“And more in love with you so she won’t leave when she realizes there is never any end to our troubles?” Tore sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired mouth. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve ended up with a Lombardi woman. You’re very much like me after all.”
“Hopefully, we will have the happily-ever-after you didn’t get with yours,” I said softly, watching the pain moved through his craggy face. It was still as bright and fresh as I imagined it had been decades ago when Caprice broke his heart.
“I love her still,” Tore said with a forced faux-casual shrug. “It’s not the end. Maybe one day she’ll realize how much better life would be together. I don’t hold my breath. Caprice has always been stubborn.”
I laughed. “She gave that to her daughters.”
“You won’t tell her,” Tore questioned, almost sheepishly. “About Cosima and Sebastian being mine. Caprice wouldn’t want her to know or she would have told Elena herself.”
“I don’t like keeping secrets from her. To be frank, Tore, Elena’s been made to feel like an outsider in her own family for too long. Secrets are only part of the reason for that and I don’t want to play into it. I respect you, I won’t say what isn’t mine to tell. But I warn you, there’s a time limited on this.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “I’ll give Caprice a call.”
“Will she answer?”
He sighed. “Maybe. She has been a little more receptive since Cosima has proven to be so happy with Alexander, but I’m a long way from being out of the dog house. I don’t think she is every willing to forgive me for the part I played in Cosima being sold, even if I did it to save the entire family. Speaking of, Cosima and Alexander are on their way. She called when she read the news.” Tore tossed the folded copy of the New York Times across the table top at me. “She wants explanations.”
The Mafia Lord flees New York, the headline on the front page read above a photo of me on the steps of the courthouse. In the background of the grainy black and white photo, Elena stood with Yara, her poise regal, gaze tipped down her nose to stare witheringly at the reporters who’d been shouting questions at us. I touched my touch to the flimsy newsprint over her face and felt a pang in my chest knowing I’d willingly ripped her away from her entire.
“There’s no going back for her,” I muttered, rubbing at my chest where the ache emanated.
“Do you regret it?”
“No. I almost wish I did. But I’m too selfish. She was meant to be mine, Tore. I’m just sorry she had to give up everything she worked so hard for in order to be with me. It seems like a poor trade.”
“She’s a smart girl so I’m sure she would disagree with that,” Tore said, staring at me solemnly over his raised espresso. “There’s no mention of her in the article. Yara is covering for her at work, saying she has extended medical leave. The public won’t connect the dots, but the di Carlos might. They know you’re gone now, Dante, they’ll make moves to take over what’s ours and they’ll do it by hurting our people.”
“Jaco and Chen will hold down the fort, we have good capos in charge of good crews. I have faith in them. And when we give the go ahead, Caelian Accardi and Santo Belcante are ready to move on the di Carlos.”
“Faith in soldati is important, but you must not forget that while the cats are away, the mice will play,” he reminded me.
“We still have a mole to worry about, too.” I thought about who could be betraying our outfit almost every day since Mason Matlock confessed to it. “Jaco was acting strangely before I left.”
“You mentioned, but Jacopo is your cousin. The first friend you made in America. My heart wants to discount him entirely, but I’m old enough to know the heart is a magnificent idiot,” he said with a wry, self-deprecating grin.
“My heart led me to you. To Cosima. It led me back to my brother and our kinship, to Addie, Chen, Frankie, Marco, and Jaco. To lottatrice mia. I don’t doubt my heart, Tore, I only doubt my ability to keep those in it safe.”
We were stretched too thin. Most of my crew in New York City was at risk now Tore and I were gone, the head of the hydra chopped off left enemies thinking they could take down the whole beast before another head could grow back.
Rocco had proven yesterday with his less than warm welcome that we weren’t in friendly territory in Napoli anymore.
It was easy to become overwhelmed in a life like mine. There was rarely peace, rarely an ended to the drama and intrigue that made life in the fast line so dangerous.
I fucking loved it.
But it meant being vigilant at every moment, sacrificing your pawns for the safety of the queen and her king.
And I was only too ready to start my maneuvering on the Italian board.
“First things first,” I murmured as I ate the last of my sweet pastry. “We have enemies on this side of the Atlantic to take care of.”
When I got up, Tore frowned. “Where are you going?”
“To Rocco,” I admitted, doing up my suit jacket. “We have a wedding to plan.”
One of the most profitable industries in Italy was counterfeit fashion. Billions of euros in merchandise passed through the Bay of Naples from Europe and China every year and the Camorra knew how to press that advantage. We had cheap labor houses that employed impoverished Italians, often those with disabilities or criminal records who couldn’t otherwise get jobs, to produce trendy counterfeit purses and scarves, replicas of outfits from red carpets and royal photo shoots. Leonardo Esposito was the capo in charge of the operation, but Rocco could be found in one of the largest warehouses by the water every Monday, walking the lines of workers, shouting over the clap of sewing machines to be heard by his underlings as he survived their wares. When Tore was capo dei capi, he had employed an old man by the singular name of Bello to oversee production because he’d once been one of the top designers at Italy’s most prestigious fashion house, but when Rocco took over, he retired to Malta.
Now, rumor had it, the pieces weren’t going for as high a price tag. Some reputable fashion connections that bought the Camorra’s work for cheap under the table then claimed it for their own had stopped putting in orders.
So, Rocco was there every Monday, breathing down everyone’s necks.
There were guards at the chain link fence cordoning off the property and more at the entrance to the non-descript building, but they didn’t try to stop me from entering.
It seemed Umberto Arno had misled me about my reputation.
It still proceeded me into every place I went in Napoli.
I lingered on the floor near the edges of the room, saying hello to some of the workers I remembered from years ago, their gnarled hands still flying over the garments, their eyes permanently squinted from the harsh light. They were happy to speak about how much they liked Leonardo, the same capo who had seemed uncomfortable around Rocco around the table the other day. When I brought up Abruzzi they were closed mouthed and shifty eyed.
That said more than words ever could.
There were fractures in the outfit and I was only too read to exploit them.
When I was done my surveillance, I climbed the metal stairs to the second level that wrapped around the walls and left the middle section open to the first floor. Rocco, Leonardo and a few other men where in a glass room at the back of the building. Even from a distance, I could see Rocco was riled up, hands jerking wildly through the air like dive bombing birds.