Page 62 of Cruel Tyrant

Dad grimaces but takes the hint. The subject drifts back to the Santoro problem, and I can tell Angelo’s fascinated. Back before he got popped and sentenced to five years, he always liked talking strategy. He’s got a mind for it, and soon he’s spitballing ideas with Dad and arguing with Simon, while I sit back and listen to my family bicker.

“For once in his life, Davide’s got it right,” Angelo says, gesturing at me. “Santoro’s got to pay for what he did. You can’t let him off light again.”

Dad’s expression darkens. “He didn’t get off easy.”

“I still don’t get how you didn’t kill him all those years ago.” Angelo doesn’t seem to notice how angry Dad’s getting or he doesn’t give a damn. Simon tries to get him to stop, but doesn’t let it go. “You never did explain how you let the fucking guy go. He betrayed you, Dad. He kidnapped Davide and kept him in a fucking cage. How is he still alive?”

“You weren’t there,” Dad snaps at him, nearly shouting, and seems to remember where we are before gathering himself and taking a deep breath. He glances at me and I stare right back, because this is something I’ve wondered all these years. “Luciano disappeared after the fire. We stripped the city down to the fucking studs trying to find him, and in the end, after trying our hardest for years, I decided that he really did burn to ashes in that damn house. But it turns out, he hopped over the border into Canada, and began to bide his time, growing his business and gathering his strength, before he came back to the city five years ago. He’s not dead because I thought we’d gotten him, but I was fucking arrogant and underestimated him.”

Simon puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder. It’s clear talking about those days makes him agitated, and he’s still pretty injured from getting shot. “We know you did your best,” he says.

But Angelo’s expression suggests that’s not entirely true. And if I’m honest with myself, I feel the same way as my incarcerated sibling. If that had been my son, I would’ve torn the world to pieces to make sure that Santoro was dead and buried, and I wouldn’t have stopped for anything. But maybe that’s easy for me to say. I have to remember that Dad was the Don of a major crime family, and he had a responsibility to more people than just his kids.

“None of that matters,” I say, not because I want to make peace, but because it’s true. “Santoro’s still the problem, and there’s only one solution.”

Dad sighs and rubs his face. He looks at Simon, who nods at him. “We know you’re right,” he says. “But we have to be smart about it. Whether we like it or not, Santoro’s built connections in this city, and that means he’s got a ton of serious influence, enough to rival what we can do. For every two cops on our payroll, he’s got one of his own, and that’s enough to make our lives miserable. War with Santoro’s coming, but we can’t just run out into the street and start shooting.”

Everyone looks at me. I stare back at them, willing myself not to show my emotions. I’m pissed off. I’m frustrated. All I want to do is go out onto the street and start killing all those Santoro bastards. I want to kill them for hurting my father, and I want to kill them for hurting the twelve-year-old version of me.

“You all know how I feel about this,” I say, my voice flat.

Which makes Dad laugh. “You’ve made it clear. How many murders have you racked up lately, son?”

“Don’t get on his case,” Angelo says, cutting in before I can say something harsh. “Like I said, Davide’s right, but Simon’s right too. There’s got to be a middle way. Targeted hits, no more running into random clubs and killing anyone remotely related to the Santoro operation. We need big names. Capos only. Once they’re down, the rest will crumble.”

I grunt in reply because it’s sensible. Targeting the leadership will mean fewer bodies to deal with, but it’ll also be harder. The Capos are smart and ruthless. They’re at the top of the Santoro organization for a reason. But if we can get to them, we can do a whole lot of damage without leaving a trail of bodies ten miles wide.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I grumble, not happy about it, but willing to compromise if it means staying out on the street.

“There you go. Isn’t that easy?” Angelo beams at me. “What the fuck are you three doing without me? I’m shocked the family’s still standing.”

“You’re such a big help,” Dad says, sounding sarcastic, but his anger and anxiety have drained away at least.

Angelo’s right though. We need him back. He has two more years behind bars then he’ll be a free man, and I’m counting the days until my brother’s out on the street with me again.

Until then, I have a job to do, and there’s nobody else on the planet who can do it for me.

The hunt’s back on.

Chapter 37

Stefania

I don’t see much of my husband over the next few days.

It’s like living with a ghost. I wake up and his side of the bed looks like it was slept in, but the pillow’s cold. I notice mugs in the dishwasher that aren’t mine, and sometimes the shower’s still wet when I go in to brush my teeth.

But he only comes home for a few hours at a time and only late at night after I’ve gone to sleep. I text and call him to make sure he’s still alive, but his answers are brief and noncommittal. Whenever I ask when I’ll see him next, he always has some excuse.

It’s killing me. I hate sharing my life with a specter. I’m haunted by the memory of him, by the feeling of his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, by all these complicated feelings I have for him building in my stomach and in my chest with no outlet for any of them. I’m stuck and pent-up, and I’m terrified I’m going to break apart.

“That’s the life of a mafia wife,” Freddie says one afternoon while we’re out shopping. About six soldiers are tailing us and trying to be discreet, but they’re a bunch of mafia goons and not exactly skilled at blending in. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I grumble, annoyed with myself for getting attached. “What I really want is for him to start coming home every once in a while.”

“I can talk to him if you want.” She beams at me. “Imagine how he’d feel. His own mother telling him to pay more attention to his wife. That’d shame him.”

“No, please don’t,” I say with a laugh, even though I’m tempted to take her up on it. “He’s dealing with a lot. I’m mostly just venting.”

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