Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,42

that way, not after everything she’d been through. Though I was sure there were countless other ways that I would.

I'd leave my wife before it came to that, but I didn't see that happening, either. The thought of me without her, after I found her, was the first truly painful thing I’d ever felt. It proved that I had a heart under this armor. Even after the loss of Emilia, all I could feel was the need for vengeance.

“My wife is not a side dish,” I said finally. “She’s the centerpiece—the golden platter.”

“Filled with exotic fruits, none more symbolic than the grape,” my grandfather muttered, almost to himself. “She’s the entire focus, which is not an option. You were groomed to take my place. The famiglia comes first. She knows what kind of man you are—who you are.

“She’s intelligent and intuitive. A smart man can sense that about her. She also has a temper. I can sense that about her, too. Which means she will not sit back and accept it all—not without a fight.”

I grinned at that, watching her dance with her sister. Even though my eyes were trained on her, I knew my grandfather was watching me.

“Famiglia e lealtà,” I said, holding out my hand for his. It took him a second, but finally, he took it. “This thing of ours…that is my oath—family and loyalty. My code. I won’t fail you or the famiglia.”

He squeezed my hand and then let go. “This is going to be a problem with Silvio,” he said. “He is seeking justice for what happened to his son.”

We had had a talk about that the night he arrived. I told him everything I knew. It fucking pissed me off that Junior had come to the old country threatening innocent women and their families with the Capitani name to get what he wanted. My grandfather and his famiglia were known in Sicily, and most people were aware of the empire he’d built in America. He was respected.

What made me thirst for blood, more than anything ever had before, was the picture Anna had showed me of my wife after Junior had beat her when she told him no.

Alcina had downplayed the situation—omitting two black eyes, five stitches in one eyebrow, a busted lip, and head to toe bruises—but there was no denying that she was a smart woman. She knew if he beat her that badly once, just for saying, “I’m not ready,” he’d beat her for the rest of her life. So she chopped his balls off and then ran away, valuing her life too much to stay.

“Junior lies to us,” I said. “Silvio covers for him.”

“Your wife tells her story one way,” he said, and I could tell he was rubbing his chin, his pinky ring glinting in the light. “Junior tells it another.”

He became quiet for a while and then made a noise that told me his mind was made up. “I will talk to him. We will come to terms on this situation.” Silence settled between us once more before he cleared his throat. “The Scarpones are dead.”

Four words.

The Scarpones are dead.

I didn’t even turn to look at him.

“You didn’t involve me,” I said.

“You are in enough trouble,” he said. “Both situations are being taken care of. Once they are, you will return home to take my spot. You don’t need anything else standing in your way.”

“I should’ve been there,” I said.

“None of us were there,” he said, his voice so calm it was like he was talking about the weather. “It happened a month or two after you left for Sicily. Someone acted before we had the chance. All signs point to the Pretty Boy Prince, Vittorio Scarpone. I knew it was only a matter of a time. My hunches are rarely wrong. The Irish—Cash Kelly, Ronan Kelly’s son—helped, to a certain degree.”

“He’s a walking dead man,” I said. “Vittorio Scarpone.”

“You must really enjoy the scenery here,” he said.

That was easy to translate: the more I pushed the issue, the longer he would keep me here, even after the smoke had cleared at home.

I didn’t turn to look at him, keeping my eyes on my wife, who was talking to a man. Ezio, my sister-in-law had called him earlier, when she’d introduced us. Word going around was that he had just returned from Greece after his wife left him. Before he built up the courage to talk to my wife, he’d been watching the way the lace moved against