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Chapter 1
Elio
“What about collateral? There’s the house.”
“I don’t care about your fucking house.” I don’t care about this deal at all really. O’Malley’s in deep with one of the three most powerful Camorra clans in Toronto and he needs money, fast. Clearly, he thinks he can try to play one Italian crime organization against another, begging on his knees to La Cosa Nostra to bail him out when Severu Serpico’s soldiers come knocking, which they will.
But the Titones aren’t in the business of bailing people out. We’re in the business of making money. By any means necessary. And even this sprawling gingerbread house of a Thornhill mansion behind us now isn’t enough temptation. Everyone knows the Irish bastard is sinking fast.
A bead of sweat rolls down from O’Malley’s temple, dampening his thinning hair. His hair still has the slightest sheen of rust, a memory of red beneath the grey. Another bead of sweat follows the first, and he swallows noticeably, his ruddy throat bobbing.
Despite the August sun beating down, I know the heat isn’t why he’s sweating.
He’s sweating because he’s come to me – the last and most ruthless resort.
And I’ve turned him down.
No more options, O’Malley.
I stand, doing up the button of my suit jacket. The sun drenches my black-clad shoulders and the leather of my gloves, heating my skin beneath the fabric.
Fuck. I can’t wait for winter.
“Sell the house if you need money,” I say. “You’re not that old yet. Sell a kidney. I know someone who’ll pay.”
O’Malley jumps to his feet, his cushioned monstrosity of a patio chair clattering over backwards to the perfectly landscaped stone.
He starts blabbering, half angry, half desperate. Telling me about how he’s good for the money. How this is just a temporary blip. How we could…
I lose track of it all. All the words. All the bullshit flying like spittle from his mouth.
That isn’t like me. To lose track of anything. I haven’t gotten to where I am today, helping my uncle Vincenzo turn the Titones into one of the richest and most feared crime families in the country, by tuning out the details.
I got here by paying attention. Relentlessly.
That, and a whole lot of blood.
But something else has cut into the conversation. A scattered drift of notes.
Music. Violin?
The notes grow louder. Become almost solid. Like if I squint hard enough, I can see them catching the summer light.
Ignoring O’Malley completely now, I start walking, leaving the stone patio area. My black shoes crush the springy, well-watered blades of grass as I stalk over the lawn.
I scan the broad back of the brick house, searching for the source. I can’t say exactly why I need to find it. I just do. The music is somehow both sharp and sweet. It pricks at my skin. Hooks into my ribs and makes my teeth grind.
Near the top of the back wall, I find the second-floor balcony. And on that balcony…
An angel.
I blink stinging sweat from my eyes, dragging my hand through my hair and slicking it back. I don’t believe in angels. Never have.
A glossy mane of red hair tumbles down a slender back, the curling ends brushing the slightly flared skirt of a yellow sundress. Two pale arms float in the air, one still, the other sawing back and forth over what has to be a violin I can’t see from down here. Every time she moves, the sunlight catches on her hair, setting it ablaze, a glittering inferno. My scars burn under my gloves, the ruined skin on my neck tingling. The scent of smoke from nineteen years ago fills my nose while screams echo in my head, and I’m reminded why I can’t fucking stand red hair.
But the music distracts me from the past, from pain. It’s deafening, yet somehow not loud enough. So soft it makes my throat go dry. So powerful it slugs me in the temple. Leaves me reeling.
Elio Titone. Fucking reeling.
