Page 8 of Mercy in Betrayal

Enzo

I flex my damaged hand. The wound I inflicted on myself on New Year’s had healed, but I had reopened it a few times after leaving the party. I hadn’t wanted to leave, not after seeing Rowan, but it wasn’t the right time to engineer a meeting. I didn't want her to notice my damaged hand or think I was weak.

You are weak. My father’s voice continues to taunt me.

I know if I drink, I can douse the pain and the bastard’s words that keep echoing inside me. I think I’m hearing him because of a combination of things: my father’s death, the promise of Rowan, and most of all, seeing Carina with Luca Marzano. That’s a blessing and a curse. My sister’s presence reminds me I’m not completely alone, but seeing her happy and with Luca makes me feel more alone than I ever have.

The entry to Bastoni e Pietre is clear. No security watches the doors to the restaurant. The most dangerous men in the world come here to talk; it’s what this place was designed for. The lack of security reinforces that rule. If anyone attacked another family member on this soil, they would be faced with the Commission.

It’s a rule that was broken one time only, with disastrous results. An entire gang was wiped from existence.

I remind myself of those consequences now as I step into the freshly refurbished restaurant. The scent of wood varnish is a strong undercurrent, apart from coffee and food. The door closes gently behind me as I walk toward the bar. It was nearly a year ago that the 17s and Il Veleno decided to openly challenge the might of the Italian mafia. So, fucking stupid of them to target the one place that was forbidden.

Ivan is sitting at the polished bar, nursing an almost empty glass of whiskey. He’s the only person present. The overhead lights reflect in the polished wood, their image slightly distorted. Meeting him here does ease some of my apprehension. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone. At least here, I know it won’t get messy.We don’t always see eye to eye, and I think his temper just might match mine, but it’s not a theory I’m willing to test.

Not yet, that is.

It got messy for Geno D’Aquino, who sent his men a year ago. Geno D’Aquino is no longer breathing, and neither are the men who took the hit on my sister.

Ivan glances at me from across his shoulder. The mirrors that line the back of the bar would have given away my presence. He picks up the glass in front of him and empties it before nodding. I don’t slow down but continue past him toward a door at the back of the room. I have no intention of having this conversation out in the open.

Ivan slides off the stool and falls into step beside me as we pass all the empty tables. The booths in the back have a few occupants who huddle close and stop speaking as Ivan and I pass. Briskly, we pass through a doorway with a white and red sign hanging from it bearing the words “Staff Only” in bold black lettering.

The corridor isn’t wide enough to accommodate both of us, and Ivan falls behind me. It’s recently got a fresh lick of paint, apparent from the strong scent. Other than that, the corridor looks exactly the same as it always has, with its army green carpet bearing recent vacuum marks and white paneling taking up the bottom of the wall, running the full length of the space. To our left is a door with a gold plaque on it. The word “Office” gives nothing away of the truth that lies behind the door.

This room doesn’t lead into an office but a speakeasy.

I enter first, and the atmosphere back here is different. You can almost taste the secrecy. The bar has one bartender who’s staring up at a TV. Some football game has caught his attention, yet I know he is aware of our arrival. He will come to us when we call. The booths are empty apart from one toward the back. I walk toward the occupant but pause, and Ivan does the same.

The man hasn’t noticed us yet; his head is bent as he rips up a paper coaster. His leg jiggles with nerves.

Clearly, Ivan got here first.

“You didn’t need to do this; I had my people on it.” I hate that he got there before me. I hate that he got the upper hand. And like everything in life, there is a cost, and this, I’m sure, will cost me dearly.

Ivan juts out his chin, not in anger but to drive home his next words. “So did I; my people got there first.”

I glance back at the man in question. He was associated with the group that took a hit on my sister. I grip my right hand and press my thumb into my wound, covered with a small white bandage. “I can’t do anything here, so why did you even bring him here?” I ask, keeping the growl that wants to explode forth at bay. I thought maybe he would give me a location and information about the man. I didn’t think for one second he would present him to me, and here of all places. It’s like having a gun with no bullets.

Ivan exhales before cracking his neck. The black turtle neck he wears doesn’t cover all his tats. Most are hidden, but some still peek out. “My people don’t know where your people play, and I wasn’t going to use one of my playgrounds.”

The man continues to shred the coaster, oblivious to our arrival.

“Huh. You don’t trust me?” I ask and remove my thumb from the wound. Fresh blood blossoms, turning the white fabric pink in the center. Shit. I push my hand into my pants pocket, an action that catches Ivan’s attention.

Ivan grins and opens his hand in an almost peaceful gesture. “Do you trust me?”

I won’t even give that question the dignity of an answer. He fucking knows I don’t.

“Then, why did you do this?” I take a different route.

I am curious why he has brought this man to me, and I watch his features intently for his response. His dark eyes stay focused; there is no shift or tightening of his expression as he answers, “It is a gift for the new Don of the Scarpetta Family. May your reign be fierce.”

A fierce reign doesn’t imply a long reign.

I crush my wounded hand against my thigh; the burn instant, and I don’t stop until dampness has me easing back on the pressure. Ivan doesn’t blink as I stare at him. I’m not sure what my face displays. I hope it’s not my questions or my distrust. We have been casual ‘friends’ since childhood. But that never really blossomed beyond a transfer of information to each other. We certainly never gifted each other anything, and yet here Ivan is, handing me a gift that I don’t believe for one second won’t cost me something in the future.

“And what a gift it is,” I say, staring at the man.

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