Page 60 of Brutal Power

“Yeah, Santoro shot up a car and old Mrs. Grady broke a hip. So fucking what? You lead us, Brody. Do the right thing and go back to your place.”

He kicks open the door and leaves. I watch him walk in through the front door, and as I start to drive away, I can’t help but wonder.

Why am I really staying with Elena? At first it was because of the shooting. I felt like I was the target, and if I wasn’t living in the neighborhood, everyone would be safer.

But I’m there all the time anyway. I have to know that’s bullshit.

Which leaves something worse: I’m staying at Elena’s place because I like it there.

I like being with her, in her beautiful house, on her family’s comfortable block, sleeping in sheets soaked through with sex-induced sweat every night. Fucking my wife, drinking champagne, acting like life is good.

When inside, when I stop for a second and let my head catch up with my heart, I’m a ball of fucking stress.

Seamus is right. I should go home. Only I know Elena wants to stay in the oasis, and I want to stay with Elena, and I need to make her happy.

Which puts me in a fucked position.

Chapter 31

Elena

I’m still not used to seeing Simon behind Dad’s desk. I mean, at this point, it should be totally natural—but I still remember when my older brother was a little kid running around the street causing mayhem with all the soldiers and driving my parents crazy.

Now he’s the don with a wife on the verge of giving birth and a terrible war bubbling over.

At least the office is mostly the same. Simon made some changes—swapped out old photos, got rid of some ugly antiques, put in a new carpet—but mostly it’s got the same feel. Lots of leather-bound books. A fancy drink cart and expensive liquors in crystal decanters. Everything designed to exude power and wealth.

Davide’s lurking near the drink cart while Dad’s sitting on a couch against the far wall. I’m in a chair closest to Simon’s desk, while Simon’s sitting back with his legs crossed, hands folded together in front of his face, looking thoughtful.

“And you’re saying Brody came up with this plan?” he asks, glancing over at Dad. I don’t bother looking at him. I know what he’s thinking already: he probably hates this.

“It’s simple. Get Santoro alone in a room with the cops and let nature take its course.”

Simon grunts, shaking his head. “What evidence do the cops have on Santoro? I mean, lots of speculation, but actual facts?”

“We have evidence.” Davide’s voice is low and neutral. He’s also trying not to look at Dad. “I have plenty of fucking evidence that I’d happily turn over.”

“You boys want to use the police to settle your scores?” Dad does not sound happy about that. Old-school mafia dons would never hand over another don to the police. Except the old school is dying out, and I’d rather win by any means necessary, even if that means giving up ancient ideas about honor among thieves or whatever.

“I haven’t said what I’ll decide.” Simon stares at Dad, his expression hard. We all know what that means:he’sthe don, not Dad, and he gets to choose what the Famiglia does these days.

“The police are not our friends. They are not our allies. They cannot be trusted.” Dad shifts and tries to cross a leg, grunts in frustration, and gives up. His wounds still bother him, but he’s been serious about staying sober and going to physical therapy, and both are helping him. “I understand that the Quinns have deeper connections than most, but the police only care for themselves and nobody else.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Simon looks like he wishes Dad weren’t around for this and I can’t blame him. “How are you going to get Santoro alone?” he asks me.

“Brody’s working on that. I don’t know the details.”

“And you think this cop’s going to go for it? If we provide the evidence?”

“Captain Kennedy’s a corrupt piece of shit, but I’m pretty sure he knows taking down a kingpin like Santoro will be good for his career.”

Dad stands up abruptly. His face is twisted in pain. “I won’t be a part of this,” he announces and turns to the door. “It’s foolish to use the police in such a manner. Luciano Santoro will see through it. Mark my words.” He storms out, slamming the door in his wake.

Nobody speaks at first. We’re all staring after our father, and I know what my brothers are thinking. He cares about Santoro still, even after all these wars, all this trauma, all this pain. I don’t get it but I’ve long since accepted that when it comes to Dad and Santoro, nothing makes sense.

“If Brody can do it, I’m interested,” Simon finally says. “Whatever gets Santoro off the streets and ends this war.”

“Brody did mention something.” I clear my throat, sitting up straight. “He thinks we might need to use Dad. You know, to get Santoro to show up.”

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