Page 99 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“I don’t blame you for being paranoid, son. No doubt this is what got you so far.”
I grind my teeth. I want to correct him again but I also don’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing how much his references to our unfortunate blood connection are winding me the hell up.
“Ajello was the face of the gangs,” I say, my eyes narrowing. “Your name didn’t come up once. Where were you?”
Only one corner of his mouth lifts, giving him the eerie appearance of a demented, psychopathic clown. “Oh, I was there. I just hid in various basements. How do you think we ruled south Boston for so long? Me. I orchestrated all our moves from underground—literally. They even had a nickname for me, the cops—the mole. I’m proud of that one.”
I want to wipe the smugness of his face but information is valuable and I want as much of it as I can stand to gather.
“I moved those gangs around like a board game, pitting one against another, keeping their influence down through sheer infighting. They fought each other, often to the death, and my name never came up once.”
My spine stiffens. I don’t like where this is leading.
“Andreas, you see… the chaos that let you take down the gangs and rise to the top? I created that. I am the one behind your new-found fame and fortune. I am the one who buttered up your little friend Olsson. I am the one who paved the way for that all-important signature.”
My nostrils flair with complete and utter hatred. He’s lying. He’s always thought he was bigger, better, wiser than everyone else. The man is a total narcissist. Me and Arrow fought those gangs for years with our bare hands. There was no infighting, just standard petty boundary wars.
“So, don’t you think you owe your Papa some thanks? If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be sitting so pretty in this beautiful house of yours.”
He’s delusional. Money from gangland quarrels isn’t what bought this house—the years of dealing devices on the black market bought me this house. Saliva fills my mouth. I could end his life right now. I could rip the last breath from his lungs with as much ease as whipping candy from a kid. Every bone in my body is braced to do exactly that, but I owe it to Benito to wait.
I squeeze Sera’s hand.
“You’ve given me some food for thought,” I say, calmly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I want to get my wife inside. We’ve had a tiring few days.”
His eyes widen hopefully.
“It’s a little soon to be inviting you inside. This is a lot to take in. I’m sure you understand.”
He turns, the bones in his shoulder protruding from a lack of decent nourishment and years of alcohol abuse no doubt. “You won’t ever invite me in, will you?”
I look into his cold, bitter eyes and I can’t bring myself to lie. “No. I don’t think I will.”
He laughs, sardonically. “I don’t give up that easily, Andreas.”
I tip my head back a touch. “Clearly.”
He takes a step toward me and Sera grips my hand, the first sign she’s given me that she’s afraid.
“I’d like you to leave our property,” I say, firmly, before turning toward the front steps.
His eyes narrow to slits and I finally see the face that haunted my dreams, from childhood until my twenties.
“You think you’re free of me…” he says, through thinned lips and gritted teeth. “You think you did all of this by yourself.” He laughs again, a bitter, twisted jeer. “I taught you everything you know. You didn’t become the king of Boston, son. You becameme. Everything you are… I built. It doesn’t matter who rules this city, my boy. Iownyou.”
I stop mid-stride and face him square. “You are deluded, old man,” I spit. “You didn’t teach me everything you know, but you are right about one thing. You built something. A weapon. Now get the hell off my property before I turn my barrel toward you and blow your fucking head off.”
Serafina
I watch the old mansaunterback to the gate as though he hasn’t just made a lethal enemy of his own son and the most powerful man in Massachusetts. Despite the shock I got in New York with the news of Papa’s marriage to Antonia Di Santo, I feel grateful for my father. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Andreas and Benito to grow up at the scrawny hands of that despicable person.
Andreas is frighteningly calm as we walk up the steps and through the front door. I take off my shoes and drop my purse then follow him into the kitchen.
“Are you okay?”
He nods once then slips his cell phone out of his pocket and puts it to his ear.
“Benito,” he says,solemnly. “The old man is alive.”
