“He’s presumed dead.” He let that hang in the air between us.
“So…?”
“So. It seems like ever since you hooked up with Mac Macchiavello, everyone who has threatened you in some way has disappeared.”
“Like who?” I lied.
He lifted his pointer finger. “Quillon Zamboni.Strangled.” He lifted his middle finger, which was suitable for the next name. “Merv Johnson. Beat beyond recognition.” He lifted his ring finger. “ArminoScarpone. Still missing.”
“Let me refresh your memory, Detective Stone. I met Armino maybe three times. He knew I was home the day he killed Sierra. He’s a Scarpone. He might not be dead, if he’s just missing—after all, he killed a girl and all signs point to him. So what does he have to do with me?”
“Forget Armino. What about the other two?”
“I don’t associate with Quillon Zamboni.”
“Wrong. He fostered you.”
“And that means what, exactly? I haven’t seen him in years.”
“Where did you go after you ran from his house, Mari? What made you run?”
“Do I need my lawyer, Detective?”
He smiled. “This is a private visit.”
“Then let’s get on with it.” I really started to tremble. And it wasn’t only from the cold.
“Arturo Scarpone has one son now, but he had two.”
“We’ve already went over—”
“You seem to know who Achille is, but do you know his oldest son?”
I shook my head, holding my arms closer to my chest. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“No.” His voice was low. “You wouldn’t. He’s presumed dead. Vittorio Lupo Scarpone.The case was never truly solved. Rumor has it that he was dumped into the Hudson, on a night like this one, cement blocks around his legs. But he was already dead. Someone cut his throat.
“It’s been rumored that the King of New York—that’s Arturo—had his own son killed. And Achille, the next in line to the infamous Scarpone throne, was only too eager to see his older brother—they called him the Pretty Boy Prince—dead. They call Achille the Joker. You ever hear of a joker passing up the opportunity to be king?” He paused for a second. “Nah, I didn’t think so.
“Arturo, they say, killed his son because he didn’t kill the child of a mortal enemy. Last name Palermo. First name Corrado. Apparently, the Prince found some scruples. He was against killing kids, even the kid of his father’s enemy. Little Marietta hasn’t been found either. That’s Palermo’s kid.”
“W-w-what does t-t-his h-h-have to do with m-m-me?” My teeth started to clack and my bones trembled. Suddenly, so many pieces clicked into place, and I was terrified that Stone would see the truth on my face. I was thankful that the temperature had dropped, the wind sharper, and the dress was thin.
He shrugged. “Thought you should know the kind of people your husband entertains in his place of business.”
“He a-a-also entertains t-t-the F-F-Faustis.”
“Even worse. Luca Fausti killed my aunt and her unborn child. Drunk driving. They, unlike the Prince, have no scruples.”
“How about a-a-actors and a-a-actresses? M-m-musicians? World f-f-famous artists? Are those b-b-better?”
“Not by much.”
“T-t-there is n-n-no p-p-p-pleasing you.” I took a step closer to him. With the same clacking, I asked, “Who is Cashel Kelly, and why do you care if he’s with Keely or not?”
At first I thought he hadn’t understood my question. My teeth chattered so hard my speech was almost unintelligible. But after a second, I felt it, too. Another presence. Wearing all black, he seemed like a detached part of the night taking shape, appearing behind us. My husband’s blue eyes seemed to emerge from the darkness, making the resemblance to the wolf on his hand identical.
Capo slipped my coat over my shoulders and then pulled me closer, tight into his side. “Detective.” His voice came out gruff. The cold played havoc with his voice. It gave me chills. “The next time you request to speak to my wife, you will call our lawyer first and make an appointment. I believe you’ve met him before. Rocco Fausti.”
