phone outage, Serafina’s twin sister Annetta was hit in a car crash. Barbara took it in stride. He’s no stranger to grief after all the years in the business, even for a daughter.
But when Dom found out, he was devastated.
He’s thrown himself into work for the past couple of weeks, snuffing out minor rebellions as they rise, but after today, I’m forcing him to go to the woods to be alone. If he doesn’t take time for himself, he’s going to self-combust.
He could’ve skipped the funeral. But he couldn’t miss his own wedding earlier this morning. Barbara himself coordinated the match between his one remaining daughter and Dom.
We all knew Dom loved Annetta. Maybe he’ll find solace in Serafina.
Dom’s new wife is at home, rightfully grieving, but the rest of the family—all eleven Chicago capos, and their soldiers, wives, cousins, sons, daughters, and grandmas are all here to pay their respects.
Davide’s mom—who Junior threatened for months to force Davide to turn rat—sits in the front row, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She thinks Junior killed her son, and I haven’t corrected that belief. For the rest of her life, she’ll be financially taken care of, and everyone here will know her son was a hero.
The whole family is crammed into rows and rows of pews below us, pretending to watch the priest, but stealing glances at us every chance they get. The unhappy ones are smart enough to keep it off their faces—not that it really matters when I’m slowly tearing through their last shreds of privacy. If they can’t be bought or cowed, it’s just a matter of time before they’ll be silenced.
Gavin Boughan, head of the Irish Mafia, steps forward. He’s not much older than me but today, his normally stern face is lined with grief and exhaustion. After the warehouse fiasco, he let me know the men from that incident had been dealt with, and that he wouldn’t seek retribution for his brother’s death. I haven’t decided if I believe him yet. Mad Dog Colin and Junior were two wild assholes who did as they pleased, and Chicago is better off without them, but Gavin still loved his fuckup brother. Time heals all wounds, but I suspect this one will fester.
“My condolences,” Gavin says, extending a hand.
Faces blur into the background as soon as they’ve offered their sympathy. Today’s not a day to sniff out my enemies or measure loyalty, though I can’t entirely suppress the instinctual sorting going on in the back of my mind. Today’s about showing the type of leader I’ll be—present, capable, aloof, and above all, a Family man.
Marisol leans in to kiss Aunt Francesca, and as she turns to me, her smile slices through my brooding like a ray of sunlight. When I was in that basement, all I could think about was returning the pain and insult done to her a thousandfold, but now that she’s with me and she’s safe, I want to lounge at her feet and bask in her glow.
“Let’s go home,” I murmur into her ear. Aldo’s was the last of a long line of funerals. It’s time to take my wife to our bedroom and seal ourselves inside.
She nods with a knowing smile.
As we weave through the throng of people, two men step out. I slow, threading my arm around Marisol’s waist and folding her into my side.
Ottavio Matassa stands before us, dressed in a black, bespoke suit. A tall, young man with a buzz cut, wearing a white blouse, and slouching with both hands tucked into his dark pants meets my gaze with casual defiance. He’s got the same amber eyes as our dad.
Ottavio’s gaze touches Marisol, and my attention snaps to him, but I force my body to stay relaxed. I can be calm. The last man that touched her disintegrated into a vat of hydrochloric acid.
I wait for Ottavio to speak first, a practice long ingrained from childhood, although I already know why he’s here and what he wants.
“Marisol,” he says. One day, I’m going to cut that fucking tongue out and make him choke on it. I haven’t forgotten my vow to Mom. “You’re the woman who so charmed my son.”
Marisol presses against my side, but she meets Ottavio’s challenge with an easy smile. “That’s right.”
Ottavio’s upper lip twitches. His gaze ticks to Marisol’s empty ring finger.
Her ring burns in my pocket like a hot coal. She still hasn’t let me put it back on her despite countless gifts and apologies. I think she’s waiting for me to fall to my knees and beg. Maybe I’ll try that tonight.
“The boys aren’t pleased with how you handled things,” Ottavio says. The teenager on his right smirks.
Ottavio waits so I can offer an excuse or an apology.
He must know that Rekhson is alive and well. After Marisol brought me out of the basement, I paid a visit to Rekhson and her husband in the hospital, prepared to threaten her to keep her in line, but she only held her husband’s hand on his hospital bed and asked if the bastards responsible had paid for what they’d done. Two-Fingers was already dead for obeying Junior’s orders over my own. And with Junior in an unmarked grave and Aldo’s body prepared to follow, I told Rekhson the truth. They had. She’d simply nodded. Turns out we’re more alike than we thought. We’re having dinner with her and her husband next week.
The Commission could have my head for killing my don and underboss without permission, but the fact that Ottavio’s here and not a stranger with a knife tells me what I need to know. He’s already resolved this. He was probably giddy—or in his case, lightly amused—with the knowledge that the man who helped steal his wife and sons away was dead. He doesn’t care to punish me. He wants a favor.
I wait.
“You don’t go over their heads when you want something handled,” Ottavio continues, undeterred, as if he had ordered me into silence. “We’ve turned a blind eye to Chicago for too long, and now you’re too big and unstable to have your own sovereignty.”
The boy next to Ottavio looks as if he’s tuned out this speech, instead lazily watching the guests mill around us.
“What’re you suggesting?” I ask, knowing I’m playing into Ottavio’s hands and not caring. I don’t want Marisol out in public any longer. She should be locked away in my watchtower or with me in bed.
“A merging. Nico here needs to learn the ropes. Take him in and teach him how things are done here. Find him a wife. In a couple of years, he’ll come back to New York as my heir.”
I look at the toddler in front of me. “How old are you?” I ask.
The infant responds, “What’s it to you?—”
“He’s twenty-six,” Ottavio cuts in. “Old enough to take some responsibility for the family business.”
I continue to stare at Nico. He raises an insolent eyebrow. He’s got yellow bruising around his temple and a cut on his lip, probably a gift from Dad.
“Your wife won’t bear you children,” Ottavio reminds me. “And you already married off Dom. Without consulting me. This is the first step in making amends for what you did.”
“My wife—” I start, but Marisol squeezes my arm.
“We’ll take him,” she says.
Ottavio narrows his eyes at this exchange while Nico’s grin turns smug. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more slappable face.
“We’ll take him,” I echo.
“I’ll send him to you after the new year,” Ottavio says. “And Turi? My condolences.”
I can’t get Marisol out of that fucking church fast enough.
The moment we’re in the car, just the two of us, I turn toward her. A burst of euphoria buzzes through me, hot and electric.
“What do you think about a beach trip, passerotta?”
Marisol smiles, eyes sparkling. “I think we still have a lot of work to do, don’t we?”
I take her hand in mine as I start driving a little too fast through the streets. “There’s always work to do. I want to take my wife to the beach.”
“Won’t it be cold?”
“I can build us a fire.”
She laughs. “I think I’d like to see you build a fire.”
Her laugh soothes something deep inside me. Despite all our struggles, my Marisol is here, alive and happy.
Safe. Strong.
At my side.
Delirious need rushes over me. “Lean your chair back.”
She does as she’s asked, watching me with a wicked little grin. “Why’s that?”
I lean over and slip my hand between her legs. “Because I want my wife to be nice and ready to be fucked by the time we get home.”
There’s no sweeter sound to my ears than her soft moan.