Greece!
I knew Capo had probably gone through my things when I’d handed them over at The Club. Being in Greece took that probably and turned it into a solidfor sure. I’d written in Journey about Greece and how badly I wanted to go. One of the customers at Home Run was from Greece, and he’d tell the most wonderful stories about the sunrises and sunsets, the bright houses, the blinding sea, the windmills, the mountains, the food, and the people.
The first thing Capo did after the tender dropped us on land was find a shop that sold cameras. He told me it was unacceptable that I was squaring my fingers, putting them in front of my face, and then making aclickingnoise when the sight I never wanted to forget was in frame. If I wanted a camera, I’d get a camera.
He bought me a fancy one, and it took me two hours to figure out how to work it, but once I did, there was no stopping me. Rarely was it not around my neck. And I must’ve gone through five digital cards, filling them all to capacity.
Sunrises and sunsets, white-washed houses, blinding seas, windmills, mountains, food, and people. Capo and me. Just…Capo. The camera loved his face and body.
During our time, I got to meet a different side of him. He was more at ease, and when he felt like I was chickening out on life, he urged me to do things I’d never imagined before. Swimming naked at night under the stars with him, hiking to places that were only occupied by wildflowers and goats, crashing a wedding and dancing until my face felt like it was permanently stuck smiling, rafting on Mount Olympus, kayaking over water so clear that the surface resembled glass and the depths blue and green treasure, having sex in secluded coves, and eating things that took some guts, like sea urchin salad (straight from the sea) and lamb. I drew the line at fried ink sack from an octopus and snails that popped when you put them in a pan. I fell in love with pomegranates, though, and the chef kept the kitchen stocked with them.
We’d been in Greece for a month when Capo received a call from Rocco. Capo had to plug his ear to hear what Rocco was saying. My husband had surprised me with a night out in Athens. The Greek National Opera was performingCarmenat the Odeon of Herodes Atticus.
The Odeon of Herodes Atticus was an outside stone theater that had been there since 161 AD. It was steep-sloped, almost like a bowl with high sides. Beyond, the city of Athens glowed, while the mountains in the distance created rugged shadows. I’d never been to a place with so much history. Not only could I touch it, I could smell it in the air.
Capo ended the call and raked his teeth over his bottom lip. With him, passion and anger were closely related. He only rolled his teeth over his bottom lip when he wanted me or when he was pissed off.
“Something wrong?”
He didn’t look at me, just stared at the actors playing their roles on the stage. “Boo, bam,boo.”
I stared at him until he met my eye.
“We leave tonight, Mariposa.”
I’d been dreading this day, but I knew it would come sooner or later. “Why?”
“One of my buildings in New York was blown up.”
That line concluded our time in Greece.
We’d be back in New York, back to reality, by the next day.
21
Capo
Every step I took was planned. Nothing I did was by accident. In my world, unforeseen circumstances could get you killed. After my death, I had learned to time my breaths to each second that passed. I remembered all too well how sixty seconds equaled a lifetime—the next possibly my last.
I had caused the wars. I went in unsuspected and killed brothers, sons, uncles, and good friends. All evidence pointed toward the Scarpone family.I even fucked with the Irish. And as I’d planned, all hell broke loose. No one trusted anyone, not even a cent. It was a cent that usually kept them square with each other.
I knew whom to kill in each family. I knew how to set it up, how to make it look. At one time, that was who I was: the king’s prince, the one he sometimes called the pretty-boy killer. When Arturo wanted someone dead, someone who had done something personal to him, he called on Achille or me to handle it.
We were the wolves after sheep to slaughter. Arturo never thought of anyone but the Faustis as competition. He called them lions, a different breed of animal. We didn’t have to worry about them or take them down because they had territory of their own. But when it came to taking other wolves down, the ones who challenged him, wanting to be the alpha, we were sent in to destroy.
I’d let the daughter of another wolf go, and in Arturo’s eyes, the sin was unforgivable. So he sent a pack of wolves after me. They came close to tearing my throat out.
Then I became a ghost. I saw it on every face of every man I killed after my death. They thought I had come to lead them to hell. It was especially sweet to see the recognition on the faces of the animals that had a hand in my death. The cowards who held my arms while the knife cut me deep. The ones who held a woman against her will and assaulted her in front of me until they tore her apart.
One thing about death—you have nothing but time. So that was what I did. I bided my time. I got lost in Italy for a while. I started going by the name Amadeo, to begin with. Then a visit with Marzio Fausti brought me back to life. He loaned me enough money to invest in tanking businesses. In return, I’d kill for his family, until I paid him back every cent with interest. He’d offered to kill Arturo, but I asked that he be spared. I wanted to do it my way.
I wanted to seek revenge in a way that fed the soul that had been ripped from its body and starved for too long.
After my investments paid off—the hotels, the restaurant, The Club, plus numerous investment properties, along with investments Rocco made for me—my plan really started to take shape. It looked like a vengeful wolf with teeth sharper than the rest. I left little clues here and there, enough for them to catch a hint of a new but also familiar scent.
Vittorio?
No, it can’t be.
