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Becka giggled and pulled her neck away trying to escape.
“Anything else you’re thinking about?”
Her eyes found mine and held me there with commanding sincerity. “I’m thinking… I want to go home.”
There was no miss reading it. This place, her old life, didn’t have a hold on her any longer. Becka wanted to go back to Boston, to what she now considered home. And not because of a house she settled into but because that’s where I was. Her family. Our family. A home I never believed I would find myself sharing with a woman as amazing as her. Emotion tried to choke me and my heart leapt so hard it hurt. The smile on my face— one of pure happiness.
“Sounds good to me.”
* * *
"Are you sureyou have everything you want to keep?” I asked Becka, looking at the three measly boxes stacked in the back of our rental SUV.
Three boxes. That’s all Becka collected from her entire apartment. I watched silently as she stuffed one box with her favorite clothing items— she already had a whole new wardrobe in Boston— another with pictures, memorabilia and a few books. The last overflowed with violin sheet music, miscellaneous makeup and her favorite coffee mug; it said, ‘This Is My Happy Place’. And I believed it, the woman loved her coffee.
Becka studied the boxes sitting beside her grandmother’s violin and the single box of personal items we’d collected from the nursing home. Her throat worked hard to swallow, her pale expression showed how uncertain she was. Then she heaved in a deep breath and set her shoulders.
“Yes, I’m sure. They are simply material things. The movers can deliver everything else to the Salvation Army, someone else needs those items more than I do.”
We’d given her notice to the apartment manager that she was moving out. She had also called the answering service and informed them to let her clients know she would not be coming back to work.
I gently clasped her elbow. “As long as you’re sure.” A resolute expression suffused her face.
Her chest heaved with another large breath. “I’m ready.”
I closed the back door to the SUV and we made our way into our seats. I’d just settled in and started the engine when my pocket vibrated. “It’s Matteo,” I told Becka after pulling the phone from my pocket and pressing the green button. “Hey Matteo, we are just heading back to the airport.”
“Luca I need you brother.” He sounded desperate and riled.
The tone put me on high alert. Matteo was the calmest person I ever knew. He never showed worry or aggravation, a master at controlling his emotions. Cool and collected, always. To everyone else it’s what made their blood run cold when they engaged with him. To me it was simply the very essence of what made Matteo a great leader who was feared and respected.
“Matteo? What’s wrong?”
“My dad has been shot. He’s fucking dead.” Dread, anger and confusion tumbled together in his words.
Emotions slammed into me like a runaway truck. “Shot! How?” Disbelief, anger, and regret for not being there shot at me in rapid fire. My heart hammered in my chest. I looked over in the passenger seat where Becka sat staring at me with wide eyes. No doubt she’d overheard.
“A kid. A twenty-year old kid got him coming out of one of his mistress’ places. He shot my dad and a guard before the others took him down.” Matteo seethed with anger.
I had a million questions but first thing was first. “Witnesses?” I slammed the SUV in drive, peeling out of the parking lot, shoving the petal to the floor. The airport was a fifteen minute drive across town where our private jet waited. I was determined to make in five.
“None that we know of. My dad always used the back door. The guy must have been hiding in the bushes for hours. At this point we know he was Russian and that it was probably his test to become a made man. Fucking Victor Petrov is going to pay.”
Matteo’s last words sent cold chills running down my spine. Matteo would tear down all of Boston to get his revenge. For himself, for the family, and for the organization.
And I will be the one to help him.
“Media?” I asked. Horns blared as I blasted through a red light, Becka’s gasp of fright barely registered.
“They are all over it. It’s a fucking shit show. I need you man.”
“I know. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” I hung up, threw my phone into the cup holder and entered the highway onramp with both hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
I swerved and veered around slower traffic. Cars honked and tires squealed on pavement as people tried and failed to get out of my way. Anger had my jaw muscles cramping, aggression made me almost want to run someone off the road.
Airport.Nothing else mattered except getting to airport and getting back to Boston.
“Luca you need to slow down!” Becka’s voice of worry hit me. “You can’t get pulled over. It won’t help.” I swerved, almost hitting a minivan.
