Malavita (4 page)

Even though the Lucchesis had left, the atmosphere at the breakfast table remained tense. Papà repeated his question, but Antonella barely heard his words. Enrico had hurt her pride, hurt her—

“Toni?” Her father’s sharp voice cut into her thoughts. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing a nose job wouldn’t fix
. But the doctor had said she was too young; she had to wait until she was eighteen.
Dio
. She’d look hideous in her wedding pictures too. Just like in every other picture taken of her. Why hadn’t she ended up with Mamma’s nose instead of Papà’s? “Everything is fine.”

He narrowed his eyes at her and pulled out a cigar and his gold lighter. “Walk with me,” he said, rising from his chair and lighting up as he headed toward the olive grove, his favorite place for their talks. She cast a glance back at Dario, who still sat at the table, the closed look on his face speaking volumes. He longed for the same connection to Papà that she had. But no matter what she said to Dario, her words didn’t sink in. He wanted Papà to be someone he wasn’t. Papà would never respect Dario until he met Papà on
his
terms, not Dario’s. Papà respected strength and boldness; Dario preferred to observe and study before making a move. No matter that Dario was often right—all Papà saw was weakness and indecision. She hoped that someday Dario would learn, because Papà wasn’t about to change.

Her father started down a row of trees, stopping every so often to inspect their fruit or run his hands over their silver-green leaves and gnarled bark. Insects whirred and birds chirped, and a breeze danced through the trees, rustling their leaves. When her father said nothing after a while, her mind wandered back to thoughts of Enrico Lucchesi. He was so much better looking than she’d remembered. He’d grown into a man, with broad shoulders and slim hips, his face taking on firmer contours, his jaw harder, his high cheekbones more prominent. He still had the same chocolate brown eyes fringed in long black lashes, eyes that made her melt. He wore his black hair shorter now, its waves a little more tamed than they had been when she’d seen him last. There’d been that moment in the hedge maze when he’d smiled at her, and his eyes had dropped to her mouth, and she could have sworn he was thinking of kissing her. If only he’d looked at her that way from the beginning—

“Toni, be straight with me. That boy upset you.”

She sighed. “A little, Papà. It was nothing.”

“Tell me,
dolcezza
.” He rested a hand on the nape of her neck and squeezed lightly, then kissed her hair. The scent of his cigar wafted around them. It was comforting to her, that smell.

Tears rose in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“You know I hate it when you’re like this. Tell me.”

She sighed. “It’s my nose.”

He ran a finger down its contours, then kissed her forehead. “
Dolcezza
, we’ve talked about this. It’s a good, strong nose.”

“For a man. For a woman, it’s hideous.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. “You aren’t one of those women who has to rely on her looks to get by in life. You are meant to be a leader. You are meant to do
more
. And you’re beautiful just the way you are.”

“You’re the only one who thinks so.” Her throat closed up and she looked away.

He gave her a little shake. “Any man who is worthy of you will see that too. You’re not a decoration, Toni. You’re a
principessa
, a
capa
. Like Cleopatra, you were born to lead armies and rule men.”

She bit the inside of her lip and let out a snort. “As if the ’Ndrangheta would accept me.”

“It’s happened before. I can make it happen again. If that’s what you want.”

“But what about the marriage?”

He waved his cigar in the air. “For now, the marriage suits us. But that may not always be the case.”

“
For now
it suits us?”

“This marriage may have been your idea at the start, but it’s taken on a life of its own since then. The only thing I can do now—if you don’t marry the boy—is restart the
faida
. But that will pit Andretti against Andretti.”

Her pulse sped up. “Nonno Lorenzo wants this marriage?”

“I agreed to certain terms, and he agreed to hold me to them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You think this is
Romeo and Juliet
. It’s not. This is the union of two
cosche
. Many families are interested in the outcome. There will be a shift in power.”

“I still don’t see—”

“If I am not fighting Rinaldo Lucchesi, and he is not fighting me, if we work together again, we may become stronger than some people may like.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“I don’t want to be yoked to Rinaldo Lucchesi.”

“You were his partner before.”

“Before he betrayed me. Before I knew who he really worked for.”

“Nonno Lorenzo.”
That
was why her grandfather wanted this marriage to go through.

“And if the marriage doesn’t happen? If it’s not what I want?”

He smiled. “I finish what I started, and Rinaldo and Enrico Lucchesi get what they deserve.”

She imagined Enrico and his father lying face down in the dirt, blood flowing from bullet holes in the backs of their heads. She didn’t want that. Even if Enrico didn’t think she was pretty. Her face grew hot as she recalled her angry words in the maze. She’d really had no right to say them.

She deserved whatever Enrico Lucchesi thought of her; the
faida
never would have started if it weren’t for her. Enrico’s family wouldn’t have been killed if it weren’t for the stupid way she’d blindly followed her father. If she hadn’t thought it was all a game, a harmless game…

“That won’t be necessary, Papà. The marriage is still on.”

He almost seemed disappointed. “
Davvero
?”

She nodded. It was best for all involved. Wasn’t it?

But what if it wasn’t best for her? What if Enrico Lucchesi never looked on her with love, with desire? Was she trading the future her father was offering her for a lifetime of heartache?

She’d give Enrico two weeks. Two weeks to prove himself to her. And if he couldn’t do it, somehow she’d persuade Papà to let Enrico and his father live. She owed Enrico that. She owed him some sort of recompense for the horrible wrong she’d done to his family.

She rubbed her belly, feeling sick. Some sins could never be forgiven.

Carlo Andretti watched his daughter walk back to the house. He hated manipulating Toni like that. He hated telling her only half the story.

But he needed her cooperation. He needed her to keep the Lucchesis complacent, to make them think the marriage was going forward, to make them think he’d been tamed.

He wasn’t yet strong enough to take on his father. Not yet. But he was close, so very close. In a few weeks, he should be able to eliminate Rinaldo Lucchesi and go to war with his father. To show Lorenzo Andretti which one of them was the master.

Lorenzo thought he could exile him. Lorenzo thought he could use Rinaldo Lucchesi to keep him in line. But Lorenzo was only Carlo’s father. Only a man.

Lorenzo Andretti wasn’t God. And Carlo would never be a pawn in his father’s game of chess.

Enrico’s sleep had been nothing but nightmares. Over and over he’d dreamed about how Mamma, Primo, and Mario had died, those images entwined with Carlo’s smug smile, his father’s heart-wrenching sobs when he’d received the call, and the shock on Dario’s face as he beheld his maimed right hand for the first time. So much horror, so much he wanted to forget.

So much he
couldn’t
forget. So much he couldn’t leave unavenged.

How had Papà done it? How had he reconciled himself to a life of ghosts circling him, howling for justice?

Something was wrong. The man Enrico knew, the man who’d sired him, wasn’t one to take an insult or a blow without dealing out bloody retribution afterwards.

And yet he’d seemingly rolled over for Carlo and shown his belly. And Carlo had seemingly accepted Rinaldo’s surrender. Why? Could it be as Antonella had said?

If so, he might have an explanation for Carlo’s behavior, but not for Papà’s. And he wanted one.

But first, he wanted revenge. If he couldn’t get Carlo, he’d get those who’d pulled the triggers. Those men were vulnerable.

The problem was, he didn’t have their names. Or the first idea how to go after them. They were all hardened killers. Though Enrico had been well-versed in firearms from childhood, he’d never even aimed a gun at another person. Knowing how to use a gun and killing with one were two different things.

He needed help. And there was one man who could certainly assist him. The question was: Would he? Livio Vela, his father’s personal bodyguard, was loyal to the bone to Rinaldo Lucchesi. As far as Enrico knew, Livio had never questioned or second-guessed his
capo
. And yet, if Livio helped Enrico, he’d be outright defying his don. Rinaldo had been very clear with Enrico—he was not to pursue the right to vendetta against Carlo.

It had been easier in England to obey those orders. But if he were marrying Carlo’s daughter, if he were going to be able to hold his head up with any sense of pride, Enrico needed to act. And there was no time to waste. In less than a month, he was supposed to marry Antonella Andretti. And once he made those vows, he’d be setting aside any grievances, any claims to justice.

He found Livio smoking on the back terrace and reading the newspaper. “May I have a word?” Enrico asked.

“Of course.” Livio folded the paper and set it on the table. Then he took a drag on his cigarette.

“I need your help,” Enrico said. Livio grunted and motioned for Enrico to go on. “I need the names of the men who killed my family.”

At this, Livio fixed him with a stare and took another drag on the cigarette, holding it between his thumb and first two fingers. He let the smoke out slowly and squinted at Enrico through the cloud, his silver-gray eyes betraying nothing. “You mean to defy your father.”

“I mean to right a wrong.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.” Livio drew hard on his cigarette, then tapped the ashes on the flagstones. “Your father would never forgive me if I helped you.”

“And I will never forgive myself if I do nothing.”

“Do you know how I came to work for your father?” When Enrico shook his head, Livio continued. “The Velas have never been rich. But we have always had beautiful women in our family. So beautiful, that one of them was stolen. Carlotta Vela, my great aunt. She was stolen and raped and beaten savagely by a member of the d’Angelo family. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father all lost their lives in the feud that erupted over this heinous act. Generation after generation of Velas and d’Angelos punishing each other. And I did my part.” He took another drag, then crushed out the cigarette. “I killed my first man when I was sixteen, and I did it with my bare hands. He was a d’Angelo, a boy like me, yet he dared remark on how he’d love to fuck my sister.”

Livio laid his hands on the table, spreading out his fingers. “You see these scars?” He motioned to his marred and distorted knuckles. “I beat that boy’s face until it was nothing but pulp and bone. Because I did it in front of witnesses, the
carabinieri
arrested me.” Livio looked down at his hands and flexed them. “Your father made the charges go away. He was my friend then, and he is my
capo
now. You’re asking me to break my word.”

Enrico sat back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Livio said nothing for a moment. He just looked out at the lake glittering in the sunlight. “The names you want are these: Leone Valentino, Guido Ripoli, Cristiano Borelli, and Luigi Gennaro.”

“But I thought—”

“I don’t regret what I did. Maybe that boy didn’t deserve to die. Maybe he did. Maybe he would have attacked my sister. Or some other woman. Who knows? What I do know is he had no respect. No honor. And neither does Carlo Andretti. Killing women and children is forbidden. He disgusts me.”