CHAPTER 8
FRANKIE
Hooking my arms over Westminster Bridge, I stare down at a River Thames that’s as black as the sky, watching the lights on the surface ripple violently as a water taxi passes by underneath.
Like the rest of this city, the water looks innocent enough, but there’s always darker shit going on if you look closer. The cops pull an estimated thirty-five bodies a year from this river, and not all of them are suicide. My money’s on Cian O’Sullivan and his crew making up the shortfall with anyone who displeases them.
Big Ben is chiming out eight times behind me when a black cab pulls up to the curb. There’s movement on the backseat, and then a huge monster of a man emerges. I watch him peel off a couple of crisp tenners from his money clip and thrust them through the open window at the cabbie. When he turns toward me, he’s still buttoning up his light grey suit jacket. It doesn’t hide the blood smeared across his knuckles though, or the dark stains on his cuffs.
Time changes all of us, but some of us not so much.
He’s still big enough to make me conscious of the knife in my back pocket. He’s still the man who saved my life when he shot my father’s underboss, Antonio, right between the eyes.
“Francesco?” He lets a herd of tourists pass before cutting the distance between us. “It’s been a long time, kid.”
“Three years,” I say, thrusting my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. “Good to see you again, Guido.”
The last time we’d met was on the eve of my sixteenth birthday. I was cocky enough to think I was ready to take on O’Sullivan. He shut me down with two grand in cash, and a missive to grow some hair on my balls before I bothered asking him again.
He won’t be shutting me down today.
“You’ve changed since we last saw each other,” he muses.
“Didn’t have a fucking choice now, did I? It’s called a growth spurt.”
The corners of his mouth lift as he joins me on the side of the bridge. Resting his forearms on the stone balustrade, he stares out at a big wheel and a tall city.
“Busy night?” I gesture at his bloody knuckles.
“An interesting night,” he counters, refusing to elaborate. “Knight treating you well?”
“He’s been good to me,” I admit, staring at the skyline too.
I never wanted a replacement father, and Jacob Knight never forced me to accept him as one. He just gave me a good home, cheap food on the table, and security.
When I reclaim the Lastra throne, I’m planning on giving the Knights their own wing in the palace as a thank you.
“Zaccaria knew it was the best place for you.” There’s a pause. “What’s the son like?”
“Aiden? He’s a pain in the arse,” I say, smothering a grin. “Smart, though. Loyal.” There’s another pause. “I want to see him, Guido.”
“You got a passport?” His easy smile vanishes. “The last time he left Italy was seven years ago.”
“I got a phone and visa issues.”
He grunts. “Seems you grew a mouth on you, too. You done time yet?”
“Suspended sentence. Couple of misdemeanours.”
“I’ll see what I can do… I’m the only eyes and ears Zaccaria has in the city these days—”
“Until I take my father’s place as capo.”
“If you say so.” He inclines his head out of respect, but it’s a bullshit nod. He’s been getting drunk on the power while I’ve been stuck in the wilderness, and now he’s reluctant to share the bottle.
“Get Zaccaria on the phone,” I order. “I want to speak to him tonight. I’m nineteen. I’m not the same scared kid I was back then. He promised me an army to take on O’Sullivan. He sliced my hand open and made me swear allegiance to The Family, but that vow went both ways…” I hold my palm up to him, the small scar flashing a livid silver in the orange streetlight.
“You’re not ready yet, Francesco,” he says with a sigh.
“Maybe ‘Francesco’ isn’t, but Frankie fucking Lastra is,” I snarl.
“You scam money from cash machines, kid. You think you can take on a mobster like O’Sullivan? Get smarter. Push harder. Upgrade to armed bank robberies or something, and then maybe we’ll talk some more.”
I grind my teeth in frustration. There’s no time for this kind of pacifying, horseshit brush-off. “I’m not here so I can bend over and let you shove your excuses up my arse, Guido. I ain’t leaving this bridge without a guarantee.”
“Frankie, listen—”
“We’ll do it together,” I say, appealing to his ego, as I pull out a pack of cigarettes and slot one between my lips. “You and me.”
There’s another pause. “Why now?”
A dove fluttered her wings and triggered a butterfly effect over London.
“You’re stalling, old man.” Cupping my hands, I bring the lighter to the tip of my smoke, inhaling all my frustrations until my lungs are burning with them. “My patience is running out. I did what he asked of me. I stayed out of sight—”
“You ever killed anyone before?” he interrupts.
“Not since that night,” I say, blowing out a cloud of white. “But they’ll be no hesitating when I aim my gun at O’Sullivan’s head.”
His dark gaze flickers over my face for a couple of beats. “Fine. I’ll talk to Zaccaria… Maybe we can bring you in.”
My blood surges.
Finally.
“I’ll call you when he’s made a decision.” He straightens up and holds his hand out. “Until then, stay out of trouble.”
I grin slowly. Shake firmly. “You know I won’t.”
“Then stay out of jail.” He starts strolling back to the curb, lifting his arm up to hail a passing taxi.
“Hey, Guido?” I call out, my next question resting on my tongue like a silver bullet as he yanks the taxi’s back door open. “Did O’Sullivan ever have any kids?”
He stills, one hand wrapped around the door handle. I see him weighing up his answer, his face shadowed—at first, by indecision, and then by the red double-deckers rumbling past.
“A daughter.” He slams the door shut again and gestures for the cabbie to wait as he strides back over to me. “She’s not his flesh and blood, though. He stole her from her mother when she was just a kid. He forces her to live in his house and take his name.”
My hand clench around my lighter. “Why?”
“She’s the lovechild of one of his enemies, so he took her as leverage.”
“What’s her name?”
“Ada… Why so interested?”
“Just considering all my angles.” I flick my cigarette butt over the side of the bridge.
“Don’t give me that crapola, sunshine,” he says sharply. “You look like one of your girlfriends just short-changed you on a blow job.”
“You think I want to stick my dick in anyone connected with that Irish cunt?” I snarl, but the words sting my mouth. She’s worth so much more than my street scorn.