What it meant to love as fiercely as we hated.
He was a product of that life.
So was I.
I wore the fucking suit.
Alcina felt that I was cold, even callous, and I was. I was a gangster, a mobster, a racketeer—a rare breed in this life, my grandfather used to say—and the boss of one of the largest and most powerful families in New York. I wasn’t even forty years old yet. I had started at the bottom just like everyone else, and I made my way up to the top with no problem. I was smart, and I rarely made mistakes.
Yet, despite who I was, I loved that woman more than a poet loved romantic words. Even more than the night sky loved the moon.
My grandfather used to say, “You can’t have a heart, Corrado. They’re too expensive.”
Alcina Maria Capitani was out of my price range then. Because I had a heart. It was that woman. And I’d never be able to afford her. I’d owe for the rest of my life and beyond for her love.
Of course, my grandfather wasn’t referring to a woman, but to this life of ours. The only feelings you were allowed to have was for yourself. If you didn’t take care of the situation, the situation took care of you. But when my wife would say something to me, point out how callous I was, how cold, sometimes I could see the contrast between her world and mine.
I couldn’t truly see the darkness of the night without the moon’s light.
I took out the picture of Emilia from my suit pocket, sticking it in front of Macchiavello’s card. I flipped it over and over between my fingers, the dim light making her picture seem black and white.
Emilia had wanted me to marry someone like Alcina. Someone good and beautiful. Someone with heart and passion, but also a woman that took no shit. Wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
She wanted me to go to school, graduate, get a 9-5 like the rest of the schmucks earning an honest dollar—a dollar that came from billion-dollar corporations, who were the most ruthless gangsters on the block, apart from the government. FBI—we all knew it stood for Forever Bothering the Italians.
It was never in my future to be the guy who got suckered. From the moment I knew what it was all about, I worked for the suit.
I stared out of the window, fat droplets moving like amoebas down the pane. The Cadillac shimmied when Baggio made a turn, making them move faster.
“So I says to him, ‘You fucking bum, my ma will out-cook your ma any day. Any.Fucking. Day.’ It’s as simple as that, ya know? Who da fuck does this guy think he is? Telling mehisma cooks better.”
“What kind of stuff does your ma cook?” Adriano said, turning to face him. “I could be the judge, if he decides to agree.”
These fucking guys.
I sighed, slipping Emilia’s picture along with Mac’s card back in my pocket. We were in Hell’s Kitchen, and I could see the building coming up.
Baggio smoothly parked the Cadillac in front.
“You wait out here,” I told Baggio. I nodded to Adriano, and he nodded back.
Baggio stepped out to smoke in the rain. Adriano and I walked up to the building.
“He’s not right,” Adriano said tapping at his temple as we made our way closer to the door of the warehouse. It had Kelly Enterprises painted in green on the side, with a tiger emblem. “Baggio, I mean. He’s the closest thing to a sociopath I’d ever met.” He grinned. “But he’s a lot of fucking fun.
“Listen to this: He goes home to a fish every night named Gilberts, and he talks to the motherfucker like he’s a dog.Here Gilberts, Gilberts, Gilberts.” Adriano said it in a monotone that sounded likehere fishy, fishy, fishy,while he acted like he was sprinkling food over a bowl.
He laughed. “So much fucking fun.” He opened the door and cool air blasted against my face. It smelled fresh, like new paint, wood, and metal.
I fixed my suit jacket and tie before I went to the counter where a guy, maybe around my age, looked down at something. At the sound of our footsteps, he looked up, narrowing his eyes.
“I’d like to see Mr. Kelly,” I said. “I heard he was in.”
I’d also seen Cash Kelly eating at Macchiavello’s the day after I’d eaten there with Alcina. I went back to talk to Sylvester, who was nowhere to be found. Kelly was with the same red-haired woman that I saw him with in Modica.
Even if no one was willing to talk about Mac, or he wasn’t willing to talk to me, I assumed he had something to hide. A man like Cash Kelly didn’t eat at just any place on the street.
“Mr. Kelly sees people by appointment only,” the guy said.
