Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,7

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The line of cars was close, and there was no use in waiting any longer. The longer we sat, the better the chance of them picking us off.

“Move,” I said.

“Are you fucking—”

“There are more of our men around,” I said. “They’ll hold ’em off long enough for us to make it to the cars.”

I stood and ran toward the waiting car with one man ahead of me, one behind, and two beside me. Gunfire was heavier the closer we came to the car, and the man to the right of me took a bullet in his right arm. He fell back, leaving me somewhat exposed. I shot in the direction, seeing a man duck behind a stone as I did. The man in front of me yanked the car door open and I ducked inside, the door slamming closed behind me.

My grandfather nodded once—the driver honked his horn twice—and then, like a carefully coordinated motorcade, the line of our cars started to leave the cemetery.

My grandfather looked out of the window, the gray light falling on his face like a dark cloud. It was hard not to see him in this place instead of Emilia. She had more life to her face in the casket than he did in this car.

I turned to look out of the opposite window, heavy droplets of water rushing down the pane with the speed we were going. The interior was as cool as the funeral home. It smelled like death—like the roses on the casket.

“Tell me about Vittorio Scarpone,” I said.

“Enough!” he shouted. It echoed inside of the car. It was the first time I’d ever heard him raise his voice. He could order a man’s life to be taken with a nod of his head. “I forbid you to go near the Scarpones. They will be taken care of. But you.” He lifted his pointer finger and then let it fall. “You will be taken to the airport. Now.”

“Or?”

“Or.” He cleared his throat. “Or nothing.” He lifted his arm, letting the jacket fall back, and looked at his watch. “Your plane leaves in an hour.”

The paper in my pocket felt like money burning a hole, and nothing would stop me from earning it. The men called me Scorpio. They would soon call me Mercenary, because the information would be mine, no matter what.

4

Alcina

The light in chiesa della Santissima Annunziata felt amber in spirit, even though it was dreary and cold outside. I closed my eyes to it, wondering if it was a warning or something more healing. It snuck in through the black lace mantello I wore, either accenting the morose piece, and why I was wearing it, or defying it.

I brought my rosary to my forehead, letting it dangle in front of my face. The gold from the beads seemed to ward off the dreariness and emptiness and fill me with the warmth from the sun. I hoped this time it would stay with me.

Stay with me during the uncertain times I faced. Cling to me like a shield that would protect me from the cold wind howling outside.

My mamma sat next to me on the pew and chanted a whispered prayer, “Dio…”

My lips moved with hers, but no sound came out.

What did I want? What did I need? What was I really asking for?

An old romantic poet once told me that we don’t always get what we want, but what we need.

I needed to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop living in fear of hell and to look forward to something much more heavenly. I needed to be safe. To live a life worth living.

I tried to imagine it. This new life my father, my papà, had arranged for me. What would this new man be like? Would he treat me the same way the bull did? Like nothing but a cow in a pasture?

A tear slipped down my mamma’s cheek. I wiped it before it could turn cold on her warm skin.

I had until October—when our marriage would be finalized—to come to terms with this new arrangement and accept it. I would stand in this church that my family had attended for generations, face the man who accepted the terms papà had set, and commit my life to a stranger. A man who could be another bull that deserved to be castrated.

Papà told me that I was hardheaded. That it was better to marry and live rather than to hide and be found and then killed, or worse: to