Page 80 of Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King

He holds out his hand, offers the one that will require me to extend my injured hand. I do. A spinning drill bit of pain lances all the way up into my shoulder blade. I hold my grip and my expression, let the pain grind in the back of my molars and flare in the pit of my stomach. I drink it in like most men drink in a shot of whisky—for courage, or relief, or rage.

“Both parties have agreed that I will mitigate,” Raymon Santos says, “As a neutral party in this, I abstain from a vote.”

Santos waits for everyone to settle in. Elijah’s expression is stony and distant. He’s worried. Just like Olivia, he doesn’t trust me.

Santos gives a brief rundown of the circumstances that have brought the families here: Nadia’s debt to Dellucci—to the tune of $35,000, before interest, amassed over a period of two years. Fucking chump change. That’s what Jon got his son killed over. No wonder he’s pissed.

“Weeks ago, Jon sent his son Arlo to collect on Nadia Caruso’s—then Petrone’s—debt. He was killed in an altercation.”

“Murdered,” Jon corrects around the bite of his cigar.

“Can’t say that for certain,” Santos dismisses. “We’ll get to your version of events soon enough, Jon, just wait a beat. Now…” he leans back, looking between us and tossing down the paper of facts he has prepared in front of him.

“From here, it seems Nadia went to Ren Caruso for protection. He granted it—terms presently unknown. And in the process, he shot and killed two more of Jon’s men who were pursuing her. The Carusos have, historically speaking, had a bounty on Nadia for a little over half a decade. Everyone here knows that, and everyone here knows why. So there is an argument to be made that Ren has precedent when it comes to her capture.”

Everyone is carefully still at the mention of the past. What happened to my parents is largely regarded as one of the most egregious mob hits of the past few decades. Sometimes, an assassination happens. Fights break out, somebody gets shot down or beat up. But burning alive a couple in their own bed, with an accelerant? It’s old-school in an uncomfortable way.Like going back to the days of firing squads and electric chairs instead of by lethal injection.

Dellucci is the only one who shuffles in his chair, impatient.

“We’ll let Jon go first—seems to make the most sense to me. State his case—”

The stairs creak. Footsteps, slow and heavy, rattle the wooden boards leading down into the bunker, someone is trudging down. The room goes silent, every eye trained on the doorway like a grenade might come sailing through it.

No one coming down or up top makes a sound. Not a peep.

Salvatore Mori reflexively stands, his hand reaching for a weapon that isn’t there as he steps in front of his wife.

Marlow enters. He’s more sober than I’ve seen him in at least a year, but I can still smell the alcohol on him from here. His hands are empty. He ambles into the room. Either his suit is badly cut or there’s just no way to make a man built like a beer keg look put together.

“Seems somebody forgot my invitation,” Marlow sneers, laughing like he made a joke, but it doesn’t land.

“What are you doing here, Marlow?” Santos asks.

“I got my own investment in this. Nadia’s my niece, and we have our own history. Seems I ought to have a right to sit at this table and give my say.”

How the hell did he hear about this?

Santos looks around, seeking objections from the uninvolved. I glance toward Elijah, trying to assess the damage, but he’s only looking at Marlow, his mouth a flat, unhappy line. He looks the way he’s looked all day, like he swallowed something he can’t keep down.

Again, I search myself for that kind of fear. And again, I don’t find it.

“…Alright.” Santos concedes. Marlow pulls out his own chair and sits.

“You wanna know about my niece? I’ll tell you about her,” he says, when nobody asked. “Only reason she’s alive is ‘cause of me. ‘Cause I helped her. Promised her mother I’d take care of her. And she’s still alive, isn’t she? I did my part, I kept my word. And the little bitch repaid me that kindness by stealing over ten grand from me and my girls, and running off—”

“After you stole her inheritance—” I interrupt. Santos holds up a hand to keep me at bay.

“You think keeping your dogs off her tail was cheap, boy?” Marlow demands. “Her parents spent everything they had trying to get out and save themselves. What was left after that, they gave to me to use to protect her.”

I don’t know if that’s true. Knowing the mouth the words came from, probably not. But it looks damn bad for Nadia. This bullshit isn’t what I came here to fight.

I’m not the only to realize what’s unfolding.

“Why are we hearing this?” Tessa Mori asks the room. Sour gazes turn her way. A couple of the men don’t look kindly upon the interruption, and I’m certain it’s because said interruption comes from a woman. “This is about what happened between Dellucci and Caruso. None of this is relevant.”

“Think of me like a…a character witness, sweetheart,” Marlow grins.

Salvatore’s chair squeaks before he even opens his mouth, and that alone is enough to send a dangerous hush into the room. “Talk down to my wife again, and you’ll witness my character, too,” Salvatore says, with a smile that could cut.

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