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A man like Michael Vertucci talking openly about loving Riley?
Hell, a man like Vertucci talking about loving anything other than money, violence, and, maybe, drugs is shocking enough, but Riley — Morgan's little sister, Riley?
I hide my surprise behind a drink of beer.
"I'm glad for you," I say. Another shock — the feeling's genuine. It must be the love in my chest making me want to have something to celebrate and deciding a smiling Mafioso confessing his honest-sounding affection for his bride-to-be is good enough. "Love's a damn fine feeling, isn't it?"
"It is. Makes us do crazy things, too, doesn't it?" He winks at me.
"If you're talking about last night..."
He chuckles. "Water under the bridge. I would've done the same thing if I were in your position. My girl, she drives me crazy sometimes. She's a firebrand and sure, she may have her issues from time to time, but it's her wildness that excites me. Makes me feel alive. And what my friend did last night... You can't let someone disrespect you or your woman like that. Alcohol and... other substances... may have played a part in my friend's misbehavior. Trust me, he has been taught a lesson."
There's a note in Vertucci's tone that makes me look around the semi-circle and realize that the man from last night is the only groomsman not in attendance. Did Vertucci have him killed?
"I'm not sure of the traditions you people have... Italians, I mean... with your weddings, but if he and I need to formally talk or whatever to bury the hatchet, I'm happy to hear him out."
Really, I don't give a shit about the guy — he can rot in hell for all I care — but if Michael Vertucci is murdering people at his own wedding, the last thing I want to do is provoke him and put Danielle in danger. I'll play nice if that's what it takes. At least until I have Vertucci lined up in a clear shot.
Vertucci waves his hand dismissively and something on his forearm catches my eye: ink. Fresh ink. His sleeve's up, and as he gestures, I see several words that remind me of the Marine slogan. Only instead of Semper Fidelis, it says something like... Sempre fedele fino alla morte. Or close enough. His sleeve moves with his gestures, obscuring my vision.
"New ink?" I say, gesturing toward his forearm.
People always love to talk about their tattoos, and I'm hoping to get an explanation from the surprisingly chatty mob boss.
Instead, he rolls up his sleeve. "It's nothing."
"Doesn't look like nothing. Looks like something I'd shout in the Marines. Semper fi," I say.
"You were a Marine? A killer?" He says. There's a gleam in his eye that I don't like.
"Once a Marine, always a Marine. As for the killing... I did what I had to do."
"How many?"
I pause. It isn't something I like to brag about. It feels disrespectful, not just to the dead, but to the brothers in arms who died alongside me. But it's as I pause I realize no one else in the circle is talking. In fact, they haven't spoken since Michael Vertucci and I started chatting. Is it just deference to the mob boss, or is it something else?
Another swig of beer stills the wary feeling in my gut.
"Enough to survive," I answer. But I can see my answer's not good enough for Vertucci — there's a furrow in his brow that wasn't there before. "Look, I could probably sit here and take a minute and get you a pretty accurate count," I start. It's a lie. The number's burned into my soul, and every single one of those lives is a weight I carry with me every day. It's a weight that’s gotten lighter thanks to the woman asleep in my bed. "But weddings are supposed to be parties, and digging up those graves is going to kill my mood. Frankly, I'd rather spend the rest of my time here celebrating your upcoming marriage than murdering the vibe with my PTSD. Let's just say the number is bigger than the number of people in this circle, but less than your guest list."
Michael Vertucci contemplates my words for a moment, then taps his beer to mine. "Good enough."
"Good enough for you to tell me about your ink?"
"You're getting ahead of yourself."
"A lot of trouble for a few Latin words on your forearm."
"It’s Italian. We are Italians, after all." He rolls his head, takes a drink, then smiles at me. "But since you are so determined, and since I like your style, I'll tell you the story of my tattoo if you tell me a story. What was your closest brush with death?"
‘Other than here, surrounded by a half-dozen of your hitmen?’ is what I want to say. Anything but the actual story. Anything but thinking about the bonds I've broken and the brothers I've betrayed in the last twelve hours.
"I got shot in an ambush. Nearly died. But didn't, as you can see by the fact that I'm sitting here with you now."
Michael shakes his head and tuts his tongue. "Not good enough."
"It's not much of a story."
