Revenge (2 page)

None of Rinaldo’s line would survive the
night. It was fitting that Lucchesi’s heir died first.

The woman and the youngest boy, Mario, sought
cover by the car. Apparently they crawled inside, since Bruno
whipped his arm overhead, signaling the men to surround the
Mercedes. The hit men didn’t hesitate, spraying the car with
bullets. The percussive blasts of gunfire beat a joyful staccato in
Carlo’s chest. How well he remembered the wild buck of a gun in his
hands, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the coppery tang of blood in
the air, the ringing in his ears in the wake of a kill. But he was
capo
now, and he had to be protected for the good of the
family. Still, he missed the old days when he had administered
justice firsthand.

Mario attempted to flee through the far door
onto the street. One of the shooters fired into him, not stopping
until the boy’s body grew still, his head and shoulders hanging out
the back door. It was a shame about this boy as well; he was a
fighter.

After slapping in a fresh clip, Bruno leaned
in the car and fired a final bullet, presumably finishing off the
woman. Then he walked over to Primo and shot him in the head.

Three down. Just two more to go, and his
vengeance would be complete.

Except no one charged out of the restaurant.
No more guards. And no more Lucchesis.

Where the hell are they
? This was
supposed to be a rout, a decisive victory. A definitive end to the
feud. And Carlo was supposed to be the victor.

Setting his cup on the sill, he rose, peering
out the window, looking up and down the street as he pushed the
curtains wide. With a deafening roar in his ears, the horrible
truth sprang upon him, sending his stomach plunging to the floor,
the espresso threatening to come back up.
Rinaldo and Enrico
weren’t there and never had been
. No self-respecting man of
honor could stand by while his family was slaughtered.

Carlo watched, fists curled, as Bruno and his
men left the scene. They’d reconvene at the house, where it was
safe to talk. Already, sirens keened in the distance, though no one
had interfered during the shooting. That didn’t mean there weren’t
witnesses, but he wasn’t concerned. Only someone exceedingly
foolhardy would testify against the ‘Ndrangheta.

Waiting for Bruno in his study, Carlo clipped
the end off a cigar and lit it, inhaling in sharp, short puffs.
Who had fucked up
?

Bruno knocked on the door, then entered.
Bruno’s suit strained across his shoulders, but somehow there was a
new smallness to him, a hunched quality that made Carlo’s face go
hot. Along with gunpowder and fine cologne, Bruno smelled of
guilt.

“Why should I let you live?”

The man looked at the floor, his hands jammed
in his jacket pockets, his dark hair, usually carefully slicked
back, now half falling in his face, hiding his eyes. “Our informant
told us the entire family would be there. It was the youngest boy’s
birthday.”

“Where are Rinaldo and Enrico?”

“At home, I assume.” Bruno glanced up.
“Trying to eliminate them there would be suicide.”

Carlo wanted to rage at the man, but a
fuckup, even a monumental one, shouldn’t rattle him. He was
capo
; he was in charge. The men looked to him in a crisis,
and if he faltered, he would be lost.
They
would be lost.
“Hands on the desk.”

Fear flashed through Bruno’s eyes. “Both
hands?”

“When did you become deaf?” Bruno probably
thought he was going to take a few fingers, maybe one of the hands.
Maybe he even feared that Carlo would take both. Smiling, Carlo
picked up the cigar cutter.

Bruno swallowed, but he didn’t beg. Good for
Bruno.

On the other hand, he’d fucked up. Bad for
Bruno.

Carlo couldn’t suffer such incompetence
unchecked; it was bad for business, it was bad for discipline, and
it was bad for morale. A little fear liberally applied kept the men
content.

But worst of all, Bruno had cost him probably
the only opportunity he’d ever have to get rid of the Lucchesis
with minimal bloodshed. Now the long bloody war between the
families would continue. Carlo would lose many more men. Someone
had to pay for that mistake.

The man’s eyes followed the cigar cutter as
Carlo returned it to his jacket pocket. Bruno let out a short
quivering breath when the tiny guillotine disappeared. Carlo gave
him a smile, a distraction. Before the man could react, Carlo
pulled a gun from the same pocket and shot him in the face. Blood
and brain matter and bits of bone sprayed out the back of the man’s
head, then he slumped to the floor. Seeing the pool of blood
spreading from the body, Carlo let out a sigh. He should have taken
Bruno outside. He’d liked that carpet.

Hell, he’d liked Bruno too, but there was no
place for sentiment in this business. A
capo
had to hold his
love close; the fewer vulnerabilities he had, the better. Loving
Toni the way he did was all the risk he could afford.

Placing the gun on the desk, he sat down and
picked up the cigar, taking a long drag. He let the aromatic smoke
fill his lungs, let it bring him calm. After a while, he
smiled.

It is so much sweeter this way
. He
picked up the phone, punching in a number he knew well. Rinaldo
answered after a few rings. “There’s something I must tell you,”
Carlo said.

“Carlo? Are you ready to be reasonable now
and end this trouble between us?”

Laughter bubbled up from his gut. “Oh, I’m
ending this, but not how you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me, Rinaldo, did you hear the sirens
earlier?”

Lucchesi’s voice shook with urgency. “What
did you do?”

“I’ve taken what you love most in this world.
Your wife and sons. Shot down in the street outside Marinucci’s.
Only one boy left. It’d be a pity to lose him too.”

The howl of rage, of anguish, that came down
the line stirred something greedy in the pit of his belly. When the
howling stopped and the cursing started, Carlo broke in. “I will
not be trifled with, Lucchesi. And I will never be reasonable.” He
hung up, and when the phone rang, he pulled the cord from the back
to silence it.

Picking up the cigar, he took another drag.
Sometimes life was very, very good.

There was no need to send other men after
Lucchesi. He’d made his point, and every other boss who thought
about crossing him would think twice and repent such scheming.

He’d sent a clear, unambiguous message: Carlo
Andretti would bow to no one.

Even if he had to leave his own boy to
Rinaldo Lucchesi’s doubtful mercy.

Present day

Rome, Italy

This time, the end of Enrico Lucchesi’s world
arrived in a beautifully wrapped box. The package, covered in a
fine, silvery foil paper with a crisp white satin bow, arrived
early that morning at Enrico’s hotel suite in Rome. There was no
card, no return address. Enrico’s pulse rate kicked upward. In his
line of work, nothing good ever came from an anonymous
delivery.

Ruggero, his senior bodyguard, eyed the
package on the wooden writing desk as if it were ticking. When
Enrico touched the box, Ruggero nudged his hand away. “Let me, Don
Lucchesi.” Enrico bowed his head and stepped back, watching his
guard slice into the wrapping. Ruggero’s hand was steady, his cuts
deliberate.

Inside was an ornately carved wooden box that
looked oddly familiar. Enrico had seen it somewhere, but he
couldn’t place it. Ruggero put his hand on the latch, then looked
up at him. “Perhaps you should stand farther away.” Never an order
from his guard, always a suggestion. But one he’d be a fool to
ignore.

Enrico stepped over to the far wall by the
sofa and crossed his arms. How incongruous. He and his men were
dealing with a possible bomb while the vacationers and business
people in the suites surrounding them enjoyed a full five stars of
luxury. What was it like to almost never know fear, to live every
day with the comforting certainty that another one was coming? The
only certainty he’d ever had was that any day could be his
last.

His heart jumped in his chest. How was it
that this situation never became routine? The sick expectation, the
sense he’d finally meet his death today, his skin going clammy, his
stomach twisting, his mouth dry, his skin practically twitching
from anticipation of a fatal stab from a knife or the punch of a
bullet. Or in this case, the tearing of shrapnel from an
explosion.

He frowned when Antonio, his newest
bodyguard, stepped in front to shield him from a potential blast.
He never should have endangered the boy this way. A familiar litany
filled Enrico’s head:
Will he be just one more dead body you
walk away from
?
Just one more unfortunate mistake
?
Just one more eventually forgotten casualty in your quest to
outlive Carlo Andretti
?

Ruggero eased open the latch, then edged the
lid up, its metal hinges creaking. The stern lines of his face
deepened as he stared at the contents. He ran a hand through his
dark curly hair.

Enrico uncrossed his arms and took a step
forward. “What is it?”

The guard let the lid fall completely open,
then stepped away from the box, shaking his head. “You’d best see
for yourself,
signore.
”

Enrico crossed the room and looked into the
box. As he registered the contents, his stomach flipped like a
dying fish. Nestled within white tissue paper, a falcon stared up
at him, its gray and white feathers limp, its round dark eye filmed
over. A black cord cut into its neck, strangling the bird. The
raptor’s open beak suggested it was giving a last angry cry at the
injustice of its death.

He looked up at Ruggero, their eyes locking.
A falcon was featured on the Lucchesi coat of arms. The message was
obvious.

As he lowered the lid, Enrico’s fingers
lingered over the etched surface. A pattern of vines and flowers
danced around the edge, and a boar-hunting scene occupied the
center. Where had he seen this box before?

And then it came to him. It was the box Carlo
Andretti stored his cigars in, the one he’d offered to Enrico on
several occasions when he’d been in Carlo’s study. And if he had
any doubt about who was sending this message, the timing of it
couldn’t be ignored.

“It’s from Andretti,” he said to Ruggero. He
drew in then let out a deep breath, seeking calm. Andretti wanted
him dead. That was nothing new.

“You aren’t surprised.”

“Do you remember what day it is? What
happened exactly a year ago?” Enrico fought to keep his voice
steady, yet still he detected a catch.

Ruggero thought for a moment, then
understanding dawned on his face. “Your wife. I’m sorry, I
forgot.”

“Carlo didn’t forget. He still blames
me.”

“He thinks you can cure cancer?”

“I don’t know what he thinks. Only that I
didn’t do enough.”
And maybe I didn’t
.

Ruggero motioned to the box. “What do we do
about this?”

“For now, nothing.”

The guard’s brow creased. “You are virtually
undefended with only me and Antonio. We should call in more men
before leaving the city.”

“We leave today, as planned. Just us three.”
He’d be damned if he’d let Carlo pick the tune he danced to. He’d
seen what fear had done to his father, what mistakes it had caused
him to make. What a bleak future it led to.

“Don Lucchesi, that’s suicide,” Antonio
said.

A muscle in Ruggero’s jaw jumped and he
pinned the boy with his eyes, not looking back to Enrico until
Antonio lowered his eyes and mumbled, “Forgive me,
signore.
”

Ruggero took a breath then said, “With
respect,
capo
, Andretti knows where you are. He could have
men waiting for us outside.”

Enrico shook his head. “Carlo likes to play
with his food before he eats it.”

“So, you are the mouse?” Ruggero asked.

Enrico scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He
thinks he’ll see me cower and run. But I am no mouse.”

“At least let me call in reinforcements for
when we arrive in Milan.”

Enrico nodded. “There’s no sense being
completely foolish.” As he watched his guard make the call, he
rubbed his stomach, a queasy feeling growing, like he’d just eaten
a pound of pancetta. He hoped he wasn’t leading them into a trap. A
giant, man-sized mousetrap.