Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,12

but different. Every so often he would wipe his head with a napkin when the conversation would start to heat up a bit, but mostly, it was whispers mixing in with the sound of the mandolin that would reach our table.

I wasn’t listening for the meaning of words. I watched body language.

There was no doubt that they were doing business of some kind. There was also no doubt that the reason Angela served them was because she wanted to be near the conversation. She wasn’t watching the old man, either, but the one I assumed to be the son.

Giuseppe stuck his pointer finger in the air and then came down with it on the table silently. He said something after, and as soon as he did, the son started to laugh—it was a fucking roar, and it messed with the sound of the mandolin.

What a fucking pity, that. It was a beautiful melody. He ruined the sound of it, like Adriano ruined the air with his cologne. It irked me.

“Incoming,” Adriano said, his face red. It always was when he had a few drinks after a heavy meal.

Tito Sala took the empty seat that Nicodemo had ordered the waitress to bring. So he knew he was coming. Tito got comfortable and ordered a seafood dish with a glass of white wine. He was the messenger, sometimes, between my grandfather and me.

We said little to each other over the phone, for more than one reason. The main one was that there was some animosity on my part for him ordering me to be here. He refused to update me on the Scarpone situation, as well.

There was no way my grandfather was going to let it slide, but I was going to take it a step further and find the ghost, Vittorio Scarpone, and finish him off if he was still alive. My grandfather respected Vittorio for some reason. I wasn’t sure what it was. I didn’t fucking care.

Tito glanced at the table doing business before he pushed up his glasses and turned his eyes on me. “Your grandfather has agreed to an arrangement with a bride.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Tell me who she is.” One step closer to going home—after I had Alcina to bring with me.

“He does not know,” he said. “He left it up to me.”

The entire table stared at him, no one longer than me. He stared back, not caring one way or another. He got to work on his plate as soon as the young girl set it down. She relaxed some when he thanked her.

“You leave tomorrow for Bronte,” he said. “You will not loaf around Italy any longer on some fool’s quest.” He patted his mouth with a napkin. “The pistachio harvest will begin soon. You will work.”

“Fool’s quest,” I repeated. If Silvio had told him, I’d kill Silvio. This was between the two of us. I refused to allow my grandfather to stop me.

He nodded. “That is what I would do,” he said, setting his glass down, “if I found out who my father was and wanted to kill the family who deprived me of him. But things are not always clear in life, ah? Sometimes we must have patience to find out where we’re going, when we have just found out where we’ve been.”

He took another bite. I was torn between watching him and watching the men at the table, who were rising from their seats.

“You will go to Bronte, and by October, you will be a married man,” Tito continued. “This will please your grandfather. Her name matters none—or does it?”

I heard him, but my eyes locked on the son, who was walking toward the door. We stared at each other until he left. “No,” I said, absentmindedly. “It doesn’t.”

“Bene,” Tito said. “We will go in the morning.”

Neither Giuseppe nor Angela looked at me as they walked toward the kitchen after the men left. Her hand reaching out for her husband’s shoulder was the last thing I saw before the doors closed behind them.

6

Corrado

Bronte was around an hour and a half from Forza d’Agrò, and the town was known for its pistachios. “I’Oro della Sicilia.” Or, Sicily’s gold. Mount Etna towered in the distance, smoke coming from its mouth, the town lying at its feet. Lava rock was scattered from eruptions. The trees grew right out of it.

Tito told me that was why the pistachios were compared to gold, because of the volcanic soil. “It is rich,” he said, as he pointed out