Chapter 5
Si, mi chiamano Mimì, ma il mio nome è Lucia.
Even though nearly a week had passed since I’d walked by one of the rooms and overheard Mary quietly singing the aria from La Boheme to herself, her voice still echoed in my head.
Not because she was a great singer, not by any means. The hushed tone she used was several octaves lower than the high soprano of the Met Opera recording, and even with that handicap, some of her notes were still flat.
But the emotion in her voice was anything but.
Knowing the Italian lyrics to a hundred and seventy-five year old opera wasn’t something I expected from a maid.
Clearly, there was more to her than I’d originally thought.
Especially given the way she sang gave the impression that she knew what the words meant.
Yes, they call me Mimi, but my real name is Lucia.
I’d lingered just on the other side of the door long enough to hear her sing a few more lines, wondering if she was simply an opera fan or if it went deeper than that. Did she love the aria because she related to it?
They call me Mimi. I don’t know why.
I stay alone, all alone, in a little white room.
I look out over the rooftops and sky.
Those bittersweet lyrics certainly matched the tinge of melancholy I’d spotted in her dark eyes, making me curious about what had put it there in the first place.
It wasn’t like me to be caught up in thoughts of a woman.
“What do you think, Dorian?”
Damn it. I’d been so distracted by the memory of her singing that I’d missed whatever question my brother Gabriel had asked.
Clasping my hands in front of me and forcing myself back into the present moment, I shifted my gaze his way. “Say again?”
“We keeping you from something, boy?”
I glared over at the man who dared to call me that derogatory diminutive. The only man alive who could get away with it—Salvatore D’Angelo, the current head of the D’Angelo family and Gabriel and Matteo’s uncle.
Technically, since I’d been legally adopted into the D’Angelo family after my own father’s death when I was nine, he was my uncle as well, but he’d always made it clear he never considered me real family.
At first, I thought he was simply resentful that I had kept my original family name after the adoption, staying Dorian Marchetti in honor of my parents instead of taking on the D’Angelo name. But I soon learned his bitterness ran far deeper than that.
Several times over the years, I’d heard him mutter that a judge’s signature on a court document didn’t make me blood.
Not even if my biological father had died saving his brother’s life.
Of course, Sal’s opinion hadn’t mattered much back when my adoptive father was alive. Giuseppe had been the boss, and, as underboss, Sal’s job was to follow his older brother’s orders. When he declared me his son, equal to Gabriel and Matteo in all ways, that ended the conversation. No one dared question him.
But just because Sal learned to hold his tongue didn’t mean his concerns went away. To him, I was nothing more than the son of a low-ranking soldier, one who he worried would take advantage of the family and become a burden.
But that wasn’t the kind of man I was.
Eternally grateful for Giuseppe’s generosity, I dedicated my life to serving the D’Angelo family. I pushed myself hard, training to be the best soldier Giuseppe had ever seen, honing deadly skills to protect my new family, and determined never to lose anyone I loved again.
And for a while, my plan worked. For over two decades, the D’Angelo family thrived.
Until one night when an unknown gunman broke into Giuseppe’s home, snuck past every guard, and shot him to death in his own bed.
Nine months later, we still didn’t know who was behind the hit. No rival families stepped forward to start a turf war. No internal power struggle was sparked inside the family. Everyone simply moved one rung up the ladder as had always been planned.
Now Sal was the boss, and Gabriel his underboss—a role my fiery, take-no-shit brother was perfect for. Always the more level-headed and analytical of the twins, Matteo made a damn fine consigliere and public face of the family’s legitimate business enterprises.
Giuseppe’s old four-story mansion in the Carnegie Hill neighborhood of Manhattan, just across Central Park, was still the family home. The only difference was that Sal had now taken up residence in the suite of rooms his brother used to occupy.
And even though Sal was finally in the position to cut me out of the family if he wished, I still found myself in the inner circle.
No doubt my brothers had something to do with that. They’d never shown even a sliver of the suspicion and doubt their uncle did, even though they arguably had much more to lose. There had never been anything stopping Matteo and Gabriel from seeing me as anything more than a threat to their inheritance and father’s love. But instead of going down that path, they’d embraced me as a true brother.
My presence at family meetings like this one was proof that, even though Sal might not consider me his nephew, he understood how vital I was to the family business…even if he still called me boy.
“I asked your opinion on Bonetti?” Gabriel quickly repeated his question, allowing me to ignore Sal’s taunt. “Do you think he’s a rat?”
“The photo certainly makes it look that way,” I said, glancing down at the glossy black-and-white photo on the marble table in front of Sal.
He and the twins were each sitting on one of the Italian leather sofas set in a U-shape in Giuseppe’s former study. As usual, I stood behind the center sofa, facing the only entrance as we talked, ready to fly into action if anyone came through those doors who shouldn’t.
Matteo leaned forward and picked up the picture of one of our most trusted soldiers surreptitiously handing an envelope to a known federal agent on a street corner, giving it a slow once over. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I buy it,” he said.
“What’s there to buy?” Sal asked, sounding irritated this was even a discussion. “The proof is right there in black and white.”
“Exactly,” Matteo said, slapping the photo back down on the table. “Bonetti is usually smarter than this.”
“Usually,” Sal argued. “But clearly not this time.”
“It doesn’t make sense—a veteran soldier who’s so skilled in covering his tracks that he’s never been picked up by the cops or the feds once suddenly becomes so reckless that he’s handing over information in plain sight.”
“I don’t like it any more than you,” Sal said, “but what other explanation could there be?”
“I don’t know,” Matteo admitted. “Hell, we don’t even know what’s in that envelope he’s giving them.”
“Are you saying you want to wait around until the feds knock on the door with a warrant to figure it out?” Sal asked.
“No.” Matteo shook his head, his dark, slicked-back hair staying perfectly in place as he leaned back on the couch. “I just want some answers.”
“Like why now?” Gabriel broke in. Even though he was Matteo’s identical twin, in tense moments like this, it was easy to tell the two apart. While Matteo was handling his frustration well, without a single hair out of place, Gabriel wore his anger on his sleeve. “After decades of loyal service to the family, what would make him turn?”
“My guess? The feds finally dug up some dirt on him,” Sal offered. “Your father always used to say you never knew what a man is made of until he’s facing spending the last years of his life behind bars.”
“Could be,” I said. “Or it could be that Bonetti’s loyalty was never to the whole family in the first place.”
That got Sal’s attention, and he turned around in his seat to face me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that it’s only been nine months since your brother’s death,” I answered. “Giuseppe was a strong leader, one who commanded a great deal of respect.”
“And I’m not?” Sal’s face was already turning red.
“I didn’t say that, just that Giuseppe ran this family for over forty years. The connections he had with his capos and soldiers were unbreakable, but now that he’s gone?—“
“—some of them might finally be breaking,” Matteo finished the thought for me, nodding his head. “That’s the first thing I’ve heard that makes any sense.”
Maybe…but it certainly didn’t make Sal happy. The boss continued to stare up at me with barely contained disgust in his eyes.
“Whatever the reason,” he said, turning away from me to refocus his attention on his real nephews, “the important thing is we cut our losses and clean up this mess as soon as possible. I want Joey Bonetti taken out.”
“With only a couple of photos as proof?” Matteo sat up in his seat.
“You think I should drag him here so he can lie to our faces? Maybe he can wear a wire so the feds can haul all of us in at once,” Sal shot back. “No. We end it before this shit can go any further.”
“Bonetti is an old-school veteran. He’s a popular guy.” Gabriel said. “The men aren’t going to like us not giving him a chance to defend himself.”
“And that’s why the men aren’t going to find out his death was an inside job. Why do you think I asked Dorian to join us for this meeting?” Sal turned around again to face me. “Do it tonight. Make it look like an accident.”
Direct orders given from the head of the family—I might technically be a D’Angelo, but I was also a simple soldier. There was nothing I could do but nod.
Matteo and Gabriel were a different story, though. Not only were they blood, they ranked much higher up the power pyramid.
“Kill him tonight, and we’ll never find out what was in that envelope,” Matteo argued. I could sense his frustration with his uncle even though, like always, he was doing his best to keep a handle on his temper.
“What? Do you think it was his grandmother’s carbonara recipe?” Sal scoffed. “It was family business. What else could it be?”
“But if we don’t know exactly what he’s been telling the feds, then I can’t get our lawyers ready to defend us against it.”
Sal shook his head dismissively. “Let me worry about that.”
“It isn’t wise to dismiss Matteo’s advice,” Gabriel broke in. I could already see the flames of anger starting to burn behind his dark brown eyes. “He’s got a head for these things. Papà knew it and listened to him. You should, too.”
“Well, your papà ain’t the boss of this family anymore,” Sal said. “I am, and that means I make the decisions. Got it?”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled at hearing my adoptive father’s legacy dismissed so casually.
“Got it,” Matteo said reluctantly, managing to keep his cool while Gabriel visibly seethed.
“Good.” And with that, Sal stood up from his position on the center sofa and turned toward me. “Dorian, I’ll be expecting a report tomorrow morning.”
I nodded, keeping my expression as neutral as possible as Sal said good night to his nephews and strode out of the study, leaving the doors wide open behind him.
The twins stared at each other over the table for a long moment. Together from the very beginning and sharing the same face, they’d always had an unspoken connection I envied. Eventually, they turned to me, and I gestured for them to come closer.
We never used to think twice before speaking openly in Giuseppe’s study, but a lot had changed in the last nine months. With his killer still out there somewhere, paranoia ran wild—especially with Sal.
Maybe it was because he feared he was next on the hit list, or maybe it was because, deep down, he knew he was a much less beloved boss than his brother. Either way, it was clear the man was desperate to root out the traitor, and desperate men did desperate things—like bug their own houses.
And given the way both Gabriel and Matteo dropped their voices down to a whisper once they were next to me, they thought the same thing, too.
“Something’s off,” Matteo said, his voice barely loud enough to be heard, let alone be picked up by any mics that might be in the room.
“No shit,” Gabriel replied. “You hear the way he talked about papà? What the fuck was that?”
“It was a man trying to appear stronger than he actually is,” I said. Over the years, I’d heard all kinds of big talk from men I had backed into a corner. You never knew how someone would react to a threat. Some crumbled and cried, others puffed up.
“Whatever it was, it’s obvious he doesn’t want anyone talking to Bonetti,” Matteo said. “Not the feds, not the family, and especially not us.”
“You think Sal’s hiding something?” Gabriel asked.
Matteo thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know, but I know who does.”
“Joey Bonetti.” Gabriel nodded before looking over at me.
“Well, your uncle gave me an order to get rid of him,” I said, “but he didn’t say anything about not asking him any questions first.”
“You think you can make him talk?” Matteo asked.
Gabriel laughed before clapping his hand over my shoulder. “You kidding? Our brother here could make a mute man sing like Pavarotti.”
And he was right. I could.