“Yes. And the fact that he was a plant isn’t even the real problem. Montanari made an example out of him. A message to the FBI.”
Jacopo rubs a hand over his mouth. “On your father’s orders?” he asks after a moment.
“Montanari is bloodthirsty, but he’s not suicidal enough to make a decision like that on his own.Obviouslythe order came down from my father. And now the Feds are right up in our ass. They want us gone. But there were many others who wished my father dead, too. I haven’t even started looking into his foolish move to consolidate, crown himself emperor, bring all those petty groups in under our banner.”
I’d advised Papa against that idea myself. It wasn’t right, I’d argued—went completely against all our values, our traditions. But he would not be dissuaded.
Julian had supported it, of course. Julian supported everything my father suggested, because in return, my father would reward him. Let him indulge his darkest desires.
“What’s going on with Julian?” Jacopo asks.
Angry that he has echoed my thoughts so effortlessly, I snarl, “Julian is not your concern.”
“He’s still alive, though?” he presses.
“What do you care?”
Jacopo turns his hat around in his fingers, looking down at it as he considers his response. “I care for the same reason you haven’t killed him yet, Sandro. Because I’m on the side of justice, not retribution.”
I laugh in his face at that. “A professional hitman lecturing me about morality?”
He stands with a sigh. “Alright. I’ll leave you stewing in your own juices for now. But I’ll say this, Sandro—if you plan to go to that PacSyn meeting tonight, take me with you. You go alone, I don’t think you’ll come back.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him.
And he does.
I am left there staring at the blood-stained desk. Thinking.
Julian’s alibi is non-existent. He returned to Redwood late the night before my father’s murder, according to the gate logs, and left again briefly the morning of; he took a ten-minute ride to—hesays—retrieve his phone from where he’d left it the night before. Except it wasn’t there. It’s a flimsy story, but I can’t find his phone in his rooms, he doesn’t have it on his person, and Julian is not foolish enough to have remote location turned on.
And phone aside, Julian’s quick foray outside Redwood doesn’t exclude him from killing my father. Money in the right pockets prevented an autopsy, but I could tell myself that he’d been dead less than an hour when I walked in to see Julian and Jack there staring at each other over the body.
Iwishit was Julian. I wish my twisted little half-brother really had done this.
Of course, I could just tell the administration that it was him. They’d believe it. They’d enjoy Julian’s death as much as I would. But Jacopo’s moralizing has got to me, despite myself.
Retribution is easy. Justice is much more difficult.
And I just don’t believe that Julian did this.
But if not Julian, then who? I questioned Lombardo closely last night about the other Families doing business in LA, the various syndicates, even the cartels. I looked at a wider field, considered Sonny Vegas, the New York Families, the Chicago Arm.
I’m even tempted to ask my mother in Italy if there’s anything I should know about there—some complex web of blood and honor and vendettas. But I cannot bring myself to return her calls yet, to hear her triumph and exultation that, finally, her son will rule the Castellanis. Because I wouldalsohave to admit that the Family has refused to make their vows to me yet.
She’d never allow it, herself. She would execute each and every hold-out, immediately, calmly, in front of the whole group, until fear turned them loyal.
But that’s not the way I want to rule this Family. I’m determined to go to her only as a last resort, but my options are dwindling.
Still, Jacopo has come to me withsomething.
PacSyn—the Pacific Syndicate—are a loose affiliation of thieves and murderers who like to think themselves the equals of the Families here in Los Angeles. Even my father had no wish to ally with them. He left them very purposely out of the loop in his discussions with the other organized crime groups he was trying to woo—and PacSyn noticed. They were one among the many who made threats against Ciro Castellani’s life.
Jacopo is right: I should take him with me if I decide to go tonight. But I can’t stand the thought of being around him more than I have to. I could take my bodyguards, but I don’t want them knowing that I have resorted to this meeting. I can’t trust them. I can’t trust anyone. So I’ll go alone.
As usual.
I get to my feet just as a soft knock sounds on the closed door, and one of the guards outside open it. It’s Wilson, carrying a tray of coffee. “Good evening, sir. I thought you might appreciate—”
