Gio
Getting the journals from Mario's study had been easy.
Since he'd grown up in his father's house, Gio knew the best ways to sneak onto the property without the armed bodyguards seeing him. Usually he'd just walk right past them, waving and making small talk—but this time, he didn't want anyone to know he'd been there at all.
He used his spare key to gain entrance through the side-door in the garage, then checked to make sure his father's Lexus was gone before entering the main house. Mario was often gone for several hours in the middle of the day, taking meetings and picking up fresh groceries for the evening meal.
Gio hoped his father had left fairly recently. He knew he'd have a difficult time explaining himself if Mario walked in on him in the study, poking around the hidden diaries.
The only other person in the house was Jadwiga, the Polish maid. She didn't speak much English, but Gio still didn't want to risk her telling Mario he'd been to the house. He took out his billfold, peeled off three hundreds, and handed them to her, saying, “I wasn't here today. Understand?”
Jadwiga's eyes widened and she nodded, tucking the bills into her pocket before she continued dusting the bookcases.
Gio entered the study and closed the door behind him, kneeling next to the liquor cabinet. He slid the hidden panel aside and reached into the compartment, pulling out all of the journals. Then he yanked a crumpled plastic shopping bag from his back pocket and stowed the diaries in it, flipping through them as he did to skim the entries at random.
Hijacking. Graft. Murder. Extortion. Grand theft auto. Kidnapping. Murder. Money laundering. Murder. Armed robbery. Murder. Salvatore. Murder.
Salvatore.
You could've had the kid you really wanted, Papa, Gio thought bitterly as he stared at the page. All you had to do was give your little bastard his shot at the gangster life like he asked for. You'd have had a loyal soldier to take your place, and I could have had a life of my own, the life I deserved.
But no, you and your fucking Sicilian pride had to ruin everything. This is all your fault. It's exactly what you bought and paid for when you decided to murder your own son.
Gio replaced the panel on the cabinet, tied off the plastic bag, and snuck out of the house again.
As he got in his car and started the engine, Gio thought about the future. He hoped Carla had meant what she said to him about wanting to keep seeing each other after the case was closed. He drove home with the window open and the breeze ruffling his hair, picturing new scenarios with Carla as his submissive—not a relationship of blackmail and intimidation this time, but one of mutual trust, like so many Doms had with their long-term subs.
He daydreamed about having a restaurant of his own someday. None of the hokey mob-related gimmicks this time, either. No, this place would be classy, elegant, the kind of joint that people went to on special occasions. A place for joy and food and drink and celebration, where he could stroll leisurely from table to table, welcoming his patrons personally and rejoicing with them on their birthdays and graduations and anniversaries.
These thoughts almost made him dizzy with hope. He was happier than he could ever remember feeling before.
Free. After a miserable lifetime of violence and disappointment, he would finally be free.
Gio parked his 'Vette in his driveway and strolled in through the front door, whistling to himself. He knew this might be the last time he ever saw his house before being put into protective custody and relocated, and he went from room to room, taking a last look around. Most of the furniture and possessions he'd collected could easily be replaced, and he was sure he'd be able to send for the ones that couldn't.
There was only one room that Gio knew he'd truly miss. Sure, he could rebuild his Special Room wherever he ended up, and maybe starting his collection of toys, swings, and whipping posts all over again would even be kind of fun. But he'd always remember his attic hideaway fondly, and he went up the stairs to sit in it one final time.
As Gio reached the top of the stairs, his feet slowed to a stop and he stared, shocked.
Mario stood in the center of the Special Room.
He was holding a gun.