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The one thing I’d ever truly wanted. It was crippling when Father took him away.
I’ve spent the last five years doing my best to forget him and everything he meant, and now…this? It’s unconscionable. It’s the work of someone who has never loved and never lost.
And now I have to choose…again. My family or Luca. Despite the appearance of this making a way for all my dreams to come true, I’m not so foolish. If I do as my father bids, I’ll be right back beneath his thumb.
If I don’t…well, I might as well pack my bags and leave. For good, this time.
I head out to the back gardens. I need the cliffs today, need the stiff wind rolling up from the river to clear my head.
Seeing Luca in person yesterday brought everything back. It’s all still there—every ounce of passion and pain.
I don’t have what Evie O’Hanlon does, though. I don’t have her power; I don’t have her connections. I can’t give Luca those things.
And how can I give my heart to him again on command, knowing it’s a sham? How can I separate love and duty and still emerge unscathed?
Chapter 5
Luca
It’sshowtime.Theblacktuxedo was crafted by our family tailor and suits the function I’m about to enter. Two of my men trail close behind, but not so close as to spook all the top dogs that will be here tonight. The police commissioner will be here, along with politicians, judges, and a few celebrities. It’s a world of money rubbing shoulders with influence and corruption.
Tonight is the annual NYPD fundraiser event, held at the Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum located at Pier 86 on the Hudson River. The water laps against the Intrepid, and spotlights situated around the massive aircraft carrier shoot beams of light into the air, letting everyone know the party’s here. To me, it’s overkill, but so are most things in New York City.
The red velvet rope that stops people from entering the museum is lifted once each guest is cleared on the checklist. I approach, and my men fall in behind me. Having only two security men with me leaves me feeling unprotected, but arriving with a huge entourage would draw unwanted attention.
“Luca Marzano,” I state my name. Before it’s even out of my mouth, the red rope is lifted, and my men follow behind me as we walk up toward the entrance of the museum. The moment we step through the door, I accept a flute of champagne. Soft music plays from a live orchestra. Platters of finger food are being carried around the room, and I decline each time. Figs with goat cheese aren’t exactly my thing.
“Luca.” Judge Friar offers me a hand, and I accept. He’s a man you want on your side. Recently, he kept one of my men out of prison. A mere misunderstanding. My man was at the wrong place at the wrong time and accused of murder. A low-ranking member had thought he would get a fistful of money and safe passage to another land. He’s now resting at the bottom of the river, and as he was the only witness, the charges were dropped. A very easy decision for Friar.
“John.” I use his first name and smile fondly at the aging man who will soon retire. But not until I say so. Not until whoever takes his place is coached in all things Marzano and knows his place. Not until then will I allow John Friar to retire—a fact he doesn’t appreciate, but a few choice words about his family’s safety changed his mind quickly enough.
“How is your wife?” I ask, a little reminder of what is at stake.
“Enjoying my money,” he says briskly and accepts a tiny, pickled shrimp from a passing caterer. He looks at me, and the corner of his gaze tightens. “But we are looking forward to our retirement, which seems to be coming close.” His way of telling me things are moving along nicely.
He must have found his replacement. I’ll have to check in soon. I touch his shoulder and squeeze. “I’m so very glad to hear it, but you will be missed, John.” I release his shoulder and, with a final nod, make my way further into the room, greeting everyone who stops to make small talk.
It’s a way to remind people who is really in charge of the city. Not the mayor or the police department, but the Mafia. We rule with a subtle scepter most days or an iron fist on the days it becomes necessary.
When I have a moment’s pause from greetings, I take in the museum, which in itself is impressive. In the center of the main gallery is a photo of a single-person submarine in a glass box. I pause in front of it, not because I have any interest in submarines but because of the man who stands beside it. The police commissioner, Waylon Vigneault.
After I was thrown into the Pits and forced to kill my best friend, I did the unthinkable for someone in my position and openly, brazenly, threw my lot in with Vigneault. I would never, ever be in the position of being manipulated again. From here forward, it would be me doing the manipulating. Working with the law…being almost lawful… That was afuck youto my father and to Carina’s, a tightrope I began to walk, a dance of giving each side just enough of what they needed to keep them happy and keep myself alive.
The Five Families fed me what they wanted me to give Vigneault—scraps and shreds that would lead to busts that didn’t impact the Mafia, usually. Vigneault let us operate unmolested in most venues, provided we helped them out and kept the gang warfare to a minimum. It was an arrangement that had worked well enough for the past five or so years that I and my family, by extension, were untouchable by any law enforcement agency.
Getting Vigneault on my side was, without a doubt, the wisest decision I ever made.
“Waylon, how are you?” I ask, taking the old man’s hand. Waylon gives me a genuine smile. He understands his role, and it’s a role he’ll maintain no matter the cost. He’s comfortable in his position.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” He points at the submarine with a flute of champagne.
“It is. We are surrounded by history,” I say with little to no interest.
“Men make history, not machines,” he declares, facing me fully.
I hold up my drink. “I’ll drink to that.” He clicks his glass against mine, and we share a moment of silence. We are the men who are making history. Crafting our worlds as we see fit. And it wouldn’t be possible without each other.
A waiter stops with a platter of goat cheese and salami-stuffed dates. I decline, but Waylon accepts, and once he does, the waiter disappears into the crowd that seems to have given myself and Waylon a wide berth.
