Chapter Seventeen
Marcello
Paulie Segretti is a moron.
That’s my unwavering assessment. He spent three months skimming fuel surcharges from the port operations, hiding the shortfall in paperwork errors any first-year accountant would catch.
He actually thought he could get away with it.
He thought when I came in with new management I wouldn’t pull the invoices.
Little did he know I’m an untrusting bastard.
I’m at the waterfront warehouse watching my enforcer, Abramo, work on Paulie.
My man Abramo is good at his job. Methodical.
He does whatever is necessary to get the information out of men, but he doesn’t enjoy the work.
He’s not cruel for the sake of being cruel.
That’s why I value him. Men who enjoy this kind of work are unstable.
Abramo treats torturing the men who steal from me more like a plumber than a sadist. He finds the leak, he applies pressure, he stops the flow.
After a few hours under Abramo’s care, Paulie has confirmed what I suspected.
He acted alone. He’s not connected to anyone.
He’s just a man who saw an opportunity in the transfer of control of the ports from Lucchese to Foschini, and decided to exploit it.
That mistake is why he’s now sitting in a metal chair, zip-tied and bleeding, agreeing to pay back every dollar or else. Works for me.
I check my watch. 4:20 p.m.
Fuck.
Carlo left an hour ago to pick up Fabio from Harbor View. I told Elio I’d be home by 4:00 p.m. I assured him I’d be standing in the foyer with him when his brother walked through the door. Instead I’m in a warehouse watching a man spit blood onto a concrete floor.
“We’re done here,” I tell Abramo. “Clean up. Make sure he understands the terms.”
Abramo nods. I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin by the door, and walk out into the daylight.
I let Abramo do ninety-nine percent of the wet work today.
I just slapped Paulie around a little so he knew I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.
You can lose men’s respect when you outsource all the unpleasant shit.
My late brother didn’t like to get his hands dirty, but I don’t mind.
I came up as an enforcer, so it’s familiar work for me.
The afternoon is cooling, October starting to bite, and the salt air off the harbor is sharp enough to taste.
Anthony has the car running. I get in the back and we go.
I don’t call Elio. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and a phone call will only give him time to get angrier.
Better to arrive, apologize in person, and deal with whatever he’s feeling when I walk in late.
I don’t want him upset, but I already fucked up.
It is what it is. I can’t turn back time.
The drive takes thirty minutes because a truck jackknifes on Federal and Anthony has to cut through the marina district.
I sit in the back seat scrolling through messages, trying not to stress out about letting Elio down.
It wasn’t my intention. Time just got away from me.
I’m not someone who feels a lot of guilt, but I do when it concerns Elio.
I never want to let him down, and I did today.
When we pull through the gates, Carlo’s car is already in the drive.
Because of the truck accident, I’m thirty-five minutes late and I feel like a shit husband.
Anthony stops the car and I get out and stand there for a second, letting my brain shift from one world to the next.
Paulie Segretti and his theft and punishment in one compartment, this house and the people inside who I love, exist in another.
The compartments don’t touch. That’s how I function without short-circuiting.
The front door is unlocked. Inside, the house is warm and smells like the meal Ornella has been preparing since this morning.
She’s warmed up a bit to Elio. I don’t think she’s exactly fond of him, but she’s accepted that he’s not going anywhere and has chosen the path that makes the most sense.
With that in mind, she’s prepared a menu for his brother’s arrival without being asked.
Braised short ribs, roasted vegetables, a fennel salad, along with fresh bread.
Nothing showy. Good, homey food, carefully made.
I can hear voices from the sitting room, and I stop in the hall and listen for a moment. Elio’s voice is warm and Noemi’s laugh cheerful. Mama’s saying something I can’t make out and Ginevra’s response is a low murmur. Sounds as if everyone managed to be here in time to greet our guest, but me.
I take a deep breath and enter the room.
It’s firelit and comfortable, the lamps low, everyone settled.
Elio is standing near the sofa where Fabio and Noemi are seated.
Mama is in the wingback by the fire, and Ginevra is standing near the window with her wine, observing.
Carlo is in the armchair across from the sofa, legs crossed, drink in hand, looking relaxed.
I know for a fact he’s actually paying close attention.
Fabio stands when I enter the room. I like that gesture because it shows respect.
His expression is guarded, but not unfriendly.
He’s not what I expected. I’ve been carrying a mental image built from Elio’s phone photos which don’t really resemble the person.
The photos were old, pre-surgery, and of a grinning teenager.
Elio’s descriptions of what Fabio looks like now were always colored by a brother’s protective lens, always emphasizing the fragility of his brother, the illness, the need for care.
The young man standing in my sitting room is thin, yes, but he’s sturdy enough.
Naturally, the surgery and the recovery have taken their toll, but the bones underneath are good.
Clean features, a jaw that will sharpen less as he fills out, dark hair with curls at the back of his neck.
His eyes are a striking blue, direct and intelligent, and they meet mine without flinching.
But his stare isn’t challenging. It’s polite.
Respectful. He has the kind of face you’d notice in a crowded room.
He’s very attractive, just like his older brother.
Just a bit more haggard from all he’s been through.
He’s pale, and there’s a visible tremor in his hands that he’s trying to control by keeping them at his sides.
Fatigue is understandable. He’s been socializing with strangers for half an hour on a body that’s still rationing its energy for healing.
But he’s alert and he hasn’t retreated from what must be a very stressful situation.
“Marcello, you’re finally here.” Elio’s tone is mildly chiding, but he moves to my side, smiling. I’m happy to see he doesn’t look angry, and I relax a little. His hand touches my back briefly. “This is Fabio.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,” I say, meeting his brother’s gaze. “Work ran over.”
“It’s okay.” Fabio extends his hand. His grip is light but he commits to it, looking me in the eye. “Thank you for letting me stay with Elio. I’m sure it’s annoying to have a stranger living in your home.”
“Not at all.” I hold the handshake a beat longer than necessary because I want him to feel that I mean what I’m saying. “You’re Elio’s brother. I don’t consider you a stranger.”
Something changes in his face. Not softening, exactly, more adjustment. He expected me to be something other than what I am. He hasn’t decided yet whether that’s good or bad.
Elio and I sit on the loveseat that’s across from Fabio and Noemi.
“How’s the recovery going?” I ask.
“Slower than I’d like,” Fabio says. “My physical therapist says I’m doing really well, but I’m impatient to get back to full strength.”
“You’ll get there,” Elio interjects. “Dee said you were using weights the last week you were there.”
Fabio laughs sheepishly. “Yes, but not heavy weights. There was an eighty-year-old recovering from hip surgery who could lift more weight than me.”
Noemi laughs. “I find that hard to believe.”
Grimacing, Fabio says, “Well, to be honest, it’s not like I was in great physical shape before the procedure. I was always kind of sickly. Weak. I’m hoping that changes now that my heart is healthier.”
“Everything will change now.” My voice is firm and Fabio glances at me. He smiles politely, but there’s something hidden behind that smile.
Mama asks Fabio about Millhaven, what life was like living there, and whether he misses it.
He tells her about the town, the apartment he shared with Elio, the hospital where he spent a chunk of time before the transfer to Harbor View.
He doesn’t romanticize Millhaven, nor should he from what I’ve heard.
Elio turns to me at some point during the conversation and puts his hand on my forearm, casually.
I don’t think much of it until his fingers subtly undo the button of the cuff and fold it back in a quick, smooth movement.
As he does that, I see what has him bothered.
There’s a spot of Paulie’s blood on the white shirt’s cuff.
Oops.
Elio keeps his expression impassive as he does the same rolling motion to the other side so they match. “Better.” He smiles up at me. “You looked so formal. You’re home now so you can relax.”
“Thanks.” I return his smile feeling annoyed with myself. I should have noticed the blood. That was sloppy of me. It’s because I was in a hurry to get home.
It’s my hope Fabio didn’t notice the blood, but when I meet the younger man’s gaze, and his eyes flicker nervously, I worry he did see the blood.
I’m frustrated because I wanted to make a good impression.
Not because I really care what Fabio thinks of me.
I am what I am and I feel no need to make excuses.
But if Fabio hates me, that could put a strain on my relationship with Elio. And I can’t lose Elio.