Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1)
Bethany-Kris & London Miller
There were days when Alberto Gallucci thought it would be easier to have the mind and ideals of a child. Children didn’t concern their little selves with worldly things or the issues of men. As long as their tiny hands were filled and their mouths were distracted with food or talk, the rest was unimportant.
The small things didn’t bother children.
Alberto couldn’t remember what that felt like.
Except for his Violet.
She was not like most children. She wanted to know everything—all things. Her questions never ended, and her innocent curiosity couldn’t be contained. Most times, he didn’t mind indulging his daughter with her constant chattering, or giving into her demands when she stomped her foot and pouted.
Violet stood at her father’s side; her bob of golden curls haloing her features. She barely reached above his knees in height. Sometimes he worried that her tiny size was a sign of some health problem, as his son had stood nearly to his waist at the same age, but the doctors assured him that Violet was completely, entirely normal.
He didn’t think she was at all—she was far too special for that.
She grabbed a fistful of his slacks and tugged hard. “Daddy?”
Alberto patted Violet’s head, hoping she would stay quiet for just a little while longer.
He shouldn’t have bothered.
“Daddy?” Violet asked again, pulling firmly on his pants.
“Hush, topina,” Alberto murmured, running a hand over her hair.
There was a chill in the air, the shifting colors of leaves giving way to the promise of fall. And even the rolling gray clouds, obscuring the sun on what was meant to be a clear day, were a grim reminder as to where Alberto and his daughter waited.
Cross Hills Cemetery—the poor man’s graveyard.
Over the years, there had been a number of meets, many of which had taken place in far worse locations than the one he was currently standing in, but Alberto would wager this was one of the most important.
How long had they stood there already? Watching. Waiting. But above all, anticipating. His first attempt at reaching out to the man he was meeting had gone unanswered. And why wouldn’t it? They were on opposite sides, both fighting for a piece of something each wanted to possess. It wasn’t until much later, with a simple spark in the air, that both men had ultimately been brought around.
The rules for this meet were simple. No weapons, no men, and as a show of good faith, Alberto suggested bringing along the children. No man, not even those as unstable as the Russians, would dare plan an attack at the risk of a child being hurt.
It’d been the harming of a child that had ultimately brought them to this place …
The familiar wave of guilt washed over Alberto, knowing the error he had made and what it nearly cost another man.
Children were so important in la famiglia, much like wives, mothers, and grandmothers. Hurting children was unacceptable, even in the midst of a brutal, bloody street war that had no time or concern for loss of life. After all, that was the only thing street wars were really good for, in the end.
He was regarding a tombstone to his left, a bouquet of dying roses resting in the vase beside it, when something—or someone rather—caught his attention, forcing his gaze from the stone to the man that was now entering the graveyard.
Alberto’s hand found the fur-trimmed hood of his daughter’s coat as the other man came a bit closer to his spot. He wanted to keep Violet still for the moment. She had been bouncing and chattering away, ready to jump out of her damn shoes. She very well might bolt forward, at the presence of someone new. His daughter was open in that way. She was too young to understand that their visitors were not friends.
Russians and Italians could never be friends.
At the man’s side, a young boy stayed close. The boy’s hand was firmly enclosed within the man’s, and he wore a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses with shades too dark to see beneath.
Alberto winced internally, knowing the cause of those sunglasses on the boy, who had been just one part of his men’s mistake.
“Daddy?” Violet asked.
For what, the millionth time?
Alberto touched the back of Violet’s head gently. “What is that game we always play, topina? The one when we need to be quiet, hmm?”
Violet’s gaze drifted between her father and the newcomers. At four, she was far too perceptive for her own good. He hoped that later in life, her inquisitiveness would be a virtue, and not something liable to get her into trouble. As it were, he already knew there would be no hiding his activities from his children.
But he would like for Violet to stay ignorant for a while longer.
Once the newcomers were only a few feet away, the man released the boy’s hand. He bent down and muttered a few low words—Russian words—to the boy. His hand skimmed the dark, short hair of the boy, and then he patted him on the side.
With a nod and nothing more, the boy walked a few steps off the stone pathway, his hands held out, as he couldn’t see with those sunglasses of his, and came to a stop at a cracked, weather-beaten, marble bench. The boy sat down, and stared off to the side, silent.
“How’s his eyesight?” Alberto asked.
The Russian man’s gaze cut to Alberto with a flash of pain. “Better, but it’s difficult when he’s outside. The brightness of the day makes his eyes hurt. Frankly, the brightness of any light hurts his eyes.”