By Any Other Name
Authors: J. M. Darhower
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #Suspense, #Thriller
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Jessica Mae Darhower
All rights reserved.
"What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 Scene 2
Two families, both alike in reputation,
In the streets of New York, where we lay our scene,
A power struggle gives way to a deadly rivalry,
Where spilled innocent blood makes everyone's hands unclean.
The restaurant stood in the southern most section of Little Italy, an upscale brick pizzeria on the corner of a block. Windows spanned the entire front of the building, once giving a clear picture of the fancy red and gold trimmed booths and hanging chandeliers inside, but the glass had since been tinted, blacked out to obscure the view.
The people who frequented the place didn't like to be watched.
Primo Galante stepped out the front door one Friday night in the summer of 1993, followed by his wife, Cara. Once a bona fide beauty queen, Cara had long ago exchanged her crown and sash for diapers and pacifiers, giving up pageants for motherhood and marriage.
She was still the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth, according to Primo. His love for her had only grown stronger over the years, and standing there, watching her as she held tightly to their youngest, little Genevieve, he felt his heart swell in his chest. His baby girl looked just like her mother, with the same black hair and bright blue eyes. She would be a heartbreaker someday, ripping hearts straight from men's chests with just a simple look, much like Cara had done to him the first time he laid eyes on her years ago.
The boys ran around them, weaving between their legs as they laughed and played, hands held in the shape of guns as they pretend-shot at each other. Cara rolled her eyes at their game, but Primo grinned with satisfaction. His boys. They were his pride and joy, especially his Joey, with so much wit and intelligence at only seven years old. Dante, just barely five, was much more sensitive of the two. Joey was the leader, diving headfirst into everything, so fearless and outgoing, whereas Dante merely followed his brother's every move with a quiet reflection. Deep, that boy was. Maybe even too deep.
Soft-hearted
.
"Happy birthday, Primo," Cara said, setting Genevieve down in the gravel lot on her feet. The girl swayed, sleepy and just getting used to her new white dress shoes, the front of her pink fluffy dress covered in pizza sauce. She got her bearings quickly and toddled off after her big brothers.
Primo pulled his wife to him and gently kissed her blood-red lips. His thirtieth birthday. This was the year… the year
everything
changed, the year he made his long-anticipated big moves. He had already set it all in motion. It didn't matter who he had to knock down to succeed. It was only a matter of time before he came out on top.
"I can't wait to get you home," he whispered against her mouth, his hands gripping her hips, fingers brushing against the bare skin beneath the hemline of her shirt. "I want to unwrap my present."
"Hmm," she said, a playful twinkle in her eyes. "What present would that be?"
"You," he said, nipping at her bottom lip. "I want to unwrap it, and play with it all night long."
She laughed, pushing away from him, her eyes scanning the lot for their children. He didn't come first anymore, and he accepted that. These days, he was more like fourth in line for her attention. She stepped over to where Genevieve was bent over, digging rocks out of the ground, her sticky hands covered in filth.
Primo turned to the door of the pizzeria when it opened and some of his business associates stepped out. He struck up conversation with them, finalizing the deal they'd been hashing out over dinner to break into a new territory just south in Chinatown as they finally hedged their way into Little Italy.
But he wouldn’t stop there, no. Before it was all over, every block in Manhattan would belong to
him
.
One of the men glanced over Primo's shoulder as they chatted, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he gazed out toward the street. "Hey, Primo, you know that car?"
Primo turned immediately, spotting the black car creeping up, coming to a stop right across the street. "No."
"That's the second time it came by since we've been standing here," the man said. "Stopped both times."
Coldness swept through Primo as he stared at it. The generic black car could belong to anyone, but it wasn't anyone
he
recognized, personally. Two blocks east was the Lower East Side, long-time Galante territory, but to the west, in Soho, the Barsanti family reigned. They were standing on middle ground, arguably the most risky place they could ever be during a time of change.
"Kids!" Primo hollered. They were getting dangerously close to the road, where the car lurked. "Come here."
Joey eagerly ran over with Dante right on his heels. "Yeah, Dad?"
"Why don't you wait in the car?" Primo suggested. "It's getting dark."
"Okay," Joey said obediently, never arguing. His father's word was infallible to the boy. "Can we listen to the radio?"
"Yeah, uh, sure," he said, pulling his keys from his pocket and tossing them to Joey, his eyes never leaving the lingering black car. "Just don't drive away without us, kiddo."
Joey ran off, straight for the black Impala parked along the side of the adjacent lot. Dante started right behind him but stalled after a second, turning to his sister. "Come on, Genna."
The girl looked up when she heard her name, smiling giddily and starting after him, rocks clenched in her small fists.
"What's going on?" Cara asked as she approached, slipping beneath her husband's arm, a look of concern on her face. "Is something wrong?"
"Car by the curb," Primo said. "I think they're watching us."
She tensed slightly but kept her cool, only vaguely casting a look at the street before turning to watch her children. Primo could see the worry in her eyes, the look of apprehension, a million and one questions, none of which he wanted to answer.
Joey climbed into the driver's side to turn on the radio as Dante ambled through the lot, dragging his feet, torn between racing after his big brother, like he wanted to do, and waiting on his tottering little sister, like he knew he should. Primo's eyes remained glued to the car, slowly reaching into his coat and grasping his gun tucked in the holster.
Slowly, the driver's side window rolled down a few inches. Adrenaline pumped through Primo's veins. He expected to see a gun, expected a hail of gunfire, and was preparing to shield his family from a spray of bullets, but it never came.
The second Joey slammed the driver's side door, the tires on the lurking car squealed as it shot away, leaving a cloud of smoke as it hastily sped from the neighborhood.
Primo's heart dropped into his stomach as he spun around to face his Impala. Through the window, he could see Joey sticking the key in the ignition.
Oh, God
.
No
.
No
.
"No, Joey!" Primo screamed, but it was too late. Joey turned the key as he looked up at his father, his brow furrowing for a fraction of a second before it happened.
BOOM
Primo felt it before he heard it, felt the force of the detonation, shockwaves rolling from the vehicle, vibrating the ground like an earthquake beneath his feet. The car exploded into a raging fireball. Metal flew through the lot as the windows of the pizzeria shattered. The force of the explosion knocked them all off their feet, picking Dante up and blasting him through the air as the fire singed his chest, his shirt engulfed in flames.
Cara screamed, an ear-splitting cry of terror, as Dante let out a horrific shriek of agony. She scrambled to him, frantic to put out the fire burning him, as Genevieve burst into tears, laying flat on her back in the gravel.
Primo sat frozen, the world around him in slow motion, as he stared through the haze at where the car used to be, seeing nothing but a metal frame, completely gutted, now a ten-foot tall ball of fire with thick black smoke pillowing into the night sky. Joey, his boy, his pride and joy, was nowhere to be found.
Gone
.
Primo's ears rang, blocking out the crying, diluting the screaming as the world around him fell into total anarchy. He faded into a state of shock, one word escaping his lips, barely a murmur of a reaction.
Barsanti
.
They say the night is darkest just before the dawn.
I say if you're gonna break the law, that's the perfect time to do it.
"Hurry up, Jackson!" Genna's vigilant eyes darted around the dilapidated Harlem neighborhood, the streets seeming even shadier through the black tinted windows. "Jesus, what the hell's taking you so long?"
"Relax." His voice was sluggish, thanks to the five shots of tequila he'd downed back-to-back before leaving the party. "It's hard to see in the dark."
Reaching into her purse, Genna dug around and pulled out her cell phone, pressing a button to light it up. A soft white glow surrounded them in the car and illuminated part of the dash, but Jackson still struggled.
Something told her it was the tequila and not the darkness that tripped him up.
Frustrated, she reached over and snatched the screwdriver from his hand, practically climbing over into his lap to shove it into the steering column. It resisted at first when she jammed it in the small key slot, but after wiggling, she managed to get it to turn.
The engine loudly roared to life.
"Ha!" She triumphantly tossed her phone back into her purse as she settled into the passenger seat. "Amateur."
Jackson shot her a playful grin as he flipped on the headlights and threw the car in gear. He pulled away from the curb as his hand darted toward her, grasping the back of her neck to yank her to him for a kiss. It was messy, and reckless, as he sped down the street, eyes closing from lust and not watching out of the windshield.
He clipped a parked car but hardly noticed in the haze.
"You're so hot," he slurred, pulling back from the kiss, but he didn't let go of her. Instead, he yanked her further to him, shoving her head down toward his crotch.
Uh, what?
She pulled from his grasp, shoving him so hard the car veered into the other lane. "What kind of girl do you take me for?"
"Come on, baby," he whined. "I'm so turned on. I need you."
He theatrically frowned, dark eyes flashing toward her in the car. His blond hair was shaggy, pieces curling out around his ears. He was irresistibly cute.
Or maybe I'm just insanely drunk.
Either way, she conceded easily. What kind of girl was she? A girl with a fucked up set of morals. After all, they
did
just steal a car.
A hiss escaped his throat when she went down on him, taking his cock into her mouth. Her eyes drifted closed, blackness surrounding her, and a few short strokes later she felt him tense and gasp, every muscle in his body seizing up.
Coming already
?
She prepared herself for the imminent explosion, but instead he slammed the car brakes as his hand grasped the back of her head, forcefully yanking her away from him. "Fuck!"
The moment her eyes flew open, the curse echoed through her mind.
Fuck
.
Red and blue flashing lights illuminated Jackson's terrified face as a siren cut through the quiet night. He fumbled with his shorts, panicked, and tucked himself back away as he swung the car to the nearest free curb. Throwing it in park, he reached for his seatbelt and frantically snapped it into place.
Genna couldn't help it. She burst into laughter. A seatbelt violation was the
least
of their concerns. Who gave a shit if they were wearing one? Jackson shot her a look that said she was no longer appealing, but she thought he was even cuter now.
So naive
.
That was why she liked him. To some he seemed ignorant, foolish, even
oblivious
, but Genna appreciated the simplicity. He treated her normal, didn't care about her name or her family, when the rest of Manhattan seemed to gawk at the mere mention.
Genna relaxed in the passenger seat as the NYPD cruiser crookedly pulled right up to their bumper, blocking them in.
Play it cool
, she told herself.
Act like you have no idea what's going on
.
Two officers approached, one on Jackson's side and the other on hers. Jackson put down both windows, staring straight ahead. He looked like he wanted to puke.
Really, she worried he might.
An officer attentively shined a flashlight in the car at them. Genna shielded her eyes, wincing, when he aimed it straight at her face.
"Who does the car belong to?" the man asked straightaway.
Jackson stammered, saying nothing coherent, as Genna cleared her throat. "Borrowed it from a friend. Isn't that right, Jackson?"
He stammered some more, of absolutely no help.
"A friend," the officer repeated, moving the flashlight away. Genna was relieved to have the spotlight off of her until he pointed it straight at the dash, highlighting the screwdriver sticking out of the ignition. "You couldn't just borrow the key, too, while you were at it?"
Jackson opened his mouth to respond, and that was when it happened.
He puked.
Right there, right then, all over the steering wheel and his lap.
Cringing, Genna looked away from the mess.
Busted
.
Genna had been wearing the same clothes for almost 48 hours. The stench of stale liquor and old sweat clung to the fabric, making her gag with each shaky breath she took. The black dress hugged her hourglass curves, revealing more skin than it covered. She felt extremely indecent—extremely
filthy
—standing under the bright lights in the lobby of the Criminal Court Building in Chinatown, clutching her stiletto heels instead of wearing them.
She had just been arraigned and promptly bailed out before they even had a chance to transfer her to jail—although, at that moment, she would have rather been locked in a grimy cell somewhere.
It was probably safer.
Her blurry eyes focused on her red polished toes and studied the shiny white linoleum floor around her bare feet, anything to avoid looking at the man in front of her. She could feel his gaze stabbing through her like sharp knives, piercing her insides as shame oozed out from the tiny wounds.
It didn't help that she was hung-over. Every noise seemed magnified to her foggy ears and her head pounded in harmony to the sound of footsteps as people strode around the busy building. The beeping of the x-ray machine, the clattering of keys, the chattering of people… ugh, it was too much to take.
Make it stop
.
"Genevieve."
The way he said her name with such calmness made her involuntarily flinch. She would rather him yell or make a scene,
something
. Anger at least meant passion, but this was indifference. This was a man not at all surprised to be here.
Her voice was meek as she responded, "Yes?"
"Look at me."
Her eyes obediently shifted upward at the command, meeting his stern gaze. Primo Galante, mid-forties, sturdy build, and a Brooklyn accent with a slight Italian twist, went by many names on the streets of New York, but he was only one thing to her:
Dad
.
He stared at her, raising a single eyebrow in assessment. She said nothing, and neither did he. After a moment he motioned with his head, silently telling her to follow him as he walked away.
The black town car idled right along the curb out front. Her father slid into the backseat, and Genna tugged on her dress, trying to cover more skin before joining him. He clasped his hands in his lap and stared out the window as they drove through Manhattan, just north of the city to their estate near Harrison, New York.
She hadn't called him. He was the last person she would've ever called. But she wasn't the least bit surprised he had been the one to show up. Her father knew everything criminal that happened on the streets, even more so than the police did.
Probably because he orchestrated most of it.
As soon as they made it home, Genna bolted out of the car, shoving the front door open and sprinting for the stairs. She only made it halfway up when her father walked in and shouted her name.
"Genevieve Elisa Galante!"
Her footsteps stalled.
There
was the emotion. There was the anger, the passion. She was entirely convinced the sole reason people had a middle name was so they could tell when their parents were pissed. "Yes?"
"Join me in my office."
He didn't wait for her to follow him, but he knew she would. He didn't really give her much of a choice. Sighing, she dropped her shoes and her purse, discarding it all on the stairs, and grudgingly made the trek back down to face him.
His office wasn't so much an office as it was a man-cave. Where a desk would be was a massive black leather couch, flanked by matching chairs, a plaque on the wall behind them with
Exodus 21:24
written on it, nothing else. Bible scripture. Genna wasn't sure which it was, but she was pretty sure it wasn't
thou shalt let your daughter run wild
. A bar lined the far wall with dozens of bottles of alcohol on a shelf surrounding it. Her stomach churned at the sight of them.
Ugh, I'm never drinking again.
Primo took a seat dead center of the couch, stretching his arms out along the back of it as he relaxed in his fitted gray suit. For a middle-aged man, he had a certain swagger about him that she usually admired.
Usually
. She paused right in the doorway, not wanting to go any closer, hoping the lecture would be quick and painless, but his expression showed no sign of urgency.
He knew she was hung-over. He was going to drag it out intentionally.
"Grand theft auto," he said finally, getting right to the point.
"That's a total exaggeration."
His eyes narrowed. "You stole an Accord."
"Well, technically I—"
"An Accord, Genevieve," he said, cutting her off. "Not a Ferrari. Not a Lamborghini. Not even a Mercedes. A Honda Accord."
"It was a nice car." Her voice turned defensive as if an explanation would actually make it any better of a decision in his eyes. "It was custom painted and had a new spoiler. The guy even had an NO2 tank installed."
"It's a
Honda
," he said again, his anger seeping into his words. "I don't care how customized it is. You aren't auditioning for Fast & the Furious 3."
"I think they're up to part seven now."
His posture shifted as he leaned forward, glaring at her. "Does it look like I care about a movie, Genevieve? Huh? You think that's what matters to me?"
She knew this voice. He rarely used this voice on her, but she overheard him resort to it many times to intimidate and terrorize others right there in that room. Men who worked for him. Men like
him
. There was something about the chilling tone that could make even the hardest man go weak and beg for mercy. "No, sir."
"Then keep it to yourself," he said. "All I care to hear is a damn good explanation of what possessed you to steal a fucking Honda!"
"I didn't," she muttered. "Not really. I was just the passenger."
"An accomplice is no better," he said. "Might even be worse. All of the punishment and none of the glory. At least Jason had the balls to drive the wretched thing."