Page 1 of Wild Card

Giovanni

“It’s a total loss, Mr. DeLuca. I’m sorry.”

I scrub my hands over my face, staring at the burned-out building that was going to be the relaunch of my family’s bakery. The fire chief slaps a comforting arm on my shoulder.

The acrid smell of burnt wood lingers, mingling with the coppery scent of the melted ovens and other kitchen equipment that couldn’t withstand the intense flames of the fire that’s just destroyed my dream. Wet bits of carbon stick to the sidewalk. The charred wood of the walls bows, warped first from the fire and then by the water used to put it out.

“Insurance should cover it, Gio,” my uncle says. “You have a good insurance policy, right?”

“Of course I do, Lorenzo, but it doesn’t cover fucking arson.”

Lorenzo stiffens, pulling his leather jacket more tightly around his barrel-shaped chest.

“What do you mean, arson?”

“Jesus, can’t you smell that?” I snap. “Gasoline or some other kind of accelerant.” I look at the Chief, who grimly nods his confirmation.

“Someone sprayed gas all over the place, Gio. We found the empty canisters tossed in the dumpster in the back of the parking lot. Any idea who might be behind this?”

Some. My grandfather was a big mob boss back in Boston until bad business with James Carney drove our family down to Providence. Only fifty miles between the two cities, but a world of difference for my grandfather. He’d taken a hit in the ranks, and even though he’s been dead for years, it wouldn’t surprise me if he still had an enemy or two here.

Or perhaps my Uncle Lorenzo has an idea. I shoot a sidelong glance at him. His grey hair is teased up into a giant pompadour, his skin overly tan and wrinkled. If he starts wearing gold chains, I’m taking him out back and shooting him, I swear to God.

Lorenzo fiddles nervously with the zipper on his jacket. He knows something.

“I’ll think about it, Chief. You know how it was with my grandfather.”

He nods. Everyone knew about his meteoric rise and subsequent fall to one of his right-hand men, a younger lieutenant named Freddie DeBaggis, who quickly unseated him and runs organized crime in Providence now.

The Chief leaves me and Lorenzo to pick through the scraps of the building. There’s nothing to be salvaged, but I’m not ready to deal with the fact that it’s really gone. I invested significant money opening this bakery. It was a carbon copy of the one my parents ran in Boston’s Italian North End, before James Carney framed them for money laundering. Then the bastard bought it for pennies on the dollar from the Feds before selling it to corporate interests. My parents had gotten free of my Grandfather’s mob life, only to be dragged back in by Carney after they refused to sell the lucrative business.

And now I’ve lost the bakery again before it even had the chance to open. But it’s more than just the bakery—it’s like I’ve lost my parents again. Like I’ve lost any chance at the genuine joy and security I felt with my family in those early years. Pain constricts my throat as I touch one of the scorched bricks.

James Carney.

That son of a bitch.

Every time I see his face on television during a commercial for his filthy casino, waves of hatred tear through me. Still, as much as I detest Carney, I know he wasn’t behind this mess. Not enough profit in it.

“What happened, Renzo?” I sigh.

“I thought the insurance…” He pauses, tenting his hands over his face. “I needed the money, Gio, and I thought the insurance would cover the building and provide a little extra to cover me until I could pay you back. I’m sorry—I know how much this place means to you. I never would’ve done it if I didn’t think you’d get twice as much back.”

I close my eyes. I can’t look at him or the anger slicing its way through me will take hold of every muscle in my body and I’ll crush his windpipe just as surely as his Goddamn idiocy crushed my plans for a different future.

But my grandmother, his mother, would never recover from that. As much as Renzo deserves to feel the full power of my wrath in this moment, I can’t do that to her. She had a stroke a few months ago, and I won’t speed her into her grave. I made a vow to my grandfather to protect her at all costs. Besides she and sadly, Lorenzo, are all I have left.

“GesuCristo,” I curse, trying to keep my voice steady. If I lose control at all, it’s over. The desire to destroy Lorenzo like he carelessly torched my family’s legacy wars with the knowledge that I can’t realistically do that and keep my word to my grandfather—hurting my uncle will hurt my grandmother. Still, it’s like trying to put a cap on an active firehose. I take a deep breath and ask my family in heaven for patience. “Why didn’t you just ask me for help?”

“I fucked up, Gio. Big time. Even you don’t have the money I need.”

Now I sure as hell don’t. I run a successful contracting business, and the loss of the bakery won’t bankrupt me, but it’s set me back in a way I may never be able to recover from. It’s possible now that I may never launch this bakery. May never be able to honor my parents in the way I want. Instead of the warm, comforting smell of bread, my memories of my family will be connected with the stink of ozone and the deep, endless void of pain I can never fill, no matter how hard I try.

How will I explain this to Nonna?

“What’s the money for?” I stare at a half-melted mixer. I’d decided to buy them outright instead of renting.

“I was supposed to run some merchandise for Big Freddie, and I lost it.”

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