Page 135 of Vicious Kingdom

Down on the street, we walked a block in the hot, stale air to my brother’s vehicle. Dante rolled down the driver’s window and looked me over.

“Put the damn mask on,” the enforcer clipped.

Scowling, I slid into the backseat and then tied the mask. It was made of animal hide, forming to my face.

“What’s in the Alley tonight?” I asked.

As Dante drove to the heart of the Mancini territory, Sandro informed me that Old Man Garibaldi passed last weekend.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Camillo was a good man,” I inserted.

“He was, but his youngest son’s an addict. At the funeral, his mother asked me to do a favor,” Sandro intoned.

We parked in front of Pizzeria Ostiense, and a wave of nostalgia shot through me. Annaliese took me here on our first unofficial date.

Dante unlocked the front door and moved to silence the alarm on the wall. Flanked by my brother, we went to the back where the stairs led to the apartments above. The building was full of our tenants, each loyal to the mob if not an active participant.

The staircase creaked under our weight, wooden steps smoothed by decades of footsteps. Portraits of Chicago, black and white and full of history, lined the walls—generations of Italians who’d made this building their sanctuary. I recognized a few faces from my youth, when Alessandro and I would run these halls while our father conducted business below. Many of the women would invite us inside for sweets and hot milk. Too many of those saints were now angels above.

We reached the fifth floor, and the atmosphere shifted upon exiting the stairwell. The hallway stretched before us, surprisingly pristine despite the building’s age. The hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting, and the cream-colored walls were unmarked by the usual scuffs and scratches of a well-trafficked space. Potted plants stood at regular intervals, adding life to the corridor.

“It seems the wives of the famiglia still keep this place immaculate,” I murmured, a painful pinch forming in my chest. I wouldn’t know any of them personally. The older generation was fast fading, and the new didn’t know my name.

Sandro nodded. “Pride in their home. Always and forever.”

The mob provided protection, and the money flowed, but the people we guarded preferred to remain in the generational homes rather than moving into private, splendid dwellings. The sense of community in the mob was strong.

We moved silently down the corridor, our steps barely audible. Stopping before door 508, the don knocked softly.

Shuffled noises sounded from inside.

Donna Garibaldi opened the door and relief swept over her face. “Thank you for coming!”

“Of course, signora.” Alessandro took her hand. “I only wish you’d said something sooner.”

“With Camillo so ill, it took all my focus. But….” Her voice choked with emotion. “I don’t want to lose my boy too.”

Buono dio, these were the kinds of things Alessandro dealt with on a regular basis. I always thought he had it easy, but there was nothing simple about the anguish on the woman’s face.

“This way,” she whispered, leading us down a short hallway inside her apartment.

The smell hit me first—sweat, vomit, and chemicals. My nose wrinkled beneath the mask. The door at the end of the hallway was closed, a thin strip of light visible underneath.

The signora’s hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob. “He’s been in there for three days. Won’t eat. Won’t talk to me.”

Sandro placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Wait in the kitchen, donna.”

She nodded, crossing herself before retreating.

The don turned to me. “Like old times, fratello?”

I flexed my fingers. “Let’s get this over with.”

Dante moved first, his foot connecting with the door. The wood splintered around the lock as it flew open, banging against the wall.

Alessandro sprang inside.

I followed, the sounds of a scuffle and then profanities shouted breaking the quiet peace of the building. My brother gripped the younger man by the hair, and I lunged, my fist colliding with his jaw.