Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,9

her name, as expected, none of them would come near me again. They knew I didn’t belong.

So I set my sights on her parents.

Her mamma, Angela, was a devout woman who didn’t travel far from home. Her patri, father, owned a restaurant that had views of the sea. He watched me as closely as I watched him.

Every day I would see the man and he would see me. There was no animosity in the way he looked at me, but a smug assurance that no matter what I did, I’d never find his precious daughter. He had no fucking clue.

I’d wait here for the rest of my life for Alcina Parisi.

I narrowed my eyes against the glare of the sun breaking around the church, wondering how many times she’d stepped inside of it. How many times she’d walked the same paths I had to get to the same spot.

“This is called stalking in America, I believe,” Nunzio said, blowing smoke out of his mouth. He was a trusted man who came with me wherever I went. He shook his head when I gave no answer and went to sit on a bench close to the church, in the shade.

“I need food,” Adriano said, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at his head. There was no doubt that my grandfather had sent him with me as punishment.

His cologne assaulted me in the breeze, and I turned my narrowed eyes on him. It brought back memories of Bianca’s wedding. I resisted the urge to throw him in the sea—from a cliff—to rid him of the insulting smell.

Adriano stuck the handkerchief back in his pocket. “What are we doing here anyway? We’ve been all over this place. There’s no more to see, Corrado. Let’s go to the beach.” He nudged me with his elbow and wiggled his thick eyebrows at me.

At the same time he nudged me, a gust of wind swept up, coming straight from the sea, and the paper in my hand was set free. My eyes collided with Angela’s as the paper flew toward her. It went up the steps of the church, hitting one of the stones, and with another gust, landing at her feet.

She always wore dresses that matched the area—old in style—and leather sandals. Her hair was pulled up, dark red in the sun, gray streaks coming out on the sides.

The paper was in her hand by the time I made it up the steps and to her. She held it out for me to take without even looking at it, or maybe she had, but it didn’t show on her face. The only thing that showed was a grin that I’d seen before. It made me think she had a running joke going at my expense, something only she could hear. She laughed at me every time she saw me standing around or sitting in their restaurant.

My fingers touched the paper, but when I went to take it back, she held on, not letting it go. “Tell me,” she said in Sicilian. “Can you sing?”

Her mouth didn’t laugh, but her eyes did—at me, at the look on my face. I could see my reflection in her dark eyes. They crinkled on the sides, a sign Tito had once told me meant that a woman kept her secrets locked up tight, and she generally had a good sense of humor, even at other people’s expense.

Angela let go of the paper, without my answer, the sound of her laugher echoing behind her as she disappeared inside of the church. Everything went quiet after, except for the sound of the breeze, rustling the palm trees behind me.

“If I don’t lose ten pounds by the time I get back to New York—” Adriano shook his head, searching for his handkerchief again “—there’s no help for me. All we do is walk. I’m sweatin’ buckets.”

“All you do is eat,” Nunzio said in accented English, shaking his head and stepping on another cigarette he had dropped on the walk. “When we are not walking.”

“What’s so special about this place?” Adriano looked around, wiping his neck. He stuck his handkerchief back in his pocket, the guns underneath his shirt probably ringing wet from his sweaty skin. “The beach. I need to be on the beach with some healthy fruit and a few drinks.”

Nunzio lifted both of his hands, palms up, complaining behind Adriano’s back as he entered into Parisi’s restaurant first. The girl who usually served us waved us to