* * *
Even though mywife was adamant that she was all right, I demanded that she be taken to the hospital to get checked out. She had flesh wounds, like Nicodemo and me, but I wanted to make sure that when I had hit her, I hadn’t broken her in a place I couldn’t see.
They had already rushed Adriano to get help, since his wounds seemed more serious, though Tito thought he was going to be fine.
He did not take us to a regular hospital. He took us to a makeshiftospedaleclose to Milan. The Faustifamigliaused it whenever one of them, or a group of them, was hurt in the underground wars they fought. I knew they had them throughout New York—we had access to them—but I had no clue about Italy.
The places we used in New York were assigned by our territories, and we had to pay a fee to access them. Tito had an on-call staff that was sworn to secrecy—no one talked. It was in their best interests not to.
A female doctor that Tito said he trusted, Dr. Abbruzzese, was in there with my wife. Tito wanted to speak to me alone.
“I didn’t realize you had these places in Italy,” I said.
He took a seat on a rolling chair in his office, a folder in his hand. I wanted to know if my wife’s name was on it, but then again, I didn’t. If this had to do with her—
“Traditionally, no. I could go to any hospital, in any area, whenever I wanted. Things are a bit dicey right now. You have met Brando Fausti and his wife, Scarlett?”
I nodded. “I met Brando. Briefly. I heard things about his wife.”
I actually heard things about the both of them, but I didn’t want to get into a lengthy conversation about it. Brando Fausti was Rocco’s older brother. He hadn’t claimed the family as his until he met them in Italy.
The general idea was that Brando Fausti was as fucking ruthless as his father, Luca, but there were some issues where his wife was concerned. Some big names in the international game wanted her for their own reasons, and it was a constant battle to keep her.
Tito adjusted his glasses and tilted his head, like he wanted me to continue, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with the Faustis.
“I heard that she’s a famous ballerina—and that she’s caused some trouble.” I left it at that.
“Trouble.” He grinned. “Which is the exact reason I decided to bring the idea of having these places here from New York.” He lifted the folder. “This is not about your wife, but your grandfather.”
For the second time that day, I knew what it felt like to have my breath stolen and then miraculously given back.
He handed me the file and said one word, “Prova.”
Proof.
UncleCarmine could have been just telling me that my grandfather had been killed to get me home, and then ambush me when I got there.
I opened the folder. Photographs were stacked one behind the other. The first one set the tone for the rest. My grandfather sprawled on the cement in New York, his mouth open, a salvo of bullet wounds through his chest in many different spots.
The photographs were taken from many different angles. Some of his men were beside him in death. One draped over the car. Another one on the cement, his head separated into two parts.
One of his underbosses, who also doubled as a bodyguard, should have been with him—and it wasn’t me.
I lifted the folder and only then realized that Tito had his hand on my shoulder, squeezing. “His life was not meant to end this way,” he said. “I always assumed it would be in the penitentiary, if anything, but not this.”
I nodded, bringing the folder down. I opened it up again, removing a photograph. I didn’t recognize the place. “Where?”
Tito cleared his throat. “Macchiavello’s.”
I searched my memory of all of the places I knew in the city, and remembered. It was a haunt for some high-powered officials, rich housewives, and made men. In between them, regular folks who wanted to try what the entire city, it seemed like, raved about. The steak and the fancy booze. I wasn’t a man who ate out often. No one cooked like myNonna, and now, my wife.
I cleared my throat. “It was a setup.”
Tito shook his head. “As far as I am concerned, it was a legitimate meeting. I set it up myself. He was ambushed on the way out. I had no idea.”
“The commission,” I said.
The commission was the ruling body of the organization, so to speak. It was set up so that the organization would have rules to follow. Some rules had harsher punishment than others if broken.
