Chapter 87
I sat alone in my office, staring into the dark depths of the coffee mug in my hand. Layla’s words from the night before still echoed in my mind, reverberating in my skull in a way that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
Had I truly thought that by choosing me, she would fit seamlessly into the mold of this life? Or was I more bothered by the idea that I’d stepped back to my role as don and mob-lord without questioning it?
She was right. It was hypocrisy, to kill with one hand and embrace a doctor with the other. To take the lives of other men’s children while I planned for the future of my own. To raise my only son as a killer.
I should expect nothing less than for Layla to balk at the dichotomy of our two worlds. I should have balked, too.
I leaned back in my chair, abandoning my coffee, to rub my temples.
And now … Now I had only questions. Was there a way I could clean up our family business? Separate our lives from the violence that had built it, that had given me everything I’d ever had—ever been?
Was there a future without bloodshed?
The Marcellos had always operated in the shadows, balancing wealth and violence, power and secrecy. It was the only life this family had ever known.
It was the reason I’d walked away, ten years ago. Run to Alaska, started my own business. But I’d done that on my own. To change an entire business empire …
A knock against my door pulled me forcefully from my thoughts. When the door clicked open, I knew it was Carlo. “Vas. We got a problem.”
I withheld my sigh. Of course we did. “Tell me straight, Carlo.”
“There’s a new Fed sniffing around.” Carlo closed the door behind him and strode into the room. “Agent Danny Carter.”
“So?” I shrugged. “Feds are always sniffing around. Either we pay them off, or they lose interest.”
“This one’s different.” Carlo plopped himself down in my second chair and swept up my mug of coffee. “He’s not just a files-and-desk guy. He’s been down at the docks. Working the streets. Talking to everybody. That kind of shit.”
Still meant nothing. Sometimes they started optimistic. “How much does he know?”
“Hard to say. But he’s determined.” Carlo set down my now-empty mug, crossed his arms. “He’s not like the others we’ve dealt with. He’s young. Fresh. Clean record, no vices we can exploit. He’s got nothing to lose and everything to prove.”
I groaned. Naturally. I started thinking about cleaning up the business, and some hotshot young hopeful got too close.
I pressed my fingers together, a slow pulse of frustration building behind my ribs. The last thing we needed was a relentless investigator breathing down our necks. It wasn’t just me and Carlo, my mother and sister, at risk of a life behind bars.
I couldn’t bear the thought of Layla on the wrong side of the law. Of Eli … what? Growing up in foster care?
Fuck that. Not happening.
“Double security at all our fronts.” I sat up straight, immediately in business mode. “No unnecessary movements. If Carter wants to dig, we make sure he finds nothing.”
“Got it.” Carlo nodded, face serious. “And maybe … if he gets too close, he has a little accident?”
My gaze snapped to him as I realized the implications. Sure, it was something we’d done before. Many times. If there was one thing the Mafia knew how to do, it was how to get rid of a threat and make it look innocent.
God knew my own father had specialized in it.
“No.” The word cracked from my throat, hard and cold and determined. “Not this time, Carlo. We’re going to do things a little differently.”
Carlo sat up straight as a fence post. “What? Vas—this guy could be dangerous—”
“But you just said he’s a good man.” I sighed, my fingers sweeping my temples again, digging into the mess of my hair. “I don’t want to kill good men, Carlo. God knows, the city needs more of them.”
This family, I didn’t say, needs more of them.
Carlo’s jaw flexed in clear frustration. “All right. I’ll figure something out.”
He stood and swept from the room without another word. Leaving me with my thoughts, my reservations, my indecision.
Later that evening, I found myself in the backyard, beneath a silky spill of a half-painted sunset, watching Eli practice his footwork. He moved with such natural easy, small body light and quick, strikes precise.
It was hard to believe that someone so good at something could not enjoy it, want it. God knew that was why I’d gotten so good at fighting; I’d liked the power and finesse of it. The way it was sport and art all at once.
But Layla’s words about this haunted me, too. He’s good at it because he thinks he needs to be.
“You’re getting better everyday.” I swept forward to sit on the stone bench a few short feet from where Eli moved.
Eli grinned at me. “I’ve been practicing.”
“I see that.” I patted the bench beside me, and Eli hesitantly slid over and perched on the other end. Not quite the far side of the bench, not quite close enough to be cozy. We were still so awkward with each other, weren’t we?
“Eli …” What words was I searching for? “Do you like fighting?”
Eli hesitated, and my heart broke. “I like spending time with you.”
“And if you had to choose?” I asked around the sudden lump in my throat, the tightness in my chest. “If you could learn anything you wanted, would you still choose this?”
Eli met my gaze unflinchingly, his bright blue eyes full of innocence. “I don’t know. But I want to be strong. Like you.”
I nodded, the weight in my chest growing heavier. I’d spent my entire life becoming the man I was, but the idea of Eli following in my footsteps … I’d never imagined that for any child of mine.
And maybe, just maybe, it was time I did something about it.
I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how long it would take—or if it would be too late by the time I finally figured something out. But I knew, as certainly as ever I’d known anything, that I had to try. For the woman waiting inside for me. For the boy beside me. For the future I so desperately craved for both of them.
For all three of us.
“Well, think about it,” I told Eli. “About what you really want. If there’s anything you want to try or do or learn …”
He nodded, blue eyes big and earnest.
“Go see if your mom needs help in the kitchen?”
He nodded. “Nonna is cooking tonight.” But he hopped off the bench anyway, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
My thoughts and my phone, which I slid from my pocket. I’d texted his number only a handful of times, so it was far, far down my contact list. Still, I pulled it up. Stared at the name a moment before I typed out a message.
I’d like to meet. I have information.
