The Mafia’s Revenge

Chapter 2

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 se”

“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 b****y 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 g*n at another person. Knowing how to use a g*n 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 r***d 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 f**k 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 f*******n. He disgusts me.”

“Grazie. Mille grazie.”

“You can thank me by not getting yourself killed.” Enrico’s heart was beating fast. “Any advice on how not to do that?”

“Surprise is your best asset in any fight. Learn the men’s routines, learn when they are least alert. And be ready to act. Zero hesitation.”

“I will.” I hope.

Enrico’s gut tightened. Was he really going to do this? With a sharp rap of his knuckles on the table, Livio rose and wished him luck. “In bocca al lupo.” In the mouth of the wolf.

Enrico gave the traditional response. “Crepi il lupo.” May the wolf die.

Antonella picked up the phone twice before finally placing the call, her heart skipping like a stone across a pond. Enrico had said yesterday that he wanted a second chance. Would he prove her a fool for giving him one?

The phone rang several times before someone answered. One of the maids. Yes, Enrico was home, please wait.

She wiped a sweaty hand on her skirt. This was stupid. Why open herself up to more ridicule? But if you’re going to marry him, you should know him first. A rustling came on the line, then Enrico’s rich deep voice. He spoke with the beautiful cadences of the north, his diction perfect, less slangy than her father’s own frequent lapses into Calabrian. When she identified herself, he said, “So you did forgive me.” A smile filled his voice.

“I said it, yes?” Her tone was a little sharper than she’d intended. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He chuckled. “I’m supposed to be apologizing to you, remember?”

She relaxed. He was right. “So, how are you going to do that?” she asked, injecting a teasing lilt into her words.

“There’s a beautiful café in Bellagio. Splendore. Have you been?”

“No.” Her heart started acting up again, and her stomach joined in.

“Great. Let’s take the boat. I’ll pull up at your dock in an hour.”

“I can’t wait.” And she meant it. She’d always dreamed of such a day with him. The boy she’d longed for by her side, the wind whipping in their faces as they sped across the lake. It was a dream come true. Except that her father might ruin everything. She hadn’t liked his lack of hesitation when she’d asked him what he’d do if she didn’t marry Enrico. This had better work. Enrico had better be able to see who she was; he’d better be able to see the inner beauty rather than the exterior. If he didn’t, he’d be in trouble. Except this time, she might not be able to save him and his father. Antonella tore through every outfit in her closet at least three times. None of them would fix her nose. She finally settled on a dark blue sun dress with white sandals. She knotted a white silk scarf at her throat. Maybe it would draw his eyes away from her hideous beak. At least she could be proud of her hair. It was a glossy, wavy, blue-black, thick and tumbling to mid-back. She’d never suffered a moment’s insecurity over it. Grabbing a hair elastic, she pulled it up into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck to keep it from blowing all over while they were on the boat.

Heart in her throat, she raced down the central staircase and hurried toward the rear terrace. “Toni, where are you going?” her father called from the end of the hall.

She stopped guiltily. Should she tell him? What if he said no? “I’m meeting Ilaria.”

“You’re awfully dressed up.”

“We’re going to Bellagio.”

He came toward her, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his ever-present cigar. He stopped a couple feet from her and scanned her head to toe, his gaze coming to rest on her face. Could he see that she was lying?

“Where in Bellagio?”

“Just shopping. I’m not sure.” She glanced at her watch. Enrico would be down at the dock any minute. If she wasn’t on time, how long would he wait?

Her father pulled out his wallet and peeled off a stack of lire and handed it to her. “Get yourself something nice.”

Clutching the money in her hand, she beamed at him and rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Stay out of trouble,” he added, his eyes twinkling as he smiled at her.

“Always,” she promised with a pang. They were just going to lunch. And Enrico was her fiancé. Technically. He hadn’t given her the ring yet, but he would. Wouldn’t he?

She hurried along the path through the garden and down to their dock, which was hidden by a copse of trees. When she heard the purr of a boat’s motor, her pulse sped up. She quickened her pace, then stopped short just before she came into view. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to wait a moment. Papà’s words echoed in her ears: Like Cleopatra, you were born to lead armies and rule men. Would Cleopatra race like a puppy to greet a man? No, she wouldn’t. She’d make him wait, and when he saw her, she’d be as unruffled as the Sphinx. She heard a bump as the boat pulled up at dockside. That was her cue. Taking another breath, she stepped out onto the dock, her sandals thudding on the boards. Enrico leapt over the side of the boat. He was wearing a beautiful tan suede jacket, cream colored trousers, and a white Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His tanned skin and black hair stood out in sharp contrast to his clothes, and when he looked at her and grinned, a thrill coursed through her. “You look lovely,” he said as he looped a rope

around a post, pulling the boat up tight.

“Grazie.” She deliberately kept her pace slow, casual, even though she was so excited she felt like her heart would burst through her chest.

He extended a hand toward her and she took it, for some reason surprised when he started helping her into the boat. Had she really expected him to kiss her hand? Masking her disappointment, she clambered into the boat, never an easy task in a dress. Her foot slipped on the wet gunwale, and he grabbed her awkwardly by the upper thigh to steady her.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Your father would never forgive me if I brought you back in less than one piece.”

True. “He doesn’t know I’m with you.”

His hand tightened on her thigh. “He doesn’t?”

“Don’t worry.”

Once she was safely in the boat, Enrico cast off and swung himself up over the side, landing beside her with a gentle thump, like a cat. A very tall, very handsome cat. He regarded her solemnly. “I’d rather he knew.”

“I’m not a child who needs looking after.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Enrico said. He turned away then and busied himself with idling the boat away from the dock. Once they were clear, he patted the seat beside him up front, behind the windscreen. The motorboat was a sleek Riva Aquarama, its mahogany hull polished to perfection, with plush white leather seating in front and along the sides. She looked around, a little stunned. Her father had a fine motorboat as well, but it wasn’t a super-expensive Riva. How could the Lucchesis afford such an extravagance?

“Hang on,” he said, motioning to the railing beside her. They took off with a spray of spume.

Wind whipped at her face and she inhaled deeply, her eyes scanning the dark green hillsides and the midnight blue waves of the lake. Was there ever a more enchanting place than Lake Como?

Though the sun was shining fiercely overhead, the wind chilled her bare arms, and she mentally berated herself for forgetting a sweater. When she rubbed at them, Enrico glanced over. “Cold?” he asked, shouting above the roar of the motor.

She nodded, and he cut the motor back to idle while he shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. She wished he’d have helped her put it on, or at least have draped the coat over her shoulders himself, but it was still a gallant gesture.

Gallant, but merely friendly. Not at all romantic.

Was this how it would be between them? Civil, polite, but nothing more? On his part, at least.

He started up the boat again and steered them toward Bellagio, at the lake’s northern end. She tamped down her worries. What did she expect? They barely knew each other. And there was the little matter of what Papà had done to Enrico’s family. She must never forget that. The rest of their trip passed without comment, but she continued to feel a slight unease. Would Enrico ever see her, truly see her? Or would he always think of her as an Andretti?

Her pulse quickened when the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni, so iconic a landmark of Bellagio, drew near. Then she reminded herself. Cleopatra. While he helped her out of the boat, she did not dwell on the feel of his large hand wrapped around hers, his other hand at her waist to steady her as she stepped out. No, she did not dwell on it. The moment she had both feet on the dock, he released her hand and turned away, starting toward their destination, not waiting to see if she followed, not taking her hand. Not treating her as the slightest bit special. A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed to disperse it. Cleopatra wouldn’t allow a man to affect her this way.

She hurried after him, then forced herself to slow. How long would it take for him to notice that she wasn’t at his side?

A few moments later, he stopped and looked back for her, waiting until she caught up. It took everything she had to maintain her unhurried pace. When she reached him, he gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he offered, but she said nothing. Didn’t even give him a smile. Cleopatra wasn’t pleased.

He tried to take her elbow, and though she stiffened, she didn’t withdraw it. Inwardly, she smiled. So he responded to the silent treatment. Good to know. When they reached Splendore, he was a perfect gentleman, helping her out of the jacket, pulling out her chair, making sure she was comfortable, and meeting her eyes and smiling, as if they were truly on a date.

The staff greeted Enrico like he was an old friend, chiding him for being away so long. So he’d been there before many times. When the waiter joshed him about his latest date, she realized that he’d brought girls there before. He must have, back in the days before he’d gone to England.

Whatever appetite she’d had was gone. He was humoring her, that’s all. He hadn’t selected a special place. Oh, Splendore was romantic and had a lovely view. But it wasn’t a place he hadn’t been a million times before. He hadn’t chosen it for her.

“What has you frowning?” he asked, as he perused the menu.

She slapped hers shut and set it on the table. “How many girls have you brought here?” Whoa. Not Cleopatra in the slightest!

“A few. It’s a nice place.”

“I thought you were trying to apologize.”

He gave her his full attention then. “I was.”

“You didn’t put a second’s thought into this.”

“Antonella, I’m not sure what you expect from me.”

“If I have to spell it out—”

“You do.”

That caught her by surprise. “What?”

“I’m obviously failing to meet your expectations. I’d like

to know what they are.”

She lowered her voice. “I’m your fiancée. You ought to be

reminding me of that.”

He let out a breath, but clenched his menu, bending the

edges of it. “Not by my choice,” he said through gritted teeth.

It was the truth, yet still the words hit her like a blow. “Then why are we here?”

“Because I’m not a jerk. I hurt you, and I wanted to apologize.”

“You’re doing a horrible job,” she said, her voice warbling. Damn it. She didn’t want him to hear that.

He set his menu on the table. “You expect me to forget everything that’s happened? Everything I’ve lost?” Now his voice was the one warped with emotion. “I’m not some unfeeling robot.”