Page 5 of City Of Thieves
A slow smirk crawls across my mouth. “That I got into a fight.” I don’t bother to elaborate. Instead, I walk away, leaving him with nothing but a half-truth.
He knows all aboutYama, the club that houses the underground fighting ring I visit to clear my head and break bones. It’s a dark, desolate dungeonowned by the Bratva sector of The Ruin, a secret New York-based elite network of crime families. Their deadly reach spans the globe like a spider’s web, and membership is selective. Only six people in our organization are even aware of its existence.
Now one of them is dead.
Palming the back of my neck, I look up to find my father wrapping his arms around my mother, who’s draped over my brother’s casket. She’s sobbing, her body trembling so violently it’s all my father can do to keep her upright.
My chest tightens, and I have to look away.
To keep a lid on my composure, I resume cataloguing faces until a wailing sob draws my gaze back to the front of the church where my little sister, Rosalia, is bent over Nero’s casket, her hands cradling his face. With another tortured sob, she flings herself off the altar and stumbles down the aisle, tears streaming down her face.
Circling back around the pews, I sprint along the back of the church and slip out the double sanctuary doors I saw her barrel through.
I find her crumpled against the far right wall, her hands fisted at her face.
“Piccolina?”
Rosalia’s lashes flutter above her fists, and she stares at me for a moment before hurling herself into my arms. “Renzo…you’re here.”
I didn’t think this far ahead. I’m no good at empathy, so I pat the back of her expensive black dress. “I’m sorry, Ro.”
For so many things.
For being late today. For keeping my distance for years. But I say none of it.
Rosalia pulls back, tears matting her long dark hair to her face. “Uncle Sal said you set up that meeting in Atlantic City for Nero. He said you gave him the address and sent him there. Is that true?”
I grit my teeth and nod, but I may as well have slapped her.
“Why?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself every minute since Nero died. Why did I look the other way when he started dealing in stolen art? Why did I agree to help him? Why didn’t I run more in-depth background checks before following a lead from one ofYama’smost valued members, allowing that asshole to set up a meeting with a private buyer?
So many questions with no answers.
“There was a lot about Nero you didn’t know,piccolina,” I tell her as gently as I can. “Let’s just say he had a side venture, and I helped find an investor.”
That should have been the end of it. However, this is my little sister. She may look like a delicate flower, but her petals are made of steel. As devastated as she is, she’s also a Marchesi who knows when she’s being coddled.
“But it wasn’t ‘business,’ Renzo,” she insists. “It was a setup. Nero walked into a trap and never walked out. They shot my big brother three times.” Her voice breaks. “Why?”
I cup her cheek, wiping a tear away with my thumb. “I don’t know, Ro, but I swear to you, I’m going to find out.”
“Rosalia.”
We both stiffen at the deep, even tone of our father. Gianni Marchesi doesn’t have to raise his voice to command a room. It falls to his feet on a whisper.
Rosalia and I separate, and I turn to face my father for the first time in five days. He looks like composed shit. Of course, outwardly, he’s put together in a pressed black suit. His thick, dark hair is styled as usual, and the gray around his temples is the only sign of his age.
It’s his eyes that give him away. They’re identical to mine: dark brown and bloodshot with heavy black circles staining the skin beneath them.
He opens his arms, and on command, Rosalia collapses into them. Shifting his attention to me, he lifts his chin. “Renzo.”
“Is Ma all right?”
“As well as can be expected considering she’s burying her firstborn.” His words are sharp, but his mask slips, the lines framing his mouth sinking deeper. “She’s with your Aunt Sera. Once you’ve sobered up, I suggest you pay your respects to your brother before we leave for the cemetery.”
By the time I make my way back into the sanctuary, most of the attendants have already rushed outside to offer my parents their condolences. Hundreds of well-wishers who don’t give a fuck about my brother other than to say they were here.
