The Guzzi Legacy Vol 1 - Bethany-Kris

1.

Corrado

Koi no yokan.

Corrado read those words, inked in a script font and hidden on the inner elbow of his family priest’s arm. It was the only time he ever noticed the tattoo, and that said something considering he attended this church since he was a newborn. They had christened him in this place. His first communion had been an interesting experience as a kid with a church of more than four hundred parishioners watching. Catholicism for the Guzzis was a second skin—the church, a second home. He recognized these walls inside and out.

But not that tattoo.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

The priest—Father Gene, they called him—looked up from the papers he’d been moving aside on his desk. The office, a mixture of dark woods, richly colored tapestries, smelled of old leather, and even older books. Compliments of the row of texts that looked like they had seen better days lining the shelves behind the priest’s desk.

“What, Corrado?”

“That, there,” Corrado said, pointing at the black script on the priest’s inner elbow. “What do the words mean?”

Father Gene’s hand came up to cover the small spot of ink as a smile curved his lips. “Something you wouldn’t understand at seventeen, I assure you. And we’re not here to talk about tattoos I had done before I joined the priesthood.”

“How old were you, then?” Corrado tipped his head to the side. “When you joined?”

“I started the process at nineteen.”

“So, you had the tattoo before then, but you won’t tell me what it means because I won’t understand because of my age?”

Father Gene stared at him from across the desk, silent. His father, Gian, would say this was one of those times. Out of all his siblings, including his identical twin, Corrado was the one who spoke when he should stay quiet.

He’d rather talk about other shit than what he came here for.

“Are we asking about my tattoo because you’re attempting to avoid the conversation about your lack of confession for two years?”

Corrado stared at the cross over the window to his right rather than at the priest. “I don’t need to do confession.”

“But your father believes something is wrong ... he’s the one who asked me to bring you in for a session of counsel, didn’t he?”

He was smart, so he stayed quiet when he had nothing good to say. Like right now.

The priest didn’t miss it.

“I’m worried about you,” the man across the desk admitted. “You graduated high school three weeks ago, and according to your father, you have yet to decide on a real path of what you want to do. And without getting into the specifics of your father’s business, because without me explaining that to you, he knows I don’t approve, I’m concerned you will flounder with no stability to hold on to. No work, no college ... no faith.”

Corrado’s gaze snapped back to the priest. “I have faith.”

He was sure of that. The problem? His faith and doctrine had taught him that certain parts of himself weren’t right. He found comfort in church, but he also found confusion, too.

“If you tell me why you stopped confession, and why you’re struggling to move forward in your life, I will tell you what the tattoo means,” Father Gene said, grinning. “And whatever you tell me, that will never go beyond these walls.”

“Not even to my parents?”

“Not even to them, Corrado.”

He stared down at where he’d clasped his hands in his lap. This way, he wouldn’t fidget or distract himself. He didn’t need his nerves on display. Another thing being a Guzzi had taught him—the appearance of calm and confidence was most important, but especially in their life.

Corrado was far from stupid, and he could tell what people assumed when they saw him. They assumed because he ran around with Guzzi blood in his veins, that like his older brother, Marcus, and even his twin, Chris, he would be the same and go into the family business.

La famiglia.

The mafia.

His last name said so. The legacy that came with it kept the demand alive. Tradition. Men in this life followed their father’s footsteps, and even more so when one’s father just happened to be Gian Guzzi—Cosa Nostra Don, controlling the largest and most powerful crime family in Canada. It was expected of Corrado; history said so.

Except his father. Gian never said a word about it. Not to Corrado.

“You’re struggling,” the priest said, his French clear. Maybe because he assumed it would comfort Corrado. The only person who spoke French to him now, besides