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Now I know why Valentina only looks mildly annoyed by all of this. Even though she’s only eighteen, she could crush a guy like Fabbri under her heel any day of the week. The guy is slimy and skinny with thinning hair and a nasal voice that drives me up the wall every time I hear it on the TV or radio. But his father owns one of the largest real estate development firms in the country, and he’s been newly elected a Toronto city councillor, so from a purely business point of view, I can understand the logic of the match.
My head gives a throb of complaint at the idea of having Dario fucking Fabbri yammering on at future family events. I take a sip of my drink, and Valentina follows suit, as if to say, you and me both.
“Basta! Enough about the engagement. I want to know what happened tonight.” Uncle Vinny’s eyes are on me. “You didn’t get the money, and now we’ve got three dead Camorra soldiers on our hands.”
“I got what I went there for,” I say with a shrug that I immediately regret as my sutures pull.
“Got what you went there for? What, a fucking bullet in your back?” Uncle Vinny presses.
“O’Malley’s daughter,” I say. There’s no way to get around it. He’ll find out sooner or later.
My uncle’s dark eyebrows rise in astonishment.
“You’re telling me you’re on the verge of starting a war with the Camorra over some freckled fucking puttana?” He twists to look at Curse. “This the same girl Darragh wants?”
Curse nods from his place at the door. Red-faced, my uncle turns back to me.
“So, we’re going to have Severu Serpico and the Mad fucking Irishman breathing down our necks just because you wanted some tight Irish pussy?”
I stare my uncle down, my grip hard on my drink. Too hard. I owe Uncle Vinny and Zizi everything. They could have left Curse and me to die in Sicily after my father’s betrayal if they’d wanted to. But they didn’t. They took us with them to Montreal, raised us as their own. Gave us a new chance in a new country, a country that we are slowly but surely bending to our will. I respect my uncle more than most men probably respect their fathers. And for the first time in my life, I want to strangle him.
I don’t. Instead, I put down my drink, stand, and keep my tone smooth and deadly as I say, “Deirdre O’Malley is now mine. I will keep her here and do with her as I see fit. This is non-negotiable. If there are consequences, I will deal with them.” I slow my speech so that there’s no mistaking my next words. “But the one thing I will not do is let anyone take her from this house.”
My uncle’s nostrils flare, and his jaw works. He’s pissed – no, enraged – by what I’ve done and the fact I’m standing against him now. But he understands that arguing with me is useless. He knows me too well, knows what kind of will I possess when I get close to what I want, and what I want is Deirdre. Besides, I’m his heir. His underboss. I’m the closest thing he has to an eldest son and Aunt Carlotta can’t have any more children. He’s handed over more and more power to me over the years and he knows that if I wanted to, I could upend this entire operation, start a war within our own ranks. A war that I would win.
A feminine voice breaks the tense silence that follows my words.
“She’s here now?” It’s Valentina asking. I nod without looking at her. From the corner of my eye, I see her leave the room. Zizi clicks her tongue anxiously, swivelling in her chair and calling Valentina back to no avail.
I turn to my desk and open one of the drawers.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I say taking one last sip of my drink before grabbing a pen, “I have a rather large cheque to write to Severu Serpico.”
“Fine,” my uncle says tightly, rising to go. “You can give it to him at the gala tomorrow night. No doubt he’ll show his pretty face. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn it into a fucking bloodbath.”
I forgot about the goddamn gala. There’s always something on our social calendar and it usually involves a bunch of rich bastards toasting our latest charitable donation. Events like that are a way to remind this city that the Titones can give as much as they take. I don’t even know what tomorrow’s gala is celebrating. Zizi and Valentina always plan these things. I just write the cheques.
“It’s at the Art Gallery of Ontario. The new wing we paid for,” Zizi reminds me. I decide not to comment on the fact that planning a gala for the evening of January 1st is stupid and that everyone’s going to be hungover. It was probably Valentina’s idea. She hates when parties or holidays end and always wants to drag things out as long as possible. New Year’s Eve 2.0.
The goodbye kisses are short and perfunctory. I know these two well enough to be able to tell from their body language that Zizi’s anxious as hell and Uncle Vinny is still furious. But ultimately, my uncle trusts me. He knows I take care of shit when it counts.
When they’re gone, Curse approaches my desk. I sit down, grab my chequebook, and start scrawling a whole lot of zeroes after the number one.
“Didn’t get a chance to tell you before. But I’ve got a line on O’Malley.”
My pen halts. I look up at Curse.
“And?”
“And it looks like he’s ditched his credit cards and his phone. But one of my contacts at Pearson Airport reported that he just used cash to buy a last-minute ticket to Bermuda. Flight leaves in,” he checks his watch, “eighteen minutes.” My brother looks at me. “Do you want me to get him off that plane? I can make a call.”
Bermuda. Nice little island. Also a tax haven. I wonder how much money O’Malley has stashed there. Money he’s using to save his own skin instead of his fucking daughter’s.
I’m furious on Deirdre’s behalf, livid that he could leave her here. But even though I’m angry, I’m not surprised. This story has played out in my own life, and it’s one I know all too well. The image of my father running from the flames, running from his own fucking family, is so seared into my brain that I can conjure it up perfectly.
He only turned back to look at me once. Turned back to see his eldest son in the flames. He watched me punching through an eight-year-old Curse’s burning door, melting my own fucking skin to save his younger son the way he should have.
He fucking saw me. Saw me burning and fighting for our family. Heard Mamma screaming and Curse crying. He stood in the carnage his own betrayal had created, whispered, Dio me pardoni, then turned and fled.
