CHAPTER 1
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.
“Carlo is a dead man,” Enrico muttered to himself as he strode through the crowd in the hotel lobby hours later, his empty stomach knotted, drawn up tight under his chest. His eyes swept the area, noting the details of his surroundings, the placement of people and weapons—at least those he knew about. His guards were good; in fact, Ruggero was one of the best. But no one was perfect.
“What did you say, Don Lucchesi?” Antonio asked as he matched Enrico’s pace.
“Andretti is dead.”
“So you’ve decided then?” asked Ruggero, on his right.
Enrico heard the anticipation in Ruggero’s voice and wondered again if there wasn’t a touch of the sociopath to him. Enrico hated killing, though it was sometimes necessary. But Ruggero seemed perfectly suited to his line of work.
“Don’t get excited yet. I decided the moment I saw what was in the box. Now all that remains is the when.”
“Soon, I hope,” Ruggero said.
Enrico gave him a tight smile. “Soon enough.” If only Antonella hadn’t made him promise not to harm her father, he’d have given the order long ago. He owed his mother and Primo and Mario justice. But he’d promised his wife that he’d keep the peace between their families, that he’d honor the truce that had been sealed by their marriage. Those twenty-six years of peace were over now—undone by her death. At least Andretti seemed to think so.
Perhaps Enrico had been naïve to think that Carlo would honor his daughter’s memory by keeping the peace she’d helped broker. He should have known better. A vulture would never be anything but a vulture. Andretti had never had a scrap of honor and never would. The man was a bottom feeder, a scum, a leech on society—
Enrico’s attention was caught by a large, heavyset man in a sharply tailored suit standing to the left of the lobby doors. Massimo Veltroni, Carlo’s man. Veltroni’s black eyes snapped to his, the intent in them clear. A chill ran through Enrico, that sick anticipation rising again, his skin prickling with awareness. Damn it—he’d been stupid, stupid, stupid. And now it was going to cost them dearly. Per favore, Dio, spare Antonio. He’s too young.
He tapped both guards on the shoulders and they followed his gaze, closing ranks in front of Enrico, automatically shielding their capo from danger.
Enrico’s hand fell down to grip the Glock 9mm in his jacket pocket. As capo, he rarely carried a weapon, but Ruggero had insisted after seeing the dead falcon. Now he appreciated his guard’s caution.
He couldn’t tear his eyes off Veltroni. The image of a cobra looking to strike came to Enrico’s mind. The man reached into his suit jacket, a tight smile on his face.
Enrico tensed, and Antonio and Ruggero pulled their weapons, Ruggero’s movements so fluid and practiced they made Antonio look like a clumsy amateur. Which he almost was. Antonio had his gun out and ready mere seconds after Ruggero did. But seconds counted. Seconds meant the difference between alive and dead. Enrico heard women shriek at the sight of the guns, and then the scuffle of feet as people scrambled to get away from them. But he didn’t look behind him; eyes on the threat, always. That was the rule. Distractions meant death.
When Veltroni saw the guns, he broke into laughter, a genuinely mirthful smile creasing his features this time. Enrico was puzzled. There was nothing funny about the situation. Not in the slightest.
Veltroni slowly withdrew his empty hand from his coat, his fingers in the shape of a gun. He pointed at Enrico and pretended to take a shot, even blowing off smoke from the end of his thick forefinger. Reaching up, he tipped the brim of his fedora to Enrico. Then he turned and ambled out the door.
“Fuck,” Antonio said, his voice hushed.
Fuck was right. They’d almost walked into a trap, and Enrico’s pride had led them there.
Antonio and Ruggero put up their guns and Enrico released his grip on the Glock. Glancing around them, they hurried outside to the car waiting to take them to the private airstrip.
This day had started off bad, and it was quickly going straight to hell.
Kate Andretti snuck out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping husband. She looked down at him, his wavy, sandy brown hair scrunched up by the pillow, his tanned face slack and innocent as he snored. She hated sneaking off to take her birth control pills, but Vince couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to get pregnant now. There was no sense bringing a child into a marriage that was less than stable.
But she had hope. Three months ago, Vince had told her about a job at the Lucchesi Home for Children. Even though the work was glorified data entry, she’d taken it. She was happy computerizing the orphanage’s records and helping out with the kids.
And she was happy that Vince had actually listened to her when she’d said she needed to work, that she needed to make friends. Maybe he’d finally understood—at least in part—her reasons for waiting. But still she hid the pills from him. Just in case.
Easing the bathroom door shut behind her, Kate crouched down and pulled a box of tampons out from under the sink. Vince would never think to look in that box. For a big tough guy from New Jersey, he was bizarrely squeamish about her “woman things.” Fishing around the bottom of the box, her fingers connected with the packet of pills.
Every day, she pulled that box out. Every day she hated the necessity of doing so. Vince was under a lot of stress—he’d been working long days and sometimes nights in his uncle’s business—but that didn’t give him a free pass to yell at her. He’d always begged forgiveness later, so she’d let it go. To a degree. But something told her to stay cautious. To wait.
She stared at the pill packet in her hand. How had she’d gotten to this point? Lying to her husband. Lying to herself. Hiding things and hoping their marriage would survive somehow.
This sucks. It just does. I want to trust him, I want him to trust me.
But what about the spots on his jacket last night, the reek of gunpowder all over him?
Maybe he’d just splashed wine or something on the jacket. And he often went target shooting; she’d gone with him many times and had proved herself an excellent shot. The first time she’d pumped a full clip into the two kill zones on a target, Vince had looked at her with more than a little admiration.
But what if it wasn’t wine? What if it was… blood?
Dread coiled in her belly. Something wasn’t right. She’d known it ever since she’d met Vince’s uncle, Carlo Andretti. Her immediate impression had been favorable; Carlo was relatively handsome for a man in his sixties, with thick silvery hair swept back from his hawk-like nose and dark eyes brimming with intelligence. He’d kept himself trim, his waist showing only the slightest paunch, despite his love of cigars and fine Scotch. His grasp of English was nearly impeccable, though his accent was a war between British and Italian inflections.
Carlo had seemed charming enough until they were actually introduced. His keen eyes had flicked over her in a lightning-quick inventory that had made her think he wanted to see her wearing much less. She’d told herself she was imagining things, but when Carlo took her hand, his index finger had snaked across the back of hers, not once, but three times. Then he’d smiled at her, and she’d barely suppressed a shudder, feeling like a small and tender animal who’d been sighted, and the wolf was licking its chops.
That was when she started wondering about Carlo. Who he really was, what his business really was. Why he thought he owned her. Why he thought he owned Vince. Why everyone around him jumped when he spoke.
Supposedly Vince was acting as a liaison with Carlo’s import/export operations in the United States. More or less the same job he’d had in New York, except that now he was handling matters from the Italian side. He’d told Kate it was a promotion of sorts, a tryout to see if he could handle additional responsibilities in the organization.
Was any of that true? Something about Carlo screamed “Mafia.” Was it his swagger, the way he seemed to view everything around him as his property? Or was it just her dislike of the man that was coloring her viewpoint?
Vince couldn’t be Mafia too, could he?
The day they’d met, at her cousin Terri’s party in Jersey, Vince had played airplane and ball with Terri’s kids for hours. Her heart had melted at the sheer joy on his face, and then it had turned to absolute mush when he’d asked her out, after saying that he’d cleared it with Terri, because he thought it important that her family approve of him.
Could a Mafioso be that tender?
Kate shook the memory away and pushed a pill through the foil backing on the packet. Taking a swig of water, she swallowed it. She loved him, her tough guy with the soft heart. But something had happened to him in Italy, something that had changed him.
The bathroom door swung open. Vince blinked, scrubbing a hand through his rumpled hair, his handsome face creased from the pillow. Then he squinted at her hand. “What’s that?”
Kate flushed, her heart hammering, and closed her hand around the packet. “Nothing, honey.”
“Give it.” He held out his hand.
She cursed under her breath. Why hadn’t she put the packet away first? “It’s just some pills.”
“I’m not gonna ask again.”
That tone, too familiar of late, raised her hackles. “Fine.” She slapped the packet into his open palm. He held it up to the lights above the mirror so he could read it. After a moment, his face went dark.
“Birth control? You’re on fucking birth control?” His anger seemed to expand in the small space, echoing off the marble tiles on the walls and floor.
Kate forced herself not to cringe. “Look, I told you. We’ve only been here six months. It’s just too soon.”
“So you fucking lie? You told me you’d stopped these.” He tossed the packet in the toilet and flushed it. “I’ve been fucking you for nothing.”
Kate’s jaw dropped open. It was time to whip out her NYC-girl attitude. Never mind that she’d been raised upstate. “Piss. Off. What do you mean you’ve been fucking me for nothing? Supposedly you love me, right?”
“I been trying to make a baby with you. And you been lying to me.”
She snorted. “I’m not the only one of us who’s lying.”
His hazel eyes bore into hers. “What’re you saying?”
“You reeked of guns when you came home last night. And what was all over your jacket?”
He hesitated, just the barest millisecond, but she caught it. “I went shooting with the boys. And I dropped my fork in some sauce at dinner, got it all over my jacket.”
Funny how when he said it, it sounded like the lie it was. She was about to call him on it when he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his eyes darkening. “You’re the fucking liar. Who is he?”
What the…? Oh, he was back to the pills. “Calm down, Vince. I just wanted to wait.”
He stared at her, disbelief on his face. “Fuck!” His fingers dug into her arms. “I knew it. You been acting weird for months. You never want to go to my uncle’s. And now I know why. You’re fucking him.”
Kate choked. “I’d rather slit my wrists than fuck your uncle.”
“Then what the fuck is it?”
If he says “fuck” one more time, I’m going to kill him. If I say “fuck” one more time, I’m going to take a vow of silence. She had a Masters in social work, from Columbia no less, for Christ’s sake. Why was she letting him drag her down to his level? She took a breath, deliberately lowering her voice. “All you do is yell at me these days. It’s not like when we were first married. I’m worried about us.”
“What does that have to do with my uncle?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t like him. That’s all.”
“Why the fuck not? He puts food on our table. You damn well better like him.”
She looked at him this time. “Unlike you, I don’t have to like him.”
He flushed red. “You’re not answering the question. You fucking my uncle?”
“For the last time, no!” She blew out fiercely, striving for control. She wanted to scream at him, to slap him until he saw sense.
He shook his head, his eyes turning mean. “You’re lying; I can see it. I’m gonna kill him. And then I’m gonna kill you.”
His hand came out of nowhere, backhanding her across the right cheek. The blow made her stagger, her hip striking the sink, her eyes instantly welling up with tears. She touched the spot where he’d hit her, the skin flaming hot and prickling beneath her fingers. Her stomach ached and she thought she was going to vomit up that damn pill.
She had one crazy idiotic thought: Karma’s a bitch. Serves me right for thinking of slapping him.
No. That was Vince talking, telling her she deserved his lack of control, his anger.
With that slap, he’d just crossed her personal Rubicon. Now it was war. “What kind of limp-dicked loser hits his wife?”
Vince stared at her, his breathing ragged. “Who you calling a limp dick?”
“You, you pathetic, wife-beating, loser.”
She saw him shudder, knew he was furious, knew more slaps were coming. Knew she wouldn’t back down, no matter the consequences. “Ever since we got here, Vince, you’ve changed. You’ve become someone I don’t want to know anymore. You’ve turned into a big bully, just like your damn uncle. That’s why I hate him. That’s why I’m taking the pills.”
He threw his hands up and she flinched. When he saw her recoil, guilt flashed across his face, his features softening. His voice fell to a whisper. “I’m sorry. You know I got a temper.”
That old excuse. Anger roared up, making her stomach roil and her skin go hot, the pain draining away. “Face it. You’re a wife beater. The lowest of the low. The weakest of the weak.” She hissed her accusation, punctuating each word with the punch of her index finger into his bare chest.
“I’m not! Jesus!” He turned away for a second, then took a deep breath. “I won’t ever do it again.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You’re damn right you won’t.”
He met her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kate put her hands on her hips, her cheek throbbing. “Nobody hits me. Ever.”
“Come on. It was a mistake. I got carried away.” He reached for her arms, trying to pull her close.
She pushed him away. “Leave me alone.”
He looked at her for a moment, his eyes wounded. “I’m sorry. How many times do I got to say it?”
“I can’t forgive this.”
“Damn it, Katie. You’re my wife. We’re married. That means something to me. Don’t it mean anything to you?”
Some part of her wanted to say that it did. But if she gave in now, he’d just do it again. I’m gonna kill you. She’d never forget his saying that. She looked down at the marble tiles on the bathroom floor, her eyes idly tracing the honey-colored veins that ran through the creamy stone. Anything to keep from looking at him. Anything to keep him from seeing the truth in her eyes.
“Let me think about it,” she mumbled. She needed him gone, ASAP, and if she had to lie, she would.
“Okay. But we got to talk about this later.”
She nodded. She’d have to call her parents and ask them for money to get home. She could hear her mother now. “But Katherine, what did you expect? He’s from Jersey.”
“Katie, look at me.” When she met his eyes, he said, “Look, I’m just a dumb fuck. I’m not thinking straight. I love you. I would never hurt you.”
“But you just did.”
He shrugged, his eyes sliding away. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She looked at him for a long time. The words she spoke were thick and shaky, not the cool tone she’d intended. Her marriage was over. And it did mean something to her. “You are not the man I married. That man would never hit me. That man loved me.”
His chin came up and he met her gaze again. “Don’t say that.” His voice held a pleading note she’d heard too much of recently.
“Just leave.”
He took a deep breath and looked like he wanted to say something else, but she pointed to the door. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Anger and sadness warred on his face. He took a step toward her, but when she moved back, his shoulders slumped and he put up his hands in surrender. “You’re pissed. I can see that. You got to cool off, so I’m leaving—for now. But we got to talk this through.”
“We will,” she lied. She waited until he closed the door behind him, then she sagged against the sink, her arms trembling. Tears blurred her vision, and she stifled a sob, her throat aching, her eyes burning. She listened intently to the sounds of his moving around in the other room, waiting for him to leave. Finally she heard the outer door to their apartment close. He was gone.
She was alone. Again.
Kate rubbed her throbbing cheek and let the tears fall. How had their marriage degenerated so quickly? The first three months had been great, but the last six… and now this. She walked into the bedroom, her eyes going to the chair where the jacket had been.
It was gone.
A chill ran through her, instantly stifling her tears. It had been blood on the jacket.
If Vince was in the Mafia, if he’d killed someone, what reason would he have to let her go?
What was to stop him from hunting her down?
What was to stop him from killing her?
Not a damn thing.
Carlo Andretti rooted for Giotto as he tore into his brother Giorgio. The two Rottweilers growled and snapped at each other, their teeth and coal-black coats gleaming in the sun as they fought over the ball Carlo had tossed in their midst. Giorgio lost his hold on the ball, and the dogs raced across the lawn after it, their huge paws ripping the turf. Carlo smiled at their antics. The dogs were the best children he could ever hope for. Smart, loyal, and unquestioning. Vicious when so ordered. And convinced the sun rose and set on Carlo.
He corrected himself. Giotto and Giorgio were the best children he could ever have, aside from his dead Toni, God rest her soul. Her surviving twin, Dario, had all the initiative and thought process of a clam.
Twins. He could have had two clever, cunning children. But God had given him only one. And that one was dead.
Dario would inherit everything Carlo had worked for. Fucking shit-for-brains Dario. He’ll just let everything dribble through his fingers like piss.
Unless of course Vincenzo proved himself. His nephew seemed to have the brains and the balls to be capo. He certainly had the ambition. He’d asked Carlo for the opportunity to take out Enrico Lucchesi, and Carlo had agreed to give him the chance. So far, Vincenzo had planted his pretty wife near Lucchesi, to give himself an excuse to get close to Lucchesi when he was under little guard. It was a decent plan, but it was moving far too slowly. So he’d nudged things along by sending Enrico the box. Vincenzo wouldn’t like it, but he’d have to cope.
Waiting out the entire year of mourning after Toni’s death had been agony enough. When Lucchesi had taken up with Franco Trucco’s red-haired daughter just six months after Toni’s death, Carlo had almost broken his mourning vow and avenged Toni’s honor. But then Lucchesi had crashed his car and the red-haired puttana had died. So Carlo had held back his anger for the moment, even though the affair proved, despite Lucchesi’s protestations of love for Toni, that he’d been a liar all along.
Carlo never should have agreed to the wedding. But Toni had desperately wanted Dario back, worthless shit that he was. And he was Carlo’s only son. Agreeing to the wedding, ending the feud, getting Dario back, had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. But letting Rinaldo and Enrico Lucchesi live had been a mistake.
A mistake he didn’t intend to continue, now that his Toni was dead and her death properly mourned. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d respected his daughter’s memory, even if Lucchesi hadn’t. Toni couldn’t fault him for what came next.
“Don Andretti.” Carlo heard Massimo’s gruff voice behind him. He took his eyes off the tussling dogs and turned to watch his man approach. Massimo was a large man, but well-dressed as always, his dark double-breasted suit hiding some of his bulk. A true Mafioso, Massimo’s fine clothes added to his swagger. The smirk on Massimo’s face only enhanced the impression of a man who thought he owned the world. Carlo forgave him his arrogance; it was well-earned. Massimo never let him down, never failed his assignments. Unlike Dario.
“How did it go?” Carlo asked.
Massimo chuckled. “Lucchesi and his guards about shit their pants. You should have seen it. I thought the young one was going to shoot himself in the balls.”
Carlo laughed. “Bene, Massimo, molto bene.” He clapped Massimo on the back. He was glad he’d waited for this particular day to send his message, glad he’d let Lucchesi get complacent, comfortable. He’d be easier to kill that way. But first, Carlo wanted to have some fun. Death by a thousand cuts was far preferable to something quick. Lucchesi might disagree, but fuck him. He and his father had thwarted Carlo at every turn; in some ways, the son had been worse than the father.
But now it was Carlo’s turn to make the Lucchesis suffer. To make them feel what they’d done to him, to all of them. To make them see they were leading the ’Ndrangheta down the path toward oblivion.
And he’d never forgive Enrico for not taking better care of Toni. He hated Rinaldo, but that was business. His hatred of Enrico, that was personal.
It was the dream that had decided him, in the end. The dream where he opened a box and found Toni’s delicate little hand inside, severed neatly at the wrist. He’d had that dream only twice since Dario’s kidnapping. Once the night before Toni’s wedding. And then again early this morning, on the anniversary of her death.
He’d warned Enrico when he married her. He’d warned him what would happen. And now it was time to make good on that promise.