Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(75)

The war had truly begun.

In the blink of an eye, everything had changed, and we all did too – morphed by the weight of our guilt, of how close we had been to Valentino and how drastically we had failed him. It was the hardest blow they could have dealt, and they had done it because we had underestimated them. Because we had dared to ask for peace when they were thirsting for war. Because we had dared to believe in the possibility of a truce. Nothing was off limits any more.

The rules had changed.

Luca’s desires now were singular, the sharp edge of his grief directed outwards, like a weapon, at all those Marinos who still walked free. He talked a little crisper, walked a little faster, drew his gun a lot quicker. He didn’t lie out on the roof any more, looking at the stars. He didn’t read poetry or spar with his brothers. He didn’t talk about the what-ifs. He didn’t talk to me, either. Not the way he used to. The old Luca was gone, replaced by a harder, darker version. The Falcone he was always supposed to be. The Falcone who would avenge all that was taken from us.

No one else talked about the what-ifs, either. The idea of possibility was gone. Luca had finally let it go. He had finally succumbed to the family, and without him trying to block me from it, I did too. We were united at last in our purpose, but instead of bringing us closer together, it pushed us apart. We stood on opposite ends of a dark cloud, our ever-present grief licking the happiness from our skin.

On November 10th, Valentino was interred next to his father in the family mausoleum.

That evening, Luca was sworn in by the family elders as the new Falcone boss.

He made Paulie his underboss.

Security measures at Evelina were tightened.

Shoot-on-sight orders were distributed.

Luca swore revenge on every living, breathing Marino in the state of Illinois while Felice stood by and watched, a quiet smile painted across his face.

And I kept wondering, as the weeks dragged by, how exactly the Falcone consigliere had failed to notice Valentino’s murder, when he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with him when it happened.

I played his reaction over and over in my head – the wide eyes, the gasp, the slow turn of his head, as though the scene had been written and it was time for Felice to play his part. The more time passed, the less I believed in his shock. His grief. The less I believed in his loyalty at all.

Felice spent his time watching Luca, and I spent my time watching him.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


DECEMBER 23RD




In the Council room at Evelina, Luca stood at the head of the table with his back to us. His black hair brushed against the base of his neck, his head tilted to the side as he faced the photographs on the wall. The others were looking at them, but I was looking at Luca, the way his shoulders tensed, how his voice arced. I could hear the exhaustion in it. He swept a hand through his hair, then gestured towards the photo on the far right.

Uncle Jack. A recent photo of him coming out of Eden and ducking into a car. His grey hair was buzzed short, his right eye still scarred and pink around the edges. My handiwork.

It was two days before Christmas, and I had never felt so joyless. We were planning our final, full-force strike, and every active Falcone member in the state had been called in to prepare for it. D-Day was approaching and I was right smack in the middle of it, finally about to get my revenge.

I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

‘Jack Gracewell aka Antony Marino will be at Donata Marino’s house, along with the others,’ Luca said without turning around. ‘Marco, her youngest son, will also be present. We suspect he has been appointed underboss following Zola’s death. Her cousin, Romano Marino, recently released from prison, has also risen in the ranks. Our sources tell us he’s become a key player in Zola and Libero’s absence.’ He shifted his attention to the photo on the far left, where a stocky skinhead boy was glaring at the camera. Beside him, a photo of a scowling Marco Marino: cropped brown hair, a hooked nose and a silver lip ring. Sara’s eyes, Donata’s harsh curving mouth. ‘And of course, Donata will be hosting.’ The photo of Donata was taken at Zola Marino’s funeral. She was mostly hidden under a netted black veil, those piercing eyes glazed over. She wasn’t crying. She was a woman who had spent all her tears long ago.

‘And what about Michael Gracewell?’ asked Dom. ‘Is he expected at Donata’s too?’

Luca straightened just a little. ‘We have no recorded sightings of Vince Marino Junior.’

Not since my mother’s goodbye ceremony.

Where the hell was he? Hidden so deeply inside the Marino framework, we had barely heard a peep from him. Was he that afraid of being hauled back to prison? Or was it us he was hiding from?

‘Well, if he’s there, we’ll just kill him, too,’ Felice remarked, his eyes on me while he said it. ‘The same rule applies to all of the Marinos. Is that not correct, Don Luca?’

There was no respect in the way he addressed Luca, and everyone around the table knew it. He was still looking at me while he played his game, while he tried to make Luca sign my father’s death sentence in front of me.

‘I doubt Vince Marino will be there.’ Luca’s voice was even. ‘He might be halfway to Fiji by now.’

‘But if he is,’ Felice pressed, grinning at me, ‘we are to kill him too, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I said, taking the reins before Felice could do any damage. ‘Of course we kill him. Why wouldn’t we? He’s a Marino.’