Page 98 of Broken Vows

“How did you manage, Papa?” Carla asks.

She’s clinging to a glass of water, her shoulders tense. We’ve been instructed not to say a word about her pregnancy. Apparently, good Catholic girls don’t get pregnant at eighteen with their bodyguards who are fourteen years older than them. A bodyguard who is still unaccounted for. I didn’t hold either woman back when they hit the cellar earlier, looking for Vito Rossi’s body. They found nothing.

“Ah,cara,” Don Trapani sighs. “I’ve been in this business from the day of my birth, born into it like all of you. In all these years, I’ve seen too much.” He smiles wryly, but it dries up pretty quickly. “Forewarned is forearmed. Vincenzo was getting into bad company, and I made provisions for any situation. With Randazzo gone I made sure we were as ready as possible.” His gaze flicks to mine, but we don’t say a word; the secret of who eliminated Randazzo is still watertight.

“That Friday night caught me off guard,cara, and I will never forgive Vincenzo for breaking my trust like that. The plan was to brief you two girls and see that you were safe, and then he arrived with Franco in tow.”

A tense silence sweeps into the space around us as Don Trapani closes his eyes.

“Bless his soul, but he is no son of mine,” he mutters as he crosses himself. “But if not Franco, it would have been someone else. Cenzo was a rotten apple from the start.”

We all hang our heads in feigned mutual respect for the dead. There are a few things that are never going to come out of our innerIl Consigliocircle. One of them is how Vincenzo died from one clean shot to the back of his head, after Dominic interrogated him about the unknown woman in our care. So far, the story of Franco eliminating Vincenzo seems to be holding up. I hope it lasts.Il Consiglioworks on a need-to-know basis, and even though Gigi knows we killed Vincenzo, she will never talk.

Don Trapani’s body shudders, and he seems to pull himself together with a deep inhale.

“You girls should both know,” he says as he looks at them, one after the other, “I have people outside the Cosa Nostra that put measures in place as soon as a certain situation triggers the first domino. That Friday night was one of those domino moments.” He raises his wine glass at Gigi. “You escaping with Carla was something none of us expected. Bravo, Gigi. I always knew you shouldn’t be underestimated.”

“Thank you,” Gigi says softly, but her hand curls into a fist as she pulls it from the table to hide on her lap.

I reach for it, and she slips her fingers between mine. I rest our hands on my thigh underneath the table where nobody can see how tightly she squeezes mine for courage.

“When Vincenzo started thinking about going to Boston,” Don Trapani continues, “I knew I had to steer him and his friend in the Scaleras’ direction. It was just a subtle hint or two about my old school friend in Boston, and how we had a warehouse in the Boston harbor that’s been standing empty for decades now. I never named names, but Franco didn’t want any. Rookiemistake. In the end, you made it easy for me to clean up after Franco and Vincenzo.”

Of course it’s fucking clean. It’s anIl Consigliojob with the Scaleras at the helm. Plus the whole shebang happened in the States, keeping Don Trapani’s side pristine and him seemingly innocent.

Franco is busy chilling with his buddy in Matteo’s promession facility, less his hands, but those have been taken care of, too. On Matteo’s recommendation, I took Don Trapani a typical New England gift in the form of maple syrup in two twenty-eight-ounce designer tins, in case he wanted to shake hands with Franco one last time.

If ever he opens those cans, it would be a sticky, messy and probably a very smelly business indeed. I’ve still to hand him my precious little gift, but this would best be done over a tumbler of whiskey once the women have gone to bed. I might have told Franco I need proof for Gigi’s sake of how he’ll never touch a woman again, but I know where to draw the line.

I glance at my wife. After what happened here that Friday night, I’m not sure Gigi will be able to sleep in this house at all, and I’ve booked a room at a boutique hotel farther along the lake just in case. We might be sitting here on a beautiful terrace overlooking Lake Como, with the last of another warm afternoon slipping into sunset, but it’s been one close call after the other. None of us is relaxed yet. We’re all still on high alert and looking over our shoulders.

“Marriage seems to suit you,cara,” Don Trapani says, breaking into a silence that’s borne out of too many secrets. “I’m happy for the alliance, and it’s good to have a wider network. The world is changing, and so must we. This thing with Franco—” He breaks off, clearly not over his earlier emotions. “Now with Vincenzo gone, and Franco dealt with, we need a strong leader to step in. I need a new succession plan, as my first failed.”

He stares at Gigi for such a long time, the sound of the cicadas becomes a piercing blade in the tense air. His meaning is so obvious, it sends a chill down my spine.

“Papa…” she starts, her hand growing cold in mine where she’s clinging for dear life. “I don’t…I—” She turns to look at me, stunned. “Please, I don’t want to get involved.”

“Ah,cara. You’ve seen the worst of this side of the business. You have a husband from an influential Mafia family whose roots are the same as yours. I support and am happy for your union, even if it came about under unusual circumstances. I would offer Stephano the position first, but he didn’t grow up here. He doesn’t know our customs firsthand like you do. The position is yours, and I want you to take it.”

Fuck. This isn’t what we came for. The implication of his words hits me hard. Gigi, theCapo Crimini. No. My darling, beautiful wife is kick-ass and gutsy, but she’s too human for this type of job. Too soft. I have a whole life in Boston I’ve never imagined uprooting. Least of all to return to the place where Don Scalera grew up.

Or Mom. Bianca Randazzo. Her world forever captured in oil paintings that hang around her sons’ apartments and houses.

Fuck.

“You’re still young, Papa,” Carla says. “Surely?—”

“What happened cannot happen again, Carla,” Don Trapani interrupts. “Know this. Without succession in place, we are as vulnerable as a newborn fawn.” His eyes meet mine across the table, and he tips his head toward me. “Gigi will not do it alone. She will have you, her husband, who, from what I understand, is a good man.”

Mostly. Fuck. For a week, I’ve had peace. No voice in my head telling me it’s in my blood. I had my wife in my arms at night, her sweet kisses on my body, her contented sighs mixing withmy own, our heartbeats fast where we were pressed close against each other in release.

Now, he asks me to become the one thing I loathe being the most. I know what it takes to be the Don. It takeseverything.

“No, Papa—” Gigi protests, but Don Trapani raises his hand to cut her off.

“This is the thing, Gigi. You remember your father. You’ve experienced Franco Fiore. I know you want out, but it’s the people who want out who we really need to keep in the organization, purely because they are not bat-shit crazy.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Men like Franco Fiore, like Vincenzo, don’t have limits or self-control. They rule with terror and not logic. I won’t have one of them step into my shoes, and neither should you.”

“Papa—”

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