I was yet unconvinced.
We were powerful men, the head of the snake of an extensive criminal empire with a widespread network of connections to grease our way out of tight corners.
But this was different.
That fuckface USA was determined to be the next Guiliani and bring down the New York City mob. No one gave a shit about the mafia in a time of national and global acts of terrorism, but Dennis O’Malley was convinced he could cut the line straight to the top of success by taking down the glamourous Camorra.
Even that was nothing, white fucking noise, compared to the real problem.
I hadn’t killed Giuseppe di Carlo in that shithole deli in the Bronx.
I wished I had.
But no.
It wasn’t me who planted a bullet between the motherfucker’s eyes.
It seemed the di Carlo Family was cleverer than their inbred ugliness lent them credit for. They’d set up one of the only people I’d ever loved.
And I’d go to jail, the grave, whatever afterlife there was for sinner men like me a thousand times over if it meant keeping Cosima safe.
So, there we were.
It was a helluva predicament.
“We got the Irish bastards sniffing around our garbage looking for spoils,” Tore muttered into his wine. “Jacopo caught a few of them lingering by the Hudson, scouting warehouses. I tell you, I should’ve killed Seamus Moore when I had the chance.”
It was a complicated story, the one between Cosima and Elena’s mother, Caprice, and her ex-husband Seamus. Caprice and Tore had fallen in love once, long ago, and had a torrid affair that led to the birth of Cosima and her twin brother, Sebastian. Caprice had cut Tore out of their lives because of his mob dealings and raised the twins as Seamus’s offspring until the Irish bastard sold Cosima into sexual slavery and disappeared for years.
He’d cropped up in New York City, our city, last year working for Thomas “Gunner” Kelly and his group of Irish thugs. He’d abducted Cosima for reasons known only to him, and since then, he and the gang had been sniffing around our outfit.
It was hard not to agree with Tore. Some men deserved more than death, and Seamus Moore was one such person.
“Soft heart,” I reminded him. “A powerful man’s downfall.”
His thick brow arched, cutting thick creases into his broad forehead. “And you, figlio mio, are a hardened criminal with no soul, si?”
I didn’t bother to shoot the old coot a look. We both knew well enough that I had one weakness, and it was exactly that. The precious few chinks in my armor were made by the love I held for him, for my brother, and his wife, my best friend, Cosima.
I’d do anything for them. Had done anything for them.
Without question, without qualm.
This was what family meant to Italians.
Mafia or civilian, we protected our own at all costs.
Which was why I was on trial for murder when I had nothing to do with the murder of di Carlo and his thug.
“Yara won’t let you down,” Tore mused.
It was unusual for Italians to fraternize with outsiders, even taking their bigotry as far as sticking to one region of the country, but Tore was different. I was different. Thus, our borgata was different. The Salvatore’s dealt with all manner of nationalities and genders. So while the other arseholes in the Commission might ridicule me for having a non-Italian female lawyer, I didn’t give a fuck. In my experience, diversity was modern and just good business sense. Criminality and brotherhood didn’t just run through Latin blood. It was color blind and sexless.
“She’s not got the blood, but Persians understand family perhaps just as well,” Tore continued before finishing off his wine with a pleased hum.
“They do,” I agreed, sudden agitation coursing through me like lactic acid after a hard workout.
I stood abruptly and went to the stone balustrade, leaning against the cold barrier with my wineglass clasped loosely between my hands over the ledge. The light from the street shone up through the Chianti, illuminating it to a rich, carmine glow that brought the image of Elena Lombardi unbidden into my mind’s eye.
She was…unexpected.
Nothing like mia sorella di scelta, Cosima. She had none of her boldness or unstudied sensuality. She was not a natural flirt or a warm, radiant energy in a room.
She was, in essence, an ice queen.
Not only because she was coldly analytical, almost brittle with latent hostility, with a cutting wit that slashed her opponent like the dangerous edge of an icicle.
It was because she seemed encased in ice, fossilized like some ancient creature at the time of their death. Only Elena’s death was an emotional one.
I knew all about Daniel Sinclair’s affair with Giselle because Cosima spoke openly with me about everything. I knew about Elena’s shame and despair, and I could even understand it to a point.