The solicitor followed orders, as did everyone else.
A month ago, that guard tried to kill me.
Of course, I was actively trying to kill him at the time, so I guess the animosity was warranted.
Once they were gone, I spoke freely.“What the fuck?”
Don Conti grimaced.“I have secrets.”
That wasn’t a surprise.“Don’t we all?”
He changed tactics.“Have you ever wondered who your father is?”
A cold thread slithered up and around my neck.The whole reason I’d ended up with the Left Hand was because my mother didn’t bother keeping track of who she partied with, or fell into bed with.And when I came along, she lied her ass off about my parentage.No one believed her.But naming me after an aging, and married, rock musician got attention—and settlements.With enough money, she dumped me at a boarding school in the Alps and never looked back.
Had I wondered who my father was?Sure.Until I got that fantasy beaten out of me by punk-ass kids.
Then Mario stepped in.My life changed.
I had a home.A family.A profession I was well-suited for.I didn’t need a father or a mother when I had uncles, grandfathers, brothers, cousins, and the hoards of women they attached to, or attracted, who fluctuated between the ones wanting to feed me and the ones who wanted to fuck me.I steered clear of both unless I was hungry.
So, did I wonder?“Frankly?No.”
Don Conti frowned.“Go to the table, there is a yellow folder.”His voice was weak.If he died while I was in here, I’d be locked up, assuming his guards didn’t try to kill me first.
I glanced at the door, hoping it didn’t come down to that.
The yellow folder was really thin.One photo was in it.
This asshole and his photos.I hadn’t even looked at the image before shutting the folder.
“That’s your mother when she was twenty-four.”
As if it explained things?
Warily, I reopened the folder to take a good look at the scene.Sure as shit, there was Mom in all her half-dressed glory, sandwiched between two equally disheveled men.One of them was famous.Not name-sake famous, but richer than God famous.He was on the left.
Don Conti leaned in on her right.
I tossed the folder onto the bed, disgusted.“Fuck.”
Don Conti started to speak, and I warned him, “Don’t.Don’t say it.”
He laughed, then coughed.When he caught his breath, he spoke quickly.
“When the solicitor comes back in, sign the papers for the Chicago holdings.They go to my son.Don Manca will be pleased with you, bringing that fatted cow home.
“But before you open that door, I ask one thing.”
Here it went.“I’m not calling you, Dad.”
“Kill the man in Chicago.The one who murdered Adelmo.I wantyouto do it.Iknowyou can.”
Hell, I was slated to kill Johnny Porciello, anyway.Don Manca, his grandson Mario, and I discussed it at length.Mario wanted to wait for the dust to settle first.His grandfather wanted it done yesterday so his new granddaughter, Mario’s wife, would sleep easier, and me?
I wanted that son of a bitch dead.It didn’t matter when or where, but it was going to be me.Gesualdo wasn’t asking for much at all.
“Are you sure?”Rumor had it that Dianora Conti might be pregnant.And that child was likely a little Porciello.
