PROLOGUE
Twenty-eight years ago
Cernobbio, Lake Como, Italy
As his assassins set the trap, Carlo Andretti leaned forward, his nose nearly touching the window. Vengeance is mine. Just like the Lord above. His pulse quickened, his mouth went dry, his body itched to be in on the action. To aim a gun. To pull a trigger.
The Lucchesi family’s driver and their bodyguard waited outside the restaurant in a large black Mercedes, smoke from their cigarettes floating out the open windows. Idiots. Anyone could get the drop on them. These were the men Lucchesi trusted with his family?
Bruno, the man Carlo used for all his dirty work, snuck up behind the car, followed by one of his assistants. The two men dispatched the guard and driver without effort, slitting their throats in tandem, the strike perfectly timed.
Sipping an espresso in a room across the street, Carlo watched his men melt back into the dark. It wouldn’t be long now until they attacked their true prey. He savored the hot bitter brew he swallowed. Rinaldo Lucchesi, the capo of the Lucchesi family, had interfered in Carlo’s business for the last time. He thought he could come up north, into Carlo’s territory, and impose his principles and his will.
Rinaldo and his ridiculous, short-sighted philosophy would be the ruin of the ’Ndrangheta. Carlo was not going to let Lucchesi expose their bellies to the sharp teeth of Cosa Nostra or the Russians. Lucchesi might be suicidal, but Carlo most assuredly was not. He had a family to look out for, a child he adored. He couldn’t let Lucchesi destroy her future, and he couldn’t let him destroy the future of all the ’Ndrangheta.
Taking Carlo’s son hostage to force him to capitulate was where Lucchesi had miscalculated. He’d taken the wrong child. In a contest between Dario and Antonella, Toni won every time. Had Lucchesi taken Toni…. Carlo’s gut quivered. Everyone would know his weakness then. He’d make any sacrifice for his tigress, his cunning little she-wolf. The child of his heart. The child who was his heart.
If Toni knew he was risking her twin brother’s life this way, she’d be appalled. But if his plan worked, he’d have the boy, his vengeance, and the way clear in the north. Milan and the lake would be his alone. And once their riches were his, nothing could stop him from pushing his father and his brother off their perch, high at the top of the ’Ndrangheta. They’d censured him once, they’d exiled him up north, thinking that would keep him weak, that their lapdog Lucchesi would be able to muzzle him. They were about to learn otherwise.
The front door to the restaurant swung open, its glass catching the light of a streetlamp, and the Lucchesi woman and two of her children strolled out, the boys flanking her on either side. Rinaldo and their middle boy, Enrico, were not with them. Unease wormed through Carlo’s belly. Where are they? He glanced around and saw nothing out of the ordinary, but the nighttime shadows could be both friend and foe.
The woman and her boys had almost reached the Mercedes when they stopped short, the woman placing a restraining hand on the shoulder of her youngest child. The eldest son, Primo, nearly a man now, the one who was supposed to be capo someday, pulled his gun and looked in the passenger side front window. No doubt he saw the bodies, because he shouted, “Go back!”
It was too late.
Bruno and his four men charged toward the family, opening fire. Primo whirled around to meet them, but bullets slammed into his chest before he could get off a shot.
Carlo felt an odd sort of admiration as the boy fell, blood blanketing his once-white shirt. Primo had tried to defend his family like a good man of honor. But the boy was ruined, his mind tainted by his father’s notions.
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.