Boy, huh?Santino didn’t let the jibe get to him. “Zia Lorenza isn’t who I’m worried about, Nonno. Even if she wanted to, the most she could do is run her mouth.” And while that wasn’t nothing, depending on her audience, he also knew his aunt had been just as spoiled in her own way as his mother. Neither woman would spit on their father, least of all while helived. “More than likely, it’s Danilo. But we can’t rule out Adele without an investigation.”
“Adele?” His mother gasped, as if appalled by the suggestion. “She’s such a sweetheart, though. And so busy always taking care of Lo. Surely, she wouldn’t.”
Santino tilted his head to one side as he slid his gaze to his mother for a moment, then back to his elder. “Sometimes it’s the quiet ones lurking in the background who strike the hardest, and with the most precision. If the Segretis are under suspicion, they need to both be looked into.”
Nonno sank back into his chair and let out a wheezing breath. “What of Noemi?”
A lingering second of silence passed before Mamma repeated the name like a forbidden rumor. “Noemi?”
Santino bit back a sigh. “She hasn’t popped up on our radar,” he said, “but we’re always looking.”
Noemi Segreti was Danilo’s younger sister, and the cousin closest to Santino in age at only nine years his senior. When she was twenty-one, for reasons unknown, she’d abruptly decided she wanted nothing to do with anything mafia and least of all anything Guerra or Segreti. She stopped showing up to classes and disappeared off the face of the earth, with nothing but four words scribbled on a single sticky note left stuck to her abandoned laptop—don’t look for me.
Of course, they had.
Santino had only been twelve and remembered watching the family’s panic, the family’s heartbreak, as if through a window. They never found Noemi, only a few cold trails and one unconfirmed sighting of her in Sicily several years after.
Santino highly doubted that the cousin who’d so thoroughly disappeared from everything she was would be returning and reclaiming her name. But he supposed it would make sensefor that person to be looking to cause some mayhem,ifthey’d chosen to reassociate at all.
Nonno scrubbed a hand down his face on a tired sigh. “It’s not my LoLo,” he muttered. “It’s not any of them, goddammit!” His arm shook as he dropped it to his lap. “They may not be Guerra in name, but they’re blood. They have no reason—” He cut himself off with a cough, his body lurching.
“Papà!”
Santino strode to the side table and scooped up his grandfather’s waiting cup of water. He helped the man sit forward, rubbed his back until the coughing subsided, and held out the cup. “Take a few sips, soothe your throat.” He waited while Nonno sipped at the liquid, then took the cup back. “I’m not going to go out and accuse them openly without proof, Nonno. I’m telling you, and Mamma, so you can be on-guard. Just in case. I’ll dig, and I’ll get answers.” He moved to crouch in front of his elder, meeting the man’s haggard stare. “But whatever those answers are, I won’t ask you to sign off on them. I’ll expect you to accept them.”
He didn’t spell out what should have been obvious—that Danilo did have one reason, however misguided. It wasn’t even a secret in the family that Danilo was jealous and bitter of Santino. That in itself didn’t mean Danilo had turned traitor. It could well mean Danilo was being set up to look like one, in fact. And if that were the case, Santino would only make a fool of himself if he fell for it. So, whatever the situation, he had to approach it with caution. Caution, and quiet expediency.
Because whatever it was, whoever was threatening him, they had succeeded in turning one of his good men against him. He couldn’t assume Nico would be the last.
Santino tried not to let that thought eat at him as he ducked back into his SUV once the impromptu meeting with his immediate family was over. Ordinarily, he would call his capostogether to root out any rats. But the possibility that the source of the problem was blood made it much too complicated. That type of problem tempted even those with comfortable positions into swaying, when the offer was right.
“Home, Boss?” Armando asked as the engine rolled over.
Santino drummed his fingers on his thigh before extracting his phone. “The ring,” he said. “I need to work off some energy.” It was barely the dinner hour and he missed Reiko already. But he needed to give her more than a couple of hours to process everything they’d shared, everything that had happened between them, in what had amounted to the half-day they’d spent together. Though that didn’t mean he couldn’t check in.
He opened the conversation thread he shared with Marco, the made man currently on shift outside Reiko’s apartment, and typed out a short text.
How’s everything?
Santino stared at the screen as the SUV slid into traffic, counting the seconds until his message switched toread. The three dots appeared swiftly, cycling four times before Marco’s response came through.
Been quiet. She’s been out to her landlord’s office, and again to check her mail. No sign of anyone else watching her.
Santino grinned and closed out of the app. She’d already given her promised notice. He would have to reward her for that next time he saw her.
In the meanwhile, he supposed he knew what he needed to do. As much as he didn’t like it.
He cast his gaze forward, to the pair of men in the front seats. Armando he trusted as much as he trusted anyone.Armando had been stuck with him since Santino had started college and somehow survived the experience. If there was a man in the family Santino would be comfortable assigning to the vacant seat of Underboss, it was Armando. But his grandfather wouldn’t hear of such an important rolenotgoing to blood when blood was available, and Santino didn’t trust Danilo nearly enough. So, the seat was vacant.
Yet another bone of contention between them.
Then there was Dario. The man was on payroll as a driver, but in their business, drivers were always expected to act as secondary security. He’d been with Santino for half a decade and Santino had never had a reason to question him. Still, objectively, five years wasn’t a lot considering the weight and scale of the problem.
“Dario,” Santino said, projecting his voice unnecessarily. There was no radio or conversation to compete with.
Dario’s head turned almost imperceptibly to the side, as if he were tilting his ear Santino’s direction. “Sir?”
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be straight with me, understand?”
