Deal with the Devil (3 page)

My grandfather is the only reason my childhood wasn’t truly tragic. He made sure my mom got me to school often enough to avoid any visits from social services. And his house was where I went whenever she would go on one of her more impressive benders.

I suck in a harsh breath as I realize that I’m already thinking of him in the past tense. It doesn’t feel real to me, as if the scenery passing by the train window is part of a dream. Maybe I’ll finally believe it when I see him laid out in the casket, cold and dead.

This might be the last time that I ever make this trip. With Papa gone, I don’t see any reason to ever go back. I could never really abandon my mother, but the more space I put between us, the better off I’ll be.

I wonder if the death of her father is enough to get her clean for a while. She does that every so often — goes to rehab and resolves to be a different, better person. It never lasts long, but I always fool myself into thinking that maybe this will be the time that everything changes.

Nothing ever really changes, except for the worst.

She is going to freak out at the funeral. I’m already mentally preparing myself for it. Cecile Matarazzo never met an event that she couldn’t turn into a showcase for her own emotions. Maybe that’s why I always seemed so overly rational and dispassionate. It was all just a learned defense mechanism against her nonsense.

I just want to get it all over with and get back to my life.

Lynn was completely understanding when I told her that I would have to delay joining her in Aspen. Even if she didn’t quite understand why I only found out about my grandfather’s funeral the day before it’s happening.

Taking the first train of the day leaves me almost exactly enough time to make it to the church before the service starts. So I have to wear mourning dress on the train. I feel like something out of a Gothic novel — young woman dressed in black riding alone on a train through the countryside. All I need is a Victorian castle and a tall cliff overlooking the sea to fling myself off of to complete the image.

Those books never end happily, so maybe the comparison is more accurate than I’m giving it credit for.

A
ll my suits are black
, which makes getting dressed for a funeral pretty simple. A good thing, because I’m in no shape to be making decisions about anything right now.

I can’t believe that the boss is dead. It’s been almost a week and I’m still walking around like a piece of me is missing. It doesn’t help that I haven’t worked a job since the last one, which always puts me on edge.

Considering how many people I’ve killed over the years, I haven’t been to that many funerals. I barely remember the one for my parents and then there’s been a couple for guys from the family.

And now this. It doesn’t take much to know that I don’t fucking like it.

The day of the funeral dawns bright and sunny. With the cool chill that lets you know winter is right around the corner. It seems stupid to wish for rain, but I can’t help but think it’s wrong to bury a guy on a day this nice.

I still remember the first day I met Don Vito, like it happened last week. It was the day that I tried to rob him.

I was fifteen years old and starving. I’d just been kicked out my seventh foster home. The state stuck me in one of those group homes for boys that could have doubled as a prison if the food was better. I spent one night there and bolted right after. A week on the streets had been enough to make me desperate.

Vito had been walking down the street, holding hands with a little girl who couldn’t have been older than six or seven. They seemed like an easy mark and I was desperate.

I held up the rusty box cutter that I found in a dumpster and demanded his wallet.

He looked at me like the worthless maggot that I was and didn’t even do me the courtesy of refusing. He just laughed and kept walking, pulling the wide-eyed little girl behind him.

I jumped in front of him, brandishing the box cutter. “I’m not kidding, mister. I’ll fucking gut you.”

His smile widened, amusement shining from his eyes. He pushed back one side of his suit jacket to reveal the gun strapped to his side. “That’s not a weapon, son. This is.”

“Fuck you,” I said, turning to run.

“Wait,” he said. Maybe he saw something in my eyes, the dead cold of somebody with nothing to lose. “I won’t give you shit, but I’ll let you earn it. You want a job.”

And that was when my life truly began. Fourteen years later and I’m still his man. It’s impossible to imagine what I’ll be without him.

The family already has a new boss. Carmine Lugati is one of the most senior capos and the obvious choice to take over. He’s a good captain and loyal, but it won’t be the same.

The whole thing just makes me feel tired. I never thought Vito would go out like this, quiet and unassuming like he was just a regular old guy. He had been like a god to me. Facing the truth of his mortality makes me too aware of my own.

I chase the thoughts away as I get out of the towncar and head up the stairs of the church. The funeral is supposed to begin in about five minutes. Even I wouldn’t be disrespectful enough to show up after it’s already started.

A slim figure blocks the closed the doors. I slow, waiting for whoever it is to get the fuck out of the way. The solemn cut of her black dress and the dark hair caught at the nape of her neck in a simple knot make it clear that she’s here for the funeral. But she seems frozen in place. Her hand rests on the metal handle of the ornately carved wooden doors, unmoving.

“Hey,” I snap. “You’re blocking the door.”

She turns and I meet what might just be the most beautiful face that I’ve ever seen. This girl — and she is a girl, I have to remind myself — is fucking beautiful. Big eyes that are dark and deep like still water in shadows and full lips that pull down into a slight frown. She reeks of the kind of innocence that’s just asking to be defiled.

“Sorry,” she says, not really sounding it. “Go ahead if you’re in that big a hurry.”

I hesitate beside her, intrigued and a little shocked at her smart tone. I know how I look — big, imposing and mean as hell. People, especially women, don’t usually talk to me like I’m some jack-off.

“Having a bad day, sweetheart?”

“Are you lost?” she snaps. “There’s a funeral going on in there, not a garden party. So yeah, I’d call it a bad day.”

Sexy and a smart ass. It’s a potent combination. There’s nothing I like more than shutting up a mouthy woman with my cock down their throat. I haven’t been this turned on by a complete stranger in a long time.

I take a step closer to her. I get close enough that I can see where her modest dress gapes a bit over her chest, revealing just a hint of creamy flesh.

To her credit, the girl doesn’t flinch. But the firm set of her mouth falters just a bit when she meets my gaze as I tower over her. I reach for the door with one hand which effectively blocks her into the cage of my body.

She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the slight tremble of awareness that moves over her body. I wait for her to try to move away or insist that I stop blatantly invading her personal space. But she just stares up at me with eyes so dark and deep that I can imagine drowning in them.

I pull open the door. “After you.”

A little shake moves over her as she moves past me. I let her go. With an effort, I ignore the animal urge to grab her slim waist, throw her over my shoulder and find some place where I can fuck her up against a wall.

I have to remind myself that I’m at a fucking funeral to get the tightness in my pants to subside.

She hurries into the church and down the aisle as solemn organ music marks the beginning of the service. I take a seat in the last pew, angled so my back isn’t completely at the door. It’s such an ingrained habit that it never occurs to me to let my guard down, not even in a church.

The girl heads straight for the front and takes a seat on the end of the first pew, right next to Cecile Matarazzo.

“The fuck?” I murmur.

Leaning forward, I nudge Fat Donny who’s sitting in the row right in front of me. When he turns to look, I nod toward the front. “Who’s the girl next to Cecile, with the dark hair?”

He cranes to see. When he turns back, a smirk creases his sweaty face that looks like someone ripped a tear in a sandbag. “That’s Mara Matarazzo. She’s Vito’s granddaughter.”

I let that fact settle over me, rolling it around in my mind to get a taste for it. I have distant memories of a quiet little girl hanging around the clubs every once in a while, but that was a long time ago.

“She’s really grown up, huh?” Fat Donny licks his lips and gives me a sly wink that he obviously thinks is conspiring. It really just makes him look like a fucking creep.

“Jesus, show some fucking respect,” I growl at him. “Vito’s laid out up there for Christ’s sake.”

“Relax, Leo.” He puts his hands up in a conciliatory motion. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

He turns back to the front, sparing me a nervous glance every few minutes or so.

Fucking creep. 
Not that I have a leg to stand on in that department, considering all the things that I’ve thought about doing to little Mara Matarazzo in the last five minutes.

I force myself to relax into the wooden bench. I have to maintain the stately and decorous demeanor that’s supposed to be a part of this sort of event. It ain’t exactly honoring Vito’s memory to be lusting after his granddaughter during his funeral.

* * *

T
he funeral drags
on for what feels like an eternity. The priests’ solemn statements are occasionally punctuated by wailing and crying from Cecile. She practically throws herself onto the casket when it’s the family’s turn to pay their final respects.

How that woman created someone as sedately beautiful as Mara is something I will ponder until the day I go to my own grave.

Getting that girl out of my head proves to be a more difficult task than I thought possible. I don't even know the broad and haven’t spoken more than a few words to her. But I can’ keep my eyes off her. The ramrod straight way she holds her spine and the haughty expression on her face make me want to do something to break down that icy facade. I want her broken down and begging.

I’ve always had a thing for the ice queens. They go wild when you finally get them warmed up.

We all troop out to the cemetery in a sad procession. I’m one of the pallbearers. Getting my hands on the casket of my mentor and de facto father is enough to remind me of how shitty I actually feel. Maybe lusting after a girl I barely know is my subconscious way of forgetting that I’m in mourning. It was working until now.

It feels like half of Newark shows up for the reception, coming to pay their respects to one of the last old-school bosses left. I wade through the sea of bodies, recognizing less than half and feeling more and more cynical about the whole affair with each passing moment.

Where were all these fucking people when Vito was alive?

Willy Russo, the family’s lawyer, slides up beside me. I’ve told him before that with the silent way he moves, he would probably make a better assassin than attorney. He always replies that he’d rather kill people in the courtroom.

“We’ll be having the reading of the will now in the anteroom,” he murmurs, face near my shoulder. His voice is only loud enough for me to hear. “I would appreciate if you were there for it.”

“Reading of the will?” I ask, taken aback. “Is that even a thing anymore.”

“No. Not really.” His lips purse, and the movement is rich with distaste. “Cecile is insisting that the will be publicly presented as soon as possible. She appears to be unaware of its provisions.”

I raise my eyebrows. “But you’re not.”

“No,” he replies tersely.

Which is his polite way of saying that whatever is in the will won’t be what Cecile is expecting. And we can 
expect
 a pretty dramatic reaction because of it.

I hesitate before following him, wondering how the fuck this drama became my problem. Vito had other captains. Hell, some foot soldier could stand sentry while Cecile has her breakdown.

But I still remember Vito’s face as he whispered to me in that hospital bed. And I know that I don’t really have much of a choice.

Willy leads me to a small room off of the main area of the chapel. I glance up at the large stained glass windows. They depict some biblical scene that I'm sure I learned and promptly forgot in Sunday School. It’s a wonder that the church hasn’t caught fire with this many sinners inside.

Cecile is already waiting when we enter the room. The toe of her kitten heel taps impatiently against the floor, making too much of her exposed chest bounce. Mara sits next to her, prim and proper with legs crossed neatly at the ankle. She makes the cheap folding chair under her look like a throne.

I’m still marveling at the contrast of the two of them together. Maybe the girl was switched at birth, or something.

The wannabe biker dude is standing behind Cecile. What was his name again — Mack? He looks just as strung-out and worthless as he did in the hospital. Except now he’s not bothering to hide the look of obvious anticipation on his face. I wonder how much of their relationship is built around the pursuit of cash and drugs.

I can only pray that Vito did something truly vicious with all that money. Maybe donate it to a charity that provides job-training to former prostitutes, or some shit. Anything but let these pieces of shit at one penny.

Willy moves to sit behind the little desk in the corner. Judging from the seminary degrees and family photos on the wall, this is the priest’s office. I wonder how much cajoling it had taken to let us use it.

The lawyer clears his throat, obviously playing for time.

“This will be quick,” he says. “The last will and testament of Vincent Antonia Matarazzo contained few provisions. It's relatively straightforward.”

“Just get on with it,” Mack snaps. I resist the urge to shoot him right in his ugly face.

Willy casts an affronted glance over the paper he’s holding, but chooses not respond. “Mr. Matarazzo requests that his estate be divided in the following manner: a stipend of $100,000 is provided to his daughter, Cecile Matarazzo, to fund any efforts to support her sobriety. This includes, but is not limited to, placement in detox or rehab centers and clinics. In the event that the aforenamed is able to abstain from using illicit substances for a period of at least one year, as verified by a neutral third party, the remainder of these funds will be provided to her as a lump sum.”

“What the hell?” Cecile jumps from her seat. The plastic folding chair careens into the wall behind her. It comes within an inch of Mara, who doesn’t so much as flinch. “Money for rehab? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Willy sends her a blistering glare that temporarily quells Cecile into silence. “The remainder of his estate, to include his house, cars and liquid assets, is to be placed in trust and bequeathed in its entirety to his granddaughter, Amaranth Matarazzo, on the day of her graduation from college.”

“Holy shit.”

It’s like a bomb is dropped inside of the room. Cecile is screaming and crying. She has to be held back from jumping over the desk and grabbing for the will or Willy’s throat, whichever is closer. Mack yells threats and obscenities, as if Vito can be intimidated from beyond the grave.