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I’m surrounded by one thousand reasons why Alister and I shouldn’t be together. Forget all things Mafia and Alister still has anger management issues, unresolved childhood trauma, and a serious issue with his self-worth. That’s just off the top of my head, and all these things are reasons for me to walk away. Yet, I can’t because I’m just as screwed up.
I shake my head and wipe the remnants of tears from beneath my eyes. He thinks we’re so different, that we come from two different worlds, that being with him puts me in danger. But I’ve never known another soul so like mine. And, whether he’ll ever admit it or not, the fact is, the day I was born I inherited the same enemies and the same world of darkness he did. I just didn’t know it. We aren’t so different, are we? Yet, as I take in my surroundings once more, I wonder if I should be relieved or royally disturbed. It doesn’t matter though. Whatever I feel for Alister, no matter how badly I want to find a way to be with him, to convince him to let us try, I can’t focus on any of that so long as the past threatens our present.
I reach for my phone and text Sophia to bring me some coffee when she returns—ifshe returns. The clock on my phone says it’s after nine p.m., and the likelihood of us solving this case tonight is slim to none. It took days to investigate Parisi. Now, we have to repeat the process times two. At that, I roll my eyes and stand, stretching out my arms and legs, which are sore from prolonged sitting and slouching.
“None of this makes sense,” I mumble. Twenty years.Twenty years!I know Alister said that greed and a lust for power are often all the motivation someone needs to start a war. But, if what we believe is true, if the same person is responsible for Alister’s mother’s death, and mine and Cara’s, and they have truly been coming after the Amatos for nearly two decades, then they have to have a damn good reason for it. This is personal. It has to be.
This all started during Domenico Amato’s reign. Plenty of people want power, money, influence. But who wants revenge? Clinging to the small burst of energy coursing through my veins, I sit at the table once more and grab a pen and paper. Across the top of the page I write Domenico’s name and then list out everything I know about him that may be pertinent to the case. A lot of this information I gathered during my initial three-month investigation into the Amatos before Alister and I ever met, but since then, Alister has revealed even more to me. Along with the Amato records I now have, maybe the real catalyst for this war will present itself. Our enemy is a master at covering his tracks and maintaining his secrets, but there is one thing he can’t hide, manipulate, or rewrite—his motive.
According to the Amato records, Domenico led the Italian Mafia presence in New Orleans and Texas for thirty years, expanding across the gulf all the way down to Miami during his reign. He was young when he took the throne, only twenty-eight compared to Alister’s thirty-one. Neither of them was old enough to have had enemies of their own upon becoming king. We know that Alister inherited his father’s enemies, but how did Domenico acquire them?
I grab the black book containing the record of hits and instead of looking for details regarding my mother’s murder or even Alister’s, I flip to the beginning of Domenico’s section and begin strumming through his past. Or, at least, I would if an entire page for the year 1992 weren’t missing. “What the?” I run my finger over the tiny jagged edges of the missing page. If I hadn’t been looking so closely, I may not have noticed them at all. And yet, it’s clear, with 1991 preceding the missing page and 1993 following it, 1992 is the year we need to investigate. Coincidentally, or perhaps not at all, it’s the same year my mom got pregnant with me and was sent away to stay with the Cullens in Boston.
I run my finger over the jagged edges again. It’s possible that Alister or even his father removed the page. Perhaps Domenico didn’t want his son knowing about a hit gone wrong. Or maybe Alister knows more than he’s been letting on. Maybe this entire thing has been a ruse. He turned over all his family records knowing I’d never be able to discover the one truth I’m interested in. But there’s only one way to find out. I stand and make my way to the wall of blood before me. If either Domenico or Alister tried to hide the truth, they wouldn’t have stopped with ripping out a page in a book that only they have access to. They would’ve gotten rid of all evidence linking them to the crime, especially the biological evidence. Thumbing through the vials of blood makes the hairs on my arms rise and bile tickle my throat. I’m not sheepish by any means. I’m an FBI agent for Christ’s sake. But the idea of hoarding the blood of your victims is too similar to a serial killer hoarding his victim’s body parts, teeth, and hair for me to be comfortable. Finally, I find a single vial covered in dust labeled with the year 1992 and the initialsC.V.I remove it from its place and return to the table with a sigh of relief.
As I take my seat, I place the bottle on the table and wipe the dust from my fingers on my black leggings and tug the sleeves of my cream-colored sweater down from where they are bunched at my elbows. The sight of the vial lets me know Alister didn’t lie to me, which eases some of the tension in my muscles. Yet, touching the vial has left me with a chill. The blood inside represents a person now dead, killed at the hands of Domenico Amato or, at least, his men. It represents death, pain, betrayal, secrets. Whoever this person was could be the reason why all of this began. Why else would someone try to erase the record of his or her death from the Amato history books? Speaking of history books, where in them do I begin my search for the identity ofC.V.?
“Come on, Sophia. I could really use that coffee.”
I scan my eyes over the books, photos, and various documents lying on the table in front of me.C.V.could be anyone. There’s not even a guarantee that he or she would be in any of Alister’s records since it’s possible they were from a competing criminal organization.Okay, think, Ariana.It’s not much, but I’ve begun investigations with less. Eyes wide with anticipation, I reach for my laptop and type in Agent Bilieux’s username and password to gain access to the FBI database. While suspended, my login is deactivated.
At the thought of Bilieux, anger roils inside me. I’m not saying I didn’t deserve to be suspended. My behavior was entirely unprofessional. But now knowing that the only reason Bilieux granted Alister unprecedented prosecutorial immunity for a year was to keep his own secrets hidden pisses me off. On top of that, he practically stalked me to ensure I wouldn’t go near Alister at the press conference in the park all because he was afraid if I got too close to the Amatos, I’d learn his secret. I shake my head. I knew there was something up with that deal from the start, but I had no idea Agent Bilieux was corrupt. Now that I know the truth, I’m not sure what I will do with it. Alister assured me he’d handle Bilieux, and I’d have my job back as soon as we finished this investigation. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to work for a man I can’t trust. Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see the silver lining.
If Alister was behind bars, I’d never be this close to learning who killed my mother and, potentially, a lot more. I also never would’ve had the chance to get to know Alister. My heart never would’ve been opened in the way that it has, in the way that only he could. And, perhaps most of all, Alister never would’ve had the chance he so desperately deserves to leave the Mafia behind and start anew. Perhaps that’s what keeps hope alive inside me. We spoke about it once, briefly, but enough for me to realize Alister doesn’t share my hope for a time without war. He said,“No matter what happens to me, to this business, the only choice I have isn’t between freedom or prison. It’s between which cell I want to make my home.”He doesn’t believe there is a way out of the darkness, even though he knows he will drown in it if he doesn’t break free. But I know him. Alister Amato places the safety of his family above all else. He will find a way to save Sophia from jail, from death. He will find a way to save himself. And, one day, his world won’t be so dark and dangerous. Maybe then he won’t be so afraid to love me. At least, that is the hope I cling to, especially now, as I feel our investigation coming to a screeching end.
Within the appropriate search engine, I add in my suspect’s initials, year of death, and plug in search parameters for New Orleans and the surrounding area. If this doesn’t turn up anything, I can always expand my search later. But as the results begin filling the screen of my laptop, it’s not a lack of information that’s the problem—there are over one hundred results of deceased men and women that meet my search criteria.
“Okay, narrow by cause of death,” I mumble. I remove all suspects who died from natural causes and those under the age of eighteen. I didn’t know Domenico Amato, but he did raise Alister and Sophia and they would never hurt a child let alone order a hit on one. “Alright, now that’s more manageable.” Thirty-five results remain. Let’s hope that one of them fits the profile for our mystery victim—Italian, most likely male, mysterious, sudden, or violent cause of death, and, most importantly, someone who knew or at least ran in the same circles as Domenico. This is profile A, the one I’m betting is the winning concoction of attributes that will unearthC.V.’sreal identity. In truth, our mystery man may not have even been from New Orleans nor be Italian nor have known Domenico on a personal level. He could’ve been an outsider. But I still stand by my theory. What’s happened over the last twenty years, from my mother’s death to Alister’s mother’s and sister’s, it’s all too personal to be anything but revenge. Domenico had been king for only a couple of years when the hit againstC.V.was ordered. He was young and possibly reckless. Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe he killed an innocent. Maybe that is the sin his children have been forced to pay for.
“I come bearing gifts.” I jump as Sophia and Cassio enter the room. She holds a silver tray topped with a fresh pot of coffee and an assortment of donuts, bagels, and croissants. “Oh, sorry. I thought you would’ve heard us coming down the stairs,” Sophia says.
“I’m too in my head,” I say as I rub the sleep from my eyes before returning my focus to my too-bright computer screen.
“Maybe you should call it a night. We heard Gio and Alister talking on our way down. Even they have ruled out Parisi.”
“Yeah, I know,” I bite out. “That’s exactly why I can’t sleep. We’ve wasted days going after the wrong man, which has only given the real killer more time to plan his next attack.”
“She’s right,” Cassio says. “We are running out of time. Though, I’m not sure how much progress any of us will make if we don’t get some sleep.”
“Quiet, just silence,please!” I yell.
“What’s going on in here?” Alister asks as he and Gio join us. Both look as tired as I feel. Though, based on the bloodstains on Alister’s white button-down, my guess is his fatigue is just as emotional as it is physical. I take a deep breath and turn my laptop so that they can see what I’ve found, my eyes thanking me for the reprieve. They ache almost as much as my head.
Alister takes a step forward and squints as he reads the death certificate for a middle-aged man killed in a house fire in 1992. “The name, Alister. Look at his name.” As realization dawns on him, he lifts his eyes from the computer to meet mine, and I know that sleep is the last thing any of us are getting tonight.
27
The black wallsof my bedroom are made darker by the seemingly starless night filtering through the windows on either side of my bed. Even the most natural beacons of light have chosen to hide on this night of great revelation, a night of such darkness it can lead only to a day of death. I sit with my back against the wooden bed frame as I ponder our discovery. As I do, I am met with silence, stillness. It’s as if not even a cricket dare chirp nor fleck of dust dare float for fear I will pounce and obliterate it just as I plan to the man who betrayed my father and sought to extinguish every last glimmer of light in my life before executing me just as he did my mother. But, to my surprise, it is not anger or bloodlust or even relief I feel as I anticipate what the morning will bring. Nor is it peace or hope that tomorrow will put an end to the threats I face.
Ever since the night my mother was killed, just down the hall from the room I’m in now, I’ve been filled with an unrelenting anger and fear. It has crippled me, causing me to live a life without love or hope. In many ways, Ariana changed that. She broke down every wall inside me and found the parts that desired love and to love and she nurtured them. She gave rise to emotions I thought myself incapable of. She made me fall in love with her without even trying. And yet, even she could not give me back my hope.
For over a year now, I’ve been hunting the man or men responsible for my sister’s abduction and her eventual death only to learn that they are likely the cause of more than just the death of my sister, but also the inhumane murder of my mother. We don’t have hard evidence to back up this theory—yet. But I can feel it in my bones. He took her away from me, from Sophia, from Cara, who was only a baby. He destroyed our family with one bullet. And yet, he is only one man, one enemy, one of many. Tomorrow, I will have my answers and his suffering for his crimes against my family and Ariana’s will begin. But his death still will not give me back my hope. In this world, upon this throne, there is none to be had.
As I stare blankly into the darkness, it is that truth, above all others, that weighs heavily on me. For months now, I’ve allowed myself to be distracted by this investigation, by Ariana, by what I feel for her. Now that I finally know the name of the man who plots against me, there is nothing left to distract me from my reality. I am numb, empty, just as I was the day my father died and I was forced to take on his burden, the burden of being king. Tomorrow will not free me of this crown nor the enemies surely biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to attack now that Cara’s death is public. Nor will it eliminate the potential for rebellion once my followers learn of the FBI’s looming investigation. My enemies will never stop coming for me, for one reason or another. It is because of this that tomorrow is not a day to rejoice or celebrate or even anticipate with the joyful glee commonly associated with revenge. No. Tomorrow is nothing more than a goodbye. Goodbye to one enemy and hello to the next. Goodbye to the distraction that has kept me from slipping into the abyss of depression. Most of all, goodbye to the woman who made me realize I’m capable of love. I will love her for the rest of my days, though I will not subject her to the burden of being my queen. I will protect her in a way no one ever protected me.
As emotion tightens my cheeks and leaves my throat raw, I turn my gaze upon Ariana, who sleeps next to me. She rests in perfect peace, her dark locks sprawled across the silky, charcoal sheets, her lips parted as she dreams, hopefully of happy things rather than the horrors from her past that haunt her, while mere inches away, I sit in silent agony. It is the most excruciating torture to know her and be unable to have her. Yet, I know if I were to make her mine, any chance she has of happiness, true happiness, would slowly but surely evade her and be replaced by the same hopelessness I’ve endured for the better part of my life. I will sooner die than see her be consumed by the world her birth would have her inherit. Only, now, keeping her from the darkness won’t be as easy as me simply walking away from her, as if leaving her could ever be simple or easy.
Ariana was right. The only thing powerful enough to spark a war of this nature is revenge. Former capo to my father, Carlo Vitale, his wife, and, presumably, their teenage daughter, Valentina Vitale, were killed in a house fire in October 1992. After all of Ariana’s efforts to discover her mother’s identity, the truth resided not in the year 2003 nor even in New Orleans, but eleven years prior and nearly two hours away on a rural estate. Only, per the diary Josephine gave Ariana in Boston, we know the real Valentina was already in New England at the time of the fire.
