Page 86 of Brutal Power

“Luciano would never hurt you.” He pushes open the door.

“Why do you think that?” I follow him out. He takes my arm and leans against me. His limp is bad, and he’s using a cane even though he probably should have arm crutches. “Santoro kidnapped Davide.”

“But Luciano didn’t hurt him. The fire was an accident. It was my fault.”

“Dad—”

“You won’t understand.” He looks pensive as we approach the entrance to the old metal-constructed building. Scrap parts ofrusting machines languish in the weed-covered lot. “Nobody could know, not when I was the Don, but now—” He pauses and smiles to himself, but his smile quickly fades. “I should have told you all sooner, but your mother made me swear not to say anything. After Davide was taken, she begged me to forget everything with Luciano, and I swore to her that I’d do it. And so I’ve kept the secret all these years. At this point it’s like second nature walking around with the truth hidden away.”

I feel myself shiver. This is the closest I’ve ever come to peeking beyond my father’s veil. I’ve always known there’s more to him than what he lets his family see, but now he’s hinting at something darker than I ever imagined.

“What secret?” I ask, heart racing, my fingers sweaty.

But he pushes open the door and doesn’t answer. It creaks loudly and echoes into the empty hallway. He moves on, limping on his cane as he makes his way to the main storage space, and we step out onto the big, open central floor. It’s covered in boxes, shipping crates and various containers, and Dad pauses to take it all in.

“We might as well get started,” he says. “This is what I’ve been reduced to now. The former Don doing grunt work. But don’t tell Simon I said that. He thinks it makes me happy to contribute even in these small ways, and I don’t want to disabuse him of that idea.”

My head’s reeling. I want to push him on thissecretthing, but my nerves get bad, and all I can do is walk after him. I keep glancing up at the catwalks above waiting for shadows to appear, men with guns prepared to rain bullets down onto our skulls. But the place is quiet except for the sound of my father openingboxes and murmuring to himself as if he’s really inspecting the goods.

I follow, trying to look bored. Sweat’s pooling under my arms. He pretends to explain how a particular rifle works, and I feign interest. Dad makes a joke and laughs at it, and I marvel at how good he is at acting like nothing is strange here.

I’m a trembling wreck. I’m happy I don’t have to actually open one of these crates since I’m pretty sure my hands would shake too much and it’d give us away. After a few minutes, I start to think maybe Brody followed through with his threat and called the whole meeting off in a vain effort to spare me from danger, and a part of me actually hopes I get to go home without having to face Santoro head-on. Because if my former uncle is here, that means he’s here to kill my father. And Dad doesn’t seem to mind. It’s almost like he wants this.

There’s a noise at the far end of the space followed by the sound of footsteps. Dad stops what he’s doing and looks at me, a little smile on his face, like we’re about to get a wonderful surprise. I move closer to him and watch as Luciano Santoro enters the room followed by a single man, the corrupt cop Luca Moretti.

They walk toward us and Dad turns to face his former best friend.

I’m very aware that the last time they met, Dad got shot and nearly died.

The room feels humid like moisture’s dripping down the boxes. Santoro stops ten yards away while Moretti leans up against one of the stacks of crates, a gun held loosely in his hand, not even bothering to hide it. Dad should be afraid, but instead he’s got a smile on his face, and he takes a step closer to his old friend.I stay behind him, fighting with myself. I should run, I should hide. I should do anything but stand here and stare.

“It’d been a while, Luciano,” Dad says, and his voice sounds almost fond. It’s horrible. The most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen. I want to scream at him:this man tried to kill you, this man stole your son, this man has been your mortal enemy for a long time. But he doesn’t seem angry.

Santoro smiles. His lips curl back, and I’m aware that he was handsome once, back when he was younger, back when he was my uncle. But now he’s balding, overweight, wrinkly. All the scars and evidence of a life lived very hard clear on his face. But his eyes remain sharp.

“Hello, Alessandro. I was skeptical when I heard they had you doing stock-boy duty, but here you are with your daughter, no less.”

“Elena can’t help herself. I would’ve come alone but she likes taking care of me.” He laughs as if he’s talking to an old friend. It’s perverse and disturbing. “Did you come all this way for me?”

“You know I did. Do you remember what happened the last time I saw you?”

“You tried to shoot Davide. I wouldn’t let you.” Dad shrugs as if it’s nothing. “Life gets in the way sometimes.”

“Yes, it does.” Santoro’s smile fades away. “I never wanted this, you know. Even back then I hoped that Freddie would see reason?—”

“Please, don’t talk about her.” Dad sounds pained. He moves closer to Santoro. “This should be about us. You came here to put an end to all of this, didn’t you?”

Santoro nods once. “You know I did.”

“I was so angry with you, you know,” Dad says softly. They’re ten feet away now. Dad’s too close. If Brody’s waiting in the rafters with a sniper rifle, Dad might be putting himself in the line of fire. He needs to back up. I need to grab him and pull him back. But I can’t move.

It’s the way they’re talking to each other. There’s so much fondness in Dad’s eyes and even Santoro’s expression is almost loving. Like they’re dear old friends reuniting after a long, long time. Except these two have been trying to hurt each other since I was a little girl.

“What did you have to be angry about?” Santoro’s head tilts to the side. His hands turn to fists. “You’re the one who left me.”

“You know why I had to. When Freddie found out?—”

“It’s always her, isn’t it?” Santoro’s jaw ticks. I don’t understand what they’re saying. I can’t connect words to actions of the men standing before me. But I’m wrapped up in this conversation and only vaguely aware of Luca Moretti also staring at the pair of them with his eyebrows tight and his mouth hanging open.

---