had to do.
“You packing? Just in case.”
“Seriously?”
“If I’ve learned anything working for the Family, it’s that you can never be too sure, about anyone or anything. I’ll be close by.” Tommy gave me a nod, and I slipped out of the car.
Cutting across the street, I jammed my hands in my pockets. The sun was just beginning to disappear on the horizon, dusk blanketing the neighborhood. I had no idea what I was going to say but the need to know the truth—to uncover the details of what led us to this point—sat heavy on my chest.
She lived in a small bungalow, a far cry from the huge place the Fascini owned in Roccaforte. Climbing the porch, I rapped my knuckles against the outer door. Nervous energy reverberated through me, which was fucking stupid. I didn’t know this woman. She was no one to me.
No one.
And yet, she was.
If things had been different, she would have been family.
Maybe not by blood but her brother would have been.
It was some screwed-up shit.
A shuffle behind the door demanded my attention and then it cracked open, the fly screen separating us. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Monroe?”
“Who’s asking?” she said in a soft Italian accent.
“My name is Niccolò. Niccolò Marchetti.” I was already going against Tommy’s advice, but something compelled me to the speak the truth.
“Marchetti, you say.” She narrowed her eyes, her skin crinkled and tired. “I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.”
“I was hoping you can help me, Ma’am.”
“Let me guess, that nephew of mine is causing all kinds of trouble?”
My spine stiffened.
She knew.
The old lady knew why I was here.
“I’ve been waiting for one of you to show up, you know. Didn’t think it would take this long. You alone? Actually,” she held up a finger. “Don’t answer that. I know how you people work. Come on inside.”
Elizabeth opened her door and stepped aside. I opened the screen and followed her inside. “I hope you like tea,” she called. “I just made a fresh pot.”
“Tea’s fine.”
“Well go on through there and take a seat, I’ll just be a second.” She motioned to the living room. It was a modest room, full of work furniture, every available surface littered with trinkets and photographs. I spotted the girl from earlier, her granddaughter, in most of them. But it was the one on the mantle above the fireplace that caught my eye. It was like staring at an older version of Scott Fascini. Same square jawline, same cocksure smirk. Except the photograph was an old faded black and white print.
“That’s my brother, Michael.” Elizabeth placed down a tray of tea and moved beside me, plucking the silver-framed photo off the shelf. “But you already know that, don’t you?” She gave me a knowing glance. “Come, sit. I’m sure we have much to talk about.
“You keep talking like you’ve been waiting for this. I expected you to be more…”
“Unwilling to talk? No, I have been waiting for this moment to arrive. The past always catches up with you eventually, does it not? I am an old lady now, so I make every second count. Is he... dead?” Elizabeth deadpanned as she poured the tea.
“You didn’t know?” According to Tommy, Michael Fascini had died almost twenty years ago.
“I haven’t seen or heard from Michael since the day he left Vermont on his crusade.”
“Crusade?”
“I’ll never forget the day he found out the truth. Our mom never talked about his father growing up. We knew we had different fathers, but it didn’t matter, not to me. I idolized my big brother. Even as a young boy he was strong and loyal. He doted on our mom something fierce. I think it’s the reason she never found anyone else, because she feared what Michael would do.
“I was seven when she finally told him. Michael had just turned eleven. I remember because it was a bad winter and we were snowed in for days. He’d been asking more and more questions about his father and I guess she felt it was time he knew the truth.”
Elizabeth gazed out at nothing, her eyes clouded with the pain of the past. “Everything was different after that. Michael became obsessed with learning all about the Marchetti and Capizola. He became withdrawn, started fighting and getting into trouble at school. Mom was beside herself. I knew she regretted telling him the truth, but it was too late.”
“She told you what had happened too?”
“Not at first, no. They both kept some things to themselves. But